At last, we pulled into our driveway and parked the car.  I decided to dispense with niceties of chivalry and let Sarah come around to the passenger door to help me out.  After the forty odd minute car ride, the morphine had worn a little thin and all those bumps on the highway had exerted a heavy toll on my fragile body.  With some pulling and pushing on both our parts, we eventually removed the body from the car.

 

Once inside our home, I was inundated by our two dogs that sensed that I was a day short of a shower.  They were determined between them to rectify this deficit.  The cats looked on with mild disdain, they would get around to me when it suited them.  Sarah and I headed for the kitchen and did what all English people do in times of crisis or calm.  We put on the kettle and made some tea.

 

While waiting for the water to boil, I noticed some bananas in the fruit basket.  Suddenly it dawned on me that this is my home, I can do and eat what I like.  I grabbed a banana with a renewed sense of authority, peeled it, and consumed it in less time then it took to say “Urologist”.  My first semi-hard food in three and a half days.  After the required time for mashing (the precise time is a closely guarded British secret) we poured out the tea and consumed it with a genuine English ginger biscuit made in Canada.  I was in heaven.

 

While we were consuming the staple diet of our national heritage, Sarah told me about the cancer that had inflicted two of our neighbors.  Andy was diagnosed with cancer of the intestine and Carol had breast cancer.  Both were undergoing treatment.  But it begged the question, is there something in the water or the air of our neighborhood that is causing this outbreak of cancer?

 

Next, we looked at our immediate home environment and decided to make the house as friendly as possible for me and my affliction for the next three weeks.  This included moving my favorite chair and Ottoman close to the TV.  A neighbor had lent us a portable phone so that I could carry this with me and receive and send messages with the minimum effort.  To-day was a Saturday, so I sat in front of the television and overdosed on sports, while contemplating my first genuine solid meal in several days.

 

A little after five o’clock, the prize was ready.  A homemade pizza with tea.  Who could ask for anything more?  I gorged myself on this gastronomic delight, eating about four slices all told.  This was washed down with more hot tea.  Life it seemed, could not get any better.  Then, after about a quarter of an hour, my stomach sent the rest of my body some disturbing messages.
  

“What the hell are you doing?  I’ve had warm water and Jell-O for the last several days, what is this you’re sending down?”  My whole body seemed to reel under the invasion of the first solid food in days.  From this I learned one important lesson.  Take all things in moderation.

 

Going to bed to most of us is automatic, we don’t have to think about it.  Take off your day clothes and put on your P.J.’s, it’s all pretty simple, except when you have a tube, and the “Bag”, and abdomen that doesn’t want to bend.  I needed assistance from Sarah.  The next hurdle was actually getting into bed.  Remember, I now have no morphine to moderate the pain associated with bending and a bed that doesn’t adjust.  Eventually, I managed to lie down and everything was fine as long as I didn’t want to move.  This has to be the most difficult part of the “Ball and Chain.”  Any sleeping position other than flat on your back is next to impossible.  

 

After a reasonable night’s sleep, the next adventure after getting out of bed is the shower, another task in life that we take for granted.  After some assistance in getting undressed, the “Bag” is disconnected from the catheter, and we decide to tape some plastic food wrap above the incision to protect it from the shower.  Gosh it feels so good to have warm water running all over the body, and that thick shampoo and conditioner in the hair is sheer luxury.  Then, after a long rinse comes the communal drying.  (There are some benefits to prostate cancer after all).  Today we decide to tryout the walkabout bag for a change.  First, the tube is connected to the catheter, and a loop of the tube is tapped to the leg to prevent the tube from pulling on the penis.  Finally, the bag is fastened by rubber straps to the leg, now the trousers can be put on.

 

I was able to walk and sit down without problems and during the course of the day there was very little drama, with one exception.  While wearing a catheter, urine passes from the bladder to the “Bag” in drips and drabs most of the time.  Occasionally, urine will pass like a mini flood and this results in a very uncomfortable feeling.  When this happens, I would grab the back of the nearest chair and hold on to it while clenching my teeth.  This happened quite frequently and was not a pleasant experience.  As it was Sunday, I decided that I should call the good doctor for some advice the following day.

 

On Monday morning, I dialed the Urology Department number only to be told that Lionel was not in.  (He was probably out buying the new Mercedes I noticed he was driving shortly after my operation). So I asked for Cindy, his most able assistant.  

 

“Hi Mr. Gray, how are you doing?” she said in a cheerleader sounding voice.  She sounded far too cheerful for a Monday morning, and I felt it was my duty to bring her a dose of unreality.
    

I replied, “Not so good.  I’ve got a real problem Cindy.”
    

“Oh I’m sorry Mr. Gray.  How can I help you?”
    

 “Well, every time I pull out the catheter to have sex, then push it back in again, I have this awful pain.”
    

 “No—no you shouldn’t be doing that Mr. Gray!!”
    

“Look Cindy, I’ve tried having sex with the catheter in, but it’s even more painful.”
    

“No, no, Mr. Gray you shouldn’t be trying to have sex at all right now.”  I could tell by the sound of her voice and quickens of her breath that this was a new experience for her (not sex in particular, but trying to have sex with a  catheter).  I decided to let her hang there for a while.  Then with some reluctance, I brought her down to earth.
    

“Cindy, I just wanted to get your attention.  You sounded far too cheerful for a Monday morning,” I said.  “But I do have a problem.”  I went on to describe the symptoms to her.  She said that she would contact Lionel and get back to me,  which she did.  I was prescribed a medication that obviated my discomfort.  Sarah picked me up the medication later in the day.  The result was astounding.  No more urine track pains.

 

As time passed, we fell into a kind of routine, except for sleep.  Again, sleep is an event that we all take for granted.  When it gets dark, we go to bed and we sleep.  When the sun comes up, we awake and get out of bed.  It’s pretty simple.  But when one has one less prostate and one more catheter than God intended, things are not quite so simple.  After a walk or some exercise during the day, I would feel tired and would go and lie down and sleep.  The problem was that when I went to bed at the same time as the rest of the family, I was not always tired.  I would toss and turn.  But the “Ball and Chain” would prevent most movement.  The result was frequent trips from the bedroom to the family room to watch TV at all hours of the night and morning.  This became known as the “Angie Dickinson Syndrome.”  It would appear that most of the movies shown on TV after 2 AM were made in the seventies and eighties and seem to feature Angie Dickinson in some degree of stress and undress.  We became quite close.
 
It was during this period that I noticed a peculiar change in my anatomy.  My scrotum had become enlarged and not just a little, it was huge.  So large in fact, that the added weight caused pain when I walked.  And when I did walk, I assumed the pose of a tired cowboy after too many hours in the saddle, I was bowlegged.  I did some mental calculations to determine what my height and weight should be given my new circumstances.  It turned out that I should be 7’-9” tall and weighs 378 lbs.  For those of you who may be reading this account in England, that’s equivalent to 2.36 meters and 27 stone.  I will have to talk to

Lionel about this on my next visit.

 

Every other day or so, I had been keeping in touch with my various projects at work by telephone.  A meeting with a client had been arranged by my staff that was looking after my projects while I was creating medical science.  There was one meeting that I decided I should attend.  I phoned my consultant friend Wyatt Hyora who was working on the project with me.  Wyatt lives about eight miles away, and I asked him if he would pick me up and take me to the meeting.  It was just four days since I had left the hospital, and I didn’t

want to drive myself.                                                                                                                                               It turned out I should be 7’-9” tall !!

                                                            

With a name like Hyora, you might think of him to be Japanese, but he’s not.  Hyora is a Finish name.  A management consultant by profession and a pure cowboy at heart, he has a full head of hair, side burns, and a thick mustache.  When he smiles, his face crinkles like well worn leather.  He is equally comfortable with people as he is with horses.  We have been friends and working partners for many years.

 

At the appointed time, he arrived at my house in this damn big Chevy Suburban.  The first step seemed to be 30” or so off the ground, almost as high as the Grand Canyon for someone with a catheter and the Bag.  Anticipating my predicament, Wyatt came around to help me in.  We drove the twenty odd miles into San Jose for the meeting with the client which went fine.  Afterwards, we decided to have lunch together at a Mexican restaurant.  It was a hot day in Silicon Valley, but the overhead fans and the Margaritas both helped to cool us down.  It was a nice change to be out and about again, but the exertion had made me tired, so that when I eventually got home, I slept for a couple of hours.  Thus ensuring that I would be up early the following morning to continue my affair with Angie Dickinson.  Please, please don’t tell my wife.

 

I am sure that most readers are inundated by telemarketing people pedaling everything from credit cards to charities.  In our house, the phone normally rings just as everyone is about to sit down to dinner, or if we are about to feed the dogs.  Typically, it happens at times when you least want to talk to strangers.  Well, as someone who has had to spend several weeks at home, I can report that the dinner time, although still the most popular time to call, is certainly not the only time they call.  Instead of getting all bent out of shape, I try to have some fun at their expense.  One method I like to try, is to answer in French. “Bonjour comment ςava ?” this always confuses them. They are used to greetings in Spanish and Vietnamese and occasionally English but not in French. The secret is to pick up the phone on the first ring, and say hello or Bonjour with a happy voice.  This always gets them off balance.

The following conversation took place near the end of my first week  at home:
    <Ring>                                     
    “Hello” (pleasant voice).              
    “Oh-Hi.  My name is Jane.  I’m with the American Heart Association.”   

Before she could go any further, I interrupted her.
    “How nice of you to call, but you really needn’t have bothered.  I already have one,” I said.  
    “Have what?” she said with confusion in her voice.
    “A heart silly, I came with one.  You are trying to sell me a new heart aren’t you?”  Instantly she knew that her call was not going to go any where, so she said thank you and rang off.

 

Later the same day, the phone rang, and upon answering I was told,  

    ”This is Dr. Foster’s office.”
    “How clever to have a talking office,” I replied. 
    “No, I’m calling from his office, to remind you that you have an appointment at 5 PM to-morrow,” was the response.
    “Who am I talking to,” I asked.
    “Constance,” was the reply.
    “I see, and it’s your job to phone patients to remind them of their appointments is that it?”
    “Yes,” she said slowly.
    “Then we should call you Constance Reminder,” I suggested.
    “I never thought of it that way,” she said now with a smile in her      “A heart silly, I came with        

voice.  After giving her this new perspective on her life, I confirmed     one”

that I would be arriving at the appointed hour for my meeting the

good doctor.

 

The next day, we struggled through the rush hour traffic toward the medical office in downtown San Jose.  We parked our small car next to the doctor’s large Mercedes and BMW’s and went into the reception area.  By now, I was becoming a fixture in the Urology department, a bit like the plumbing I thought.  All the young ladies knew me by sight and the sound of my voice.  Constance was there, a large imposing African American lady with a near constant smile (no pun intended) wearing the most complicated hair braiding I have ever seen in my life.

 

Diana (she with a boyfriend named Howard Also) was the first to greet us.  
She is an attractive, young Latino, proficient in both English and Spanish.  When she smiles it would melt butter at twenty paces.  After the traditional greetings, the computer was consulted and yes, you guessed it, labels were immediately produced.  Now officially logged into the system, the efficient Cindy took custody of the labels and their custodians and proceeded to lead Sarah and I into an
examination room  where we waited for the talent.  

 

He showed consistency by being five and a half minutes late for the appointment.  Eventually, there was a knock on the door followed by its opening, and an animated Dr. Foster crossing the threshold.
    

“How is the legend?” he asked.  Apparently this was to be my new moniker from now on.
    

“I thought I would give you the opportunity to explain yourself before I consult a malpractice lawyer,” I replied, with a cold deliberate flat voice.  His face, now less animated, looked distinctly worried.  
    

“Why, what’s the problem?”  This time there was genuine concern in his voice and a hint of perspiration on his forehead.  He sat down so that our eyes would meet on the same level, as if this theatrical maneuver would absolve him of his responsibilities.
    

“I think you have connected the nerves to the wrong organ,” I said with a straight face.
    

“What do you mean?” he said, still agitated.  I told him about my swollen scrotum.
    

“Oh, that’s nothing to worry about, let’s have a look.”  I dropped my trousers, and with latex gloved hands he squeezed the scrotum until it was close to its normal size.
    

“It’s just excess liquid.  I’ve pushed it into the body cavity, but it will drain back into the scrotum again.  Over the next few days you should lay down as much as possible with your legs elevated and the problem will go away.  Now let’s have a look at those stitches.”

 

This was not something I was looking forward to.  I imagined that it would be painful.  He used a special instrument and in no time at all the stitches had been removed with no pain and very little discomfort.  After some parting pleasantries, we agreed on a date and time for the removal of the catheter.  We said goodbye then fought our way through the rush hour traffic home.

 

The next day, I looked out of the bedroom window and was greeted by a typical California day. The sun was shining, no wind and not a cloud in the sky.  With another two weeks before the catheter would be removed, I decided that I needed some physical exercise, and the garden required work.  These two needs seemed to be mutually compatible, so  I decided to dig a ditch and lay-down an irrigation pipe for the vegetable garden.

 

The ground wasn’t too hard since it had been rota-tilled a few weeks before. I was wearing the day time catheter Bag attached to my left leg. This enabled me to dig without much problems with the right leg. It was only when I had to bend that I had any pain.  I took two days to dig the trench, lay the plastic pipe and cover it with earth.  I left the wooden rings that would form the path for Sarah to lay. It was just too much bending for me at this time.

 

On the Wednesday of the same week, I decided to visit Wyatt regarding our common client.  He only lives eight miles away so I decided to drive myself. What a mistake!  I hadn’t backed the car all the way out of the driveway before I
knew this was the wrong thing to be doing.  All our cars have stick shifts which as we all know, require both feet to operate.  The feet are attached to legs, and this is were  the problem starts, since the Bag and the catheter are secured to the left leg.  Every time the leg was bent i.e. to operate the clutch pedal, I had pain. And since we live on a hill, there was a lot gear changing and consequently a fair amount of pain.  I was committed to going, and not wanting to admit to Sarah that I had made a mistake, I did the male thing and put up with pain.  My advice to anyone in a similar position would be to have someone else do the driving for you.

 

As you will remember, this whole prostate nonsense started during a routine annual medical exam.  And it had just dawned on me, that I had not seen John Quick to find out what state the rest of the body was in.  With a call to his office, I was able to set an appointment for Friday.  I gave Sarah the car keys for I had no desire to drive myself. John’s office is only ten minutes away, and we arrived with time to spare and checked in with the receptionist.  After the now standard verification of name, insurance and date of birth, the inevitable two labels were printed and given to us.

 

Before I was allowed to see the man, Pat checked out my vital signs and wrote them into my chart.  Sarah and I were then shown into a small treatment room were we waited  JBQ. Unlike the urology department’s rooms, this room was bright and airy with no intimidating graphics pinned to the walls.  A few moments later, there was a knock on the door and it swung open under the gentle pressure of John’s hand.  As he came through the door, he held out his hand and with a beaming smile he said,
    

“How are you? Those people in urology never gave me an update on your progress.  If it hadn’t been for your phone call to Pat, we wouldn’t have known that you were going to have the operation.”  
    

“I’m as well as can be expected,” I replied. “I’m sorry they didn’t keep you informed. I assumed that since you both work for the same firm that the necessary information would be passed along.”

 

I gave him a short account of my adventures since I had last seen him.  Having a similar twisted sense of humor as myself, he roared with laughter  at some of the lighter moments of my tale.
    

“Tell me,” he said, “have you had any pain in the rectum since the operation?”
    

“As a matter of fact, I have,” I said.  “Several days ago I went to the
bathroom for a bowel movement, and as I was about to sit down I had the most horrible pain. It was like someone had stuck a knife into me. I shouted in pain and Sarah came to see what the problem was. But just as suddenly as it came, the pain subsided,” I told him.  

 

“Ah, you were struck by the dreaded proctalgia fugax,” he said. “It’s a fairly common problem after an operation like you have had.”
    

“Well, I hope that was the first and last time it will strike me,” I replied.  “By the way, what does proctalgia fugax mean?”
    

“It is Latin, it literally means a fleeting pain in the arse” he said.
 
“You should lose some weight. That would help both the blood pressure and the cholesterol,” he told me.
    

“But you are at least forty pounds over weight yourself,” I replied.  “Are you going to take your own advice?”   
    

“I give the advice.  I’m the doctor. I don’t necessarily have to listen to it
myself,”  was his less than convincing response.

 

After this self-serving logic I gave him a copy of Tom Sharpe’s book “Wilt”, and bade him farewell.

 

The following day, I had my new computer installed at home with the new Windows 95 software. Up until now, I had been using Jason’s computer for any work I needed to do at home.  With my new toy, I was now able to catch up on the book I was writing about puns and the improbable derivations of some of the more popular proverbs. I also started to update my diary for this book.

 

Eventually, CWD ( catheter withdrawal day ) arrived.  I looked forward to this day with mixed blessings.  On the positive side, it would be wonderful to be rid of my ball and chain and have the full freedom to be able to bend and sleep in any position I wanted.  On the other-hand,

would the process be painful?  Would I have any problems with

incontinence?  And lastly, would I have withdrawal problems with the Angie Dickinson Syndrome?   

 

Sarah drove me to the appointment, for I still had no desire to drive myself. We were greeted by all the young ladies in the office.  After the check-in
“procedure,” I was presented with my two labels and told to report to the nurse’s station. I handed the labels to Michelle Castillo ( she who has a brother with two sisters).

“It’s good to see you Mr. Gray, how are you feeling?”
    

“Just fine,” I replied, “I’m here to have the catheter removed.”  Michelle then lead Sarah and I into one of the urology dungeons they call an examining room. Moments later there was a knock, and the door swung open, with the ever smiling Lionel framing the doorway.
    

“It’s the day,” he said.  “How are you feeling?”
    

“A little apprehensive about the next few minutes,” I replied.   
    

“It’ll be painless, trust me.  Lets have a look.”

 

I dropped my trousers while Lionel sat in front of me. He disconnected the tube from the catheter and removed the bag and discarded both into the waste bin. Next, he inserted a hypodermic needle into the sidearm of the catheter then slowly withdrew the liquid that was inside the balloon which was inside my bladder.  With all the liquid now out, the balloon was completely deflated and with a slow but constant motion he pulled the catheter out.  He was right, it was not painful.  But it was a strange sensation.  After pulling out the catheter, he immediately placed a piece of gauze over the end of the penis to stop any dribbling.

“You will have to wear something like this for a while, until you get control over your sphincter.  There are some exercises you can do, that will help you gain control,” he said.  “You probably thought that now that your prostate had been removed, I wouldn’t have to put my finger up your back side again? But I promise you, ‘This will be the last time.’”  With this tenuous promise he inserted a gloved finger.

 

“Now squeeze on my finger—yes that’s it, do it again, good”. He withdrew
his digit.
    

“Now I want you to practice that muscle contraction as much as you can, while sitting, in the car or in bed.  This is the best exercise you can do to regain control when you need to urinate. It shouldn’t take you long,” he said.

With this new challenge in front of me, I put the piece of gauze into place and got dressed.  I mentally set a short time goal to diligently do these exercises and beat this incontinence problem as soon as possible. I told Lionel that I was getting a series of blood tests done in three weeks time for my cholesterol problem.  It was suggested that we get them to run a PSA test at the same time. This would give us our first chance to see if the operation was successful in ridding me of the cancer.  Had I won my personal “Battle of Britain”?  Before our good-byes I reminded Lionel that he had promised to give me a copy of the pathologist report on the prostate and the slides of the gland. He said he would have them next week, and that he would have Cindy call me when they came in.

 

It felt good to be able to bend my legs again and sit down without thinking. But now there was a completely different set of rules that I had to learn.  I had to make sure that I didn’t’ get overly excited or have any undue pressure on the abdomen, otherwise I would leak.  “God what a life!”  On the way home, I drove the car, “wow, what freedom.” We stopped off at the Safeway store in Morgan Hill to purchase some provisions. While Sarah pushed the cart, my first stop was to the bathroom.  It was not so much the need to go as the reassurance that I could relieve even the slightest amount of urine in the bladder. This vigilant intelligence gathering of available bathrooms in my immediate environment was a constant preoccupation for the next several days.  

 

That night, I realized that I could sleep in any position I wanted.  Until you have been restricted to sleeping in only one position for three weeks, it’s hard to imagine the wonderful freedom of sleeping in any position that you like. But I still had qualms about breaking up with Angie.  The next morning, when I woke, I found that I had wet the bed.

 

Saturday is our major shopping day for the week. I decided to go with Sarah, partly for the exercise and partly as a washroom location intelligence gathering exercise.  It really is amazing how many public toilets there are if you go looking for them.  Every time I stood still or had the opportunity to sit, I would go through my sphincter strengthening exercises.  It is quite transparent to any body standing next to you. Gradually, I became more and more confident about controlling an increasing pressure and the trips to the bathroom became less frequent.

The next evening was the Morgan Hill Wind Symphony concert at Jason’s church.  We have some very fine voices and musicians in our little community. Jason had purchased tickets for Sarah, Laura and I. But unknown to the rest of the family, I had my own agenda. I had decided to try my first outdoor trip with no protection two days after the catheter removal. To most people this may not seem to be very adventurous, but the best analogy I can think off, is the thrill of your first date or your first solo drive in a car.  Besides wanting to see Jason, there was a friend of his that I was anxious to see and hear again.  This was Chad Olivera, a very talented saxophone player.  We had seen him play and conduct on a number of occasions. And yes my dear reader, you guessed my horrible little secret. I had  unprotected sax in a church! !  From that day on, I went unprotected without any problems, except for two more upsets early on while sleeping.

 

When I decided to start work on the Monday morning, there was obviously a lot to catch up on, and I had a list of phone calls to make. Mid afternoon, I got a phone message from Cindy telling me that I could pick up a copy of the pathology report and the slides of my prostate on Wednesday morning.  I called to thank her, and to tell her that I would be in to see her early that morning.  Next, I phoned Roger and asked him if he would like to play squash on Wednesday evening.                                                          Unprotected Sax

    

“Are you sure you want to play? You have only had the catheter out a few days?”
    

“If I don’t start playing now, when should I start ? By the way, I’ll be easy on you and let you win a game,” I said.

 

“Well if you feel up to it, I’ll see you at the club at  4 O’clock.”
 

“Thanks, I’ll make a reservation,” I said.

 

On Wednesday morning, I stopped by the clinic. I saw Cindy almost immediately.
  

“Hi Mr. Gray.  How are you doing?” she said with her usual  bright smile.

 

“Now that your radiant beauty has filled my eyes and blinded me with passion my dear Cindy, my whole being is just a sea of tranquility,” I replied.

 

“O my  Mr. Gray, you do go on. I suppose you’ve come for the pathology report and the slides of your prostate,” she said with blushing checks.  I smiled and nodded in the affirmative.  She disappeared only to reappear moments later bearing a bulky plain brown paper envelope which she then handed to me.

 

After thanking Cindy, I went to my car and opened the envelope.  There was a two page pathological report and three microscope slides. Each slide had a very small piece of my prostate in its center.  Off to one side was a type written label indicating specimen #1 and #2 etc.

I started to read the report.

MICROSCOPIC DESCRIPTION

Section labeled 1 shows a single lymph node which has been bisected.  There is no evidence of tumor.

Sections labeled 2 and 3 show a total of three lymph nodes without any evidence of metastatic carcinoma.

It went on to say that that  “the apex shows large volumes of tumor… there is capsular penetration present but the surgical margins appear clear….. Section 19 taken from the seminal vesicle and ejaculatory ducts is completely clear of tumor.”

 

Basically what the report was saying, was that although there was a lot of cancer in the prostate and that some of it had penetrated the outer capsule of the gland, the operation had removed all the cancer that could be detected microscopically. 

 

Next, I looked at the slides.  They were so small and looked so innocent, but this was the pathological evidence of a vicious attack on my life.  I decided to take a closer look at this latter day Hitler.

 

 I set off in my car and set my course to Molecular Dynamics in Sunnyvale, about a twenty minute drive away.  This is where Laura and my friend John Gordon work. I passed through the front door and noticed a receptionist I had not seen before.  This was my chance to have some sport.
   

“Good morning, how can I help you?” asked the unprepared receptionist with a smile.

 

“My name is Jose Garcia,” I said in the best BBC accent I could muster on a moments notice. “I have an appointment with Laura in the Human Resource Department.”

 

The receptionist looked aghast, her brain was trying to accommodate an
English accent with a Mexican name.

 

“Do you have an appointment?” was her natural response.

 

“Yes,” I replied and I gave her a fictitious job title that I was applying for. She phoned the appropriate extension and explained to Laura that she had a Jose Garcia in the lobby for an interview.  Naturally, Laura was totally confused and had no idea what the receptionist was talking about, so she came to the lobby to sort things out.  As soon as she saw me, she said “O’ my God, its my dad.” 

 

She came around and gave me a hug and a kiss, then turning to the receptionist who was some what perplexed.  She explained that the creature in the lobby was in fact her father. We walked the short distance to her cube, and as we entered John Gordon saw me and came over and held out his hand.

 

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

 

“Fine, I started work a couple of days ago, and I’ve got a favor to ask,” I said. “I’ve got these microscope slides that I’d like to take a look at.”  I explained what they were and why I needed to see them.
   

“Laura, why don’t you take your dad into the engineering department and ask them to put your dad’s slides under a microscope.”

 

After thanking John, Laura and I walked to the engineering department.  Laura introduced me to an engineer sitting next to a microscope and a large computer monitor.  I explained what I had, and the necessity for me to look at this carcinoma monster.

 

He took the slides from me and placed one of them into the base of a microscope. Looking through the eye-piece, he turned the knurled knob on the side of the instrument until the image was in  focus. There was a small “Ah” sound emanating from his larynx. 

 

“Take a look at this,” he said. The view that I saw through the microscope reminded me of a satellite photograph of the route for the  La Carrera Classic open road race in which I compete in my vintage Jaguar, along the desert and through the hills of Baja Mexico.  A colored die had been applied to the slide to help identify the various features. The predominant color was blue but there were lines and blotches of orange, red, green and white.

 

“The areas in white are the cancer cells,” said the engineer with no hint of emotion.  Obviously, he had had no first hand experience with this malignant river of death.
   

“So I’ve pin pointed the bastard that has given me all this grief.  Now I can see it eye to eye,” I said. “Is it possible for you to print me a color image of this slide?” I asked.
   

“Sure,” he replied, and he typed the appropriate commands into the keyboard.  Moments later an 8-1/2” x 11” color copy of the cancer map  started to exit the printer.  We repeated a similar examination of the rest of the slides.  For someone who has not been diagnosed with cancer of any kind, it is difficult to really understand the true significance of a moment like this.  It was not a triumph.  This would only come after several years of favorable PSA tests. But
what I saw now was my first physical evidence of the confrontation between me and the evil that was trying to shorten my life.  It had now been cut out and isolated.  I thanked the engineer for his help, said goodbye to Laura and drove to work.

 

Later, I set out to meet Roger, I arrived at the Decathlon Club a few minutes before 4 O’clock.  This was my first time at the club in about four weeks.  Roger arrived fashionably five minutes late. After the normal salutations, we got ourselves changed and preceded to the squash courts. I knew that I was not as fit as before the operation, and that I would not have the wind to play a full hour of squash.  But I was more concerned about any loss of control of my urine track under such physical conditions. We played five games in approximately fifty minutes. I won one, but I was gasping for air by the end because I was out of shape.  Also, I did have a small leakage.  But overall, it was not too bad I thought for a 55 year old only released for work a few days before.  After a shower and a wonderful steam, we got dressed and made our way to the bar, where we watched the babes in the swimming pool and drank our traditional two pints of beer. 

 

The Tuesday morning of the following week,  I had an appointment to have a blood test administered by the vampires at my local cave in Morgan Hill.  When I arrived, I counted seven men ahead of me.  I immediately looked around the technicians to see if I could find a sympathetic face.   I found one, Jennifer was her name.  We had been partners in fun before.  Jennifer has a wonderful sense of humor.  She saw me as she came out of the procedure area, and we communicated with each other with knowing winks.

 

Now that I had found my soul mate, I watched and kept tabs on the various men who had pretensions on MY vampire.  I tried to calculate the chances of ending up with her. The odds were against me.  Eventually, her colleague asked me to follow her.  At this point, Jennifer rushed forward and said,
   

“I want to stick him.”

 

I was so struck with this maternal feeling from my admirer that I replied,

 

“I want to be stuck by her too.” This strange intercourse brought about inquiring looks from all concerned.  Eventually, my turn came and my patron winked and gestured with her head that I was to follow her behind the screen. I cannot go into the exact details of what happened next, but two vials of my blood were drawn and Jennifer and I left as the best of friends.

 

A week later, I had an appointment with Lionel.  After the normal label output response, I was led into a waiting room and asked to wait for the Practitioner of Prostates.  Eventually he came with a broad smile on his face.
   

“Good news,” he said.  “Your PSA is 0.16!! This is almost too small to measure.”

 

Six months later, I had another PSA test and this time the score was 0.04. I will be having regular PSA tests for the next four years, but clearly it looks as
though I have won my personal battle of Britain. I now play squash at least three times a week and last spring I raced my car again in Mexico again.