I was sitting
in a restaurant with a friend when my cell phone went off. Darn. I should have
turned it off. I don't like listening to other people yelling into their cell phones
during dinner, and here I was trying to decide whether to answer mine.
Since I have a
teenager who drives, I thought I'd better answer the phone.
It was a doctor
with a follow-up call from a screening test I'd done the previous Sunday at the
Boston Prostate Cancer Walk (see the previous issue of this newsletter for
details of the walk). I tried to listen and to answer in one- and two syllable
phrases: Yes. Thank you. I know. I could have walked out of the restaurant (as
I usually do when I get the rare cell call), but I was transfixed. The doctor
was telling me that my PSA level (a test for prostate cancer) was
"borderline elevated" at 4.0.
The phone call
reminded me of several important points I want to bring up with you:
·
After
the Prostate Cancer Walk there was an exposition on Boston Common called Dads
Make a Difference. One of the features of this event was a large van offering
free screening tests for prostate cancer, blood pressure, and cholesterol. This
was great - a wonderful service for the men attending the event. What was not
so great was that I got in with almost no waiting. There should have been a
line around the block for this! Guys, when you get any sort of chance for a
free screening or other health care (at work or at some event like this), take
it.
·
I
took the tests, including the slight indignity of having a doc poke my rectum
with a gloved finger (the digital rectal exam, or DRE), even though I'd had my
annual physical about seven months ago. The main reason: I didn't want to be a
hypocrite in recommending screenings like this to you and then not go through
with it myself. I found out that my blood pressure was normal (not news) and
that my prostate is slightly enlarged (also not news).
·
Back
to the phone call. The PSA of 4.0 was also not news; my last set of labs from
my regular doctor had the same figure. There's an important lesson here: If you
keep up with things like maintaining your health and getting checkups, you're
less likely to get nasty surprises that can ruin an otherwise fine dinner in a
wonderful Thai/Cambodian restaurant. From reading about prostate cancer and
PSA, I knew that a PSA of 4.0 was worth watching but was within the range of
"normal" for men of my age (59) and with a slightly enlarged prostate.
I'll give my doctor a call about it soon, but I don't have to rush to some ER
and have them yank my prostate.
·
Finally
this: My (male) dinner companion and I talked for a while about our prostates,
our concerns about aging and sexual abilities, our spouses, and so on. It's a
well-known cliché that, when it comes to talking about any really important,
personal issues, men generally clam up. So, too many of us live lives of
desperate isolation, profoundly alone. Sure, it helps having a spouse or
partner to talk to. But man-to-man talk, and especially with someone you're not
sharing a household with, goes further to break the isolation and give you
greater confidence as a man.
Action
item: Sometime
this year, make at least one male friend you can talk to about anything, or
almost anything. Or join a men's group. Or form a men's group. Not only will
you benefit, so will your family, spouse/partner, kids, co-workers, and
community.
Summer camp
time is upon us. Here's a remembrance of the winter camp I went to as a Boy
Scout when I was 12. You may have similar memories.
We had been out
most of the day,
running around
in the snow,
playing fox and
geese
and having
snowball fights.
The scout
leaders and dads
did some of
this with us,
but mostly they
stood around
talking,
smoking, stamping their feet.
We went inside
the cabin
when it got too
dark to play.
Snow melted off
our jingling galoshes,
and wet
dungarees clung coldly to our legs.
We stood in
front of a huge stone
fireplace, warming
our backsides
until the water
in our pants started
steaming, and
we yelped and stripped.
Someone hung
our dungarees from
the mantle; it
looked like an
illustration
for some strange Christmas
story about
greedy little boys.
After dinner we
had Initiation,
which the older
guys talked up
as some sort of
solemn ceremony
with a scary
ordeal for good measure.
They turned the
lights out in the cabin,
and older guys
shone flashlights
under their
chins to make goblin faces.
The head man wore
a boot on his head.
Each of us
initiates had to
come before the
boot-crowned
leader and
repeat the magic incantation:
“Oh wah tah
gooh Siam.”
My turn came.
Heart pounding,
not knowing if
the ridiculous setup
was supposed to
be funny or serious,
I said, “Oh
wah, tah gooh, and Siam.”
It seemed
perfectly reasonable that the
magic words
were some kind of list
to memorize, so
I stuck in the “and.”
They let me be
initiated anyway.
Our bunk beds
had wire webbing as springs.
In the middle
of the night, a loud crash:
Johnny, the fat
boy in an upper bunk,
had fallen
through.
It was too cold
to use the outhouse,
so we had a
bucket inside the cabin.
I had to empty
it into the outhouse in the morning;
I never knew I
could hold my breath that long.
The stove was
at the end opposite
the fireplace,
and the whole cabin was frigid.
Food arrived
hot at the table, but it was
cold by the
time it got to our plates.
Scrambled eggs
are nasty when cold;
the pancakes
were better -- except
the one my brother
dropped, which
rolled like a
pie plate across the floor.
The cabin
smelled of snow, and mud,
and wood fire,
and wet wool, and rubber boots,
and bacon fat,
and eggs, and pancakes,
and Vermont
Maid syrup, and men, and boys.
All original materials are (c) Copyright 2002, 2003
by Tim Baehr. All rights reserved. All signed materials are copyright by their
respective authors.
I am not responsible for the contents of Web sites
I list or recommend.
Personal correspondence:
Tim Baehr