I guess it’s obvious that I have been trying to come up with something original to write about for Presidents Day.  But I found it pretty darn hard to answer my own question, considering that nothing has ever been written about Lincoln’s prostate, if a Google search is any indication.  Actually, the whole idea of Lincoln even having a prostate sounds funny to me.  It’s like dear husband said a few years ago, “Didn’t PC start showing up like in the last 20 years or so? Never heard of it before.”

Some historians speculate that President Lincoln did indeed have an undiagnosed illness toward the end of his life that was sapping his overall health.   One theory is that it was cancer.

Can we make a case that it might have been prostate cancer? I almost don’t know where to begin to speculate.   So let’s start with Lincoln’s diet.  The president was known to eat lots of fruits and nuts.  Nuts, especially walnuts, are supposed to be protective against PC.  But then, Mr. Lincoln, being a man of his time, also drank lots of milk, and some people think too much calcium is a risk factor.

Pres. Lincoln was a teetotaller, and you would think abstention would have had an overall protective effect on his health, cancer included.  But no,  just the other day I read that (moderate) alcohol consumption was shown not to be associated with an increased risk of PC.  But you can also make the case that the lack of alcohol in Mr. Lincoln’s diet (especially red wine) deprived him of  reservatrol, a neutriprotectant that is associated with lots of goodies, including a reduced incidence of prostate cancer.

Then there are the apostles of Vitamin D (self included), whose credo is that high levels of it in the bloodstream protect against prostate cancer.  Ideally that would involve a man working in the open air where he could get lots of sunlight.  You have to be outdoors to split rails (and Kentucky’s pretty sunny), so I would give the former president a check for that.  Also, Lincoln spent many hours on the road as a country lawyer exposed to the elements, including sunlight.  But what about Lincoln as president?  Mrs. Lincoln complained that her husband had no time to “take the fresh air”, and so she arranged for the two of them to go on a daily carriage ride.  (Whatever Mrs. Lincoln said, Mr. Lincoln did.)  The question is, I suppose, did they get out of the carriage or just look out the window?

Then there’s the touchy subject of sex, and the even touchier subject of masturbation.  Onea school of thought says that a high frequency of ejaculation by a man in his 20′s (and 30′s) might prevent prostate cancer later in life.  On the other hand, there are those that say celibacy is superior.  I am not going to speculate about the president’s sex life, except to say that he was married in his early 30′s.  Lincoln did have some tempestuous relationships with lady friends before that, but I doubt those turned physical.

I would say the strongest nugget in the “Lincoln Might Have Had Prostate Cancer” stew is President Lincoln’s extraordinary height.  At 6’4”, Lincoln stood eight inches taller than the average man of his time.  And researchers recently found a connection between height and prostate cancer. Only a few months ago, the British tabloids were blaring:

“Tall Men At Increased Risk Of Prostate Cancer Development And Progression.”

According to ScienceDaily.com (Sep. 3, 2008), researchers who reviewed 58 studies and conducted their own found that “a man’s height is a modest marker for risk of prostate cancer development, but is more strongly linked to progression of the cancer”.

Given President Lincoln’s significant altitude, we’d have to estimate his overall height-based vulnerability at around 40%.

Of course, all this is nonsense.  The only thing we know for sure that correlates with prostate cancer is testosterone, and we’re not even sure how that works. President Lincoln’s height is of no importance to us today.  But fortunately — his stature is.

O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood, as to understand;
to be loved, as to love;
for it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Amen.

“The ‘Big C’ ain’t gonna get no respect from me”.

It’s not as if I don’t know that the cancer is clever and conniving and hell-bent on destruction. And that it has mastered every evolutionary trick in the book in order to outwit us, its human hosts.

But I also see the enemy for what it is — a mindless collection of damaged cells that are clinging to life at all cost. Just as we would. Too bad the only food they have to eat is us.

You know what the docs call cancer? “Disorganized”. Well, that’s an understatement. Because in normal tissue the cytoplasm that makes up the cells is neatly clustered around the nucleus. And the cells are uniform and “well-differentiated”. But cancer cells twist themselves into all sorts of shapes and straggle about in all directions as if demented. If your prostate cancer includes the more aggressive Gleason grades 4 or 5 and you have seen a picture of your biopsy slides, you will know what I’m talking about (see photo at end).

Make no mistake, I will do everything in my power to evict the “unwanted guest” that has taken up residence in my husband’s body. But I don’t see the struggle as personal. I know the cancer doesn’t hate anyone, nor does it get any satisfaction out of the torture it inflicts.

And if you think about it, a cancer’s life is pathetic. It can’t enjoy a Bach cantata or swoon before a beautiful sunset. All cancer cells do is reproduce endlessly, and there’s no fun in that because it’s an asexual, strictly solitary affair. No steamy nights in bed with a lover.

But by far the ultimate irony is the stupidity of cancer. Think about it: if it kills you, it kills itself. And leaves behind no fond memories or adorable grandchildren.

For me, laughing at the cancer detoxifies it. Others may use a sword, but I will vanquish the enemy with humor.

I know this attitude doesn’t work for everybody. Of course I get angry at times, but I direct that anger toward doctors and insurance companies — at least you can try to reason with them.

Coming Soon: Master comedy writer Jerry Perisho’s healing humor.

I hope you are sitting down.  The doctor said to the woman:

‘This is not a conversation I like to have.  But I can’t do anything for you. You can’t be cured.  You can’t be treated.  All we can do is manage your cancer. On scans to detect tumors, you light up like a Christmas tree.”

OUCH.  Have to say DH and I were ROFL (rolling on floor, laughing) when we heard this.  The doctor must have been a geezer, because nowadays sensitivity training is part of the curriculum in medical school.

Giving and receiving “dire” diagnoses is a serious matter.  A friend who went to the doctor for a back problem and was told he had advanced PC managed to tell me *in a funny way* how he had staggered out of the examining room completely blotto, walked out of the office and …. had some continency problems.  Didn’t know what to do because he needed a change of clothing.  This is not all that unusual.   Another guy who was in his 40′s when he got a PC diagnosis said he left the doctor’s office, got into his car, but didn’t get very far.  He crashed the car in the parking lot. 

On one of the forums the other day we were talking about one of my favorite topics, language and cancer.  One woman wrote that she hates the term “cancer advocate” — it sounds as if you’re on the side of the cancer.  Funny because instead of “one woman” I had started to write, “Kathy Meade, PC advocate, wrote….”

Kathy Meade also provided this:  Her college-age son had some friends over.  They were looking at a book about PC that was on the table, giggling.  Kathy, always trying to educate, asked:  “Do you guys know what a ‘digital rectal exam” is?

Kathy’s son replied, “I do, Mom.  That’s a computerized test they do for prostate cancer”.

Funny, I had just told DH a few days earlier, “Can’t say we aren’t making progress.  At least the rectal exam has gone from analog to digital”.  I think joking about the DRE helps to “detoxify” it.  I’ve heard so many jokes about the “finger wave”, I could write a book.  My friend Curtis sent me the one-liners I posted in  “The Butt of Jokes“.  My favorite one goes something like this:

“Doc, when you get down there, can you tell my wife you don’t see my brain?” 

Husb riffed on that:  

“Doc, when you get down there, can you do a brain scan?”

One man got really bent out of shape about phraseology the other day.  In one of the PC forums he related how he had gone to the supermarket, and as he was checking out, the cashier had asked him:

 ”Do you want to donate money for prostate cancer?”

The man gave gave the clerk a tongue-lashing and stomped out. 

I couldn’t even figure this one out.  Then I realized the problem:  the clerk had left out the word “research”.  I have to say I think this man overreacted.  Nobody is in favor of prostate cancer.  The poor cashier probably had to say this 500 times a day and if he dropped a word, so what?  We all know the intended meaning.  The customer was probably just cheap.

I give the “wordplay” award of the week to…  myself.  The other day I opined:

“A man in a PC group recently complained about the use of ‘erectile dysfunction’ as a euphemism for impotence.  I myself find ‘ED’ a more useful term because it covers a broad spectrum of disorders — and most of the time sexual function is not black or white. Some people are, shall we lay, more impotent than others.”

“Some people are, shall we lay, more impotent than others?”  one man wrote.  “You win the Freudian slip of the day award.”

I was truly embarrassed.  Don’t like my slip showing.

I never had problems with reading comprehension BC (before the cancer), but AD (after diagnosis) I can’t seem to understand anything on the written page.  Yesterday I was confounded by this sentence:

“My doctor told me to take a quarter-tab of Viagra every day”.

“A quarter-tub of Viagra?”   And I thought I’d heard everything.

The Courage That My Mother Had

The courage that my mother had
Went with her, and is with her still:
Rock from New England quarried;
Now granite in a granite hill.
The golden brooch my mother wore
She left behind for me to wear;
I have no thing I treasure more:
Yet, it is something I could spare.
Oh, if instead she’d left to me
The thing she took into the grave!–
That courage like a rock, which she
Has no more need of, and I have.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

“Ask if your doctor if he has washed his or her hands before starting to examine you.  Research shows that handwashing can prevent the spread of infections. If you’re uncomfortable asking this question directly, you might ask, ‘I’ve noticed that some doctors and nurses wash their hands or wear gloves before touching people. Why is that?’”

Hmm . . . dirty hands spread germs, but is it safe to ask your doctor this question?  I doubt it.  My mother, who gets increasingly germophobic as she ages, did so –  and soon her doctor was her EX-doctor.  When Ma told me this story, I thought: “Wow, a kamikaze patient”. 

As far as their idea of a hint: the question doesn’t sound very bright and all it will tell your doctor is that your vision is OK.

While we’re on this subject, what about asking the doctor whether he’d cleaned his necktie?  Studies show that neckties can  spread germs in hospitals because doctors bend over sick patients while examining them, accumulate bacteria, and then repeat the process with other patients.

Best advice is to choose a doctor carefully and notice at the initial examination what his or her hygiene standards are.

You don’t want your doctor washing his hands of you!

It occurred to me that having prostate cancer might just give a guy the opportunity to get that tattoo he’s always wanted!  Dear husband has some artwork on his back as a result of his prep for radiation treatment.  (Unfortunately, it’s quite boring.)  And a recently diagnosed man wrote me this:

“BTW, It’s quite curious to see how people react to this disease. I had no idea. I had one dear friend refer to PC as “Cancer Lite,” because it’s “so curable.”

“Cancer Lite”.  I guess it’s the next-best thing to “Cancer Free”.

I am reposting the original “Top 10″ list in case anybody missed it.  If you have any additions, please let me know. 

“Top 10 Reasons To Get Prostate Cancer”

 10.  All of my buddies have it — and they’re doing fine.

   9.  Nobody dies of this.

   8.  You die with this, not of it.

   7.  If you’re going to get cancer, this is the one to get.

   6.  At this age, you’re going to die of something — why not this?

   5.  The robot will fix everything.

   4.  Where else would you meet such great people?

   3.  It’s the next-best-thing to getting cancer of the toenail.

   2.  You put some seeds in — and that takes care of it.  (Set it and forget it.)

   1.  It’s as easy to treat as the common cold

A newly diagnosed man named Joe L., who tends to be a worrier, was on his way home from a visit to the urologist.  He was feeling good because the doctor had said his cancer was almost certainly localized.  Jeff wanted to celebrate.  So he decided to pick up some flowers for his wife (unlike some men I know who would go on a binge at Home Depot).  He wrote me:

“Yesterday when I stopped by the florist to pick up the bouquet, I decided to go with a custom job instead of one of the ready-mades sitting in the bucket.  The proprietor, a lady of a certain age, was eager to help me pick out the blooms I wanted. 

‘What’s the occasion?’ she asked.

‘Uhhhhh….we’re celebrating,’ I replied.

‘Ooh…a birthday?’ 

‘No.’

‘Anniversary?’ 

‘No.’

I was getting uncomfortable and she was so cheerful. 

‘Grandkids? New job? C’mon, what are you celebrating?’ 

I felt bad doing it but but someone had to break her of her nosy habit.  So I said:

‘My Gleason score is under 7.  Except for one core.’

She stared, wide-eyed. 

‘And my PSA is under 10!’

Her eyes were popping out. Finally, I announced in a loud voice:

‘I just found out my cancer hasn’t spread.’

Talk about your conversation killer.  For the rest of the day I felt awful but kept giggling.

Moral is: Don’t mess with a PC brother.

Next to me stood a man in a kilt playing the bagpipes. That reminded me of my friend Hughie, whom I met here, a man who would have been very much at home in that outfit being a Scot.  Because of Hughie I felt closer to the people there. In Hughie, “I had found my Celtic roots.”

In honor of St. Patrick’s Day, I want to post a favorite poem by the Irish poet Seamus Heaney. It’s called Digging. In it the poet celebrates the achievements of his forebears, who were potato farmers. About his father he wrote:

“By God, the man could handle a spade. Just like his old man.”

These were skilled laborers (notice all the technical language about planting) with an incredible work ethic. The father was still bending over the flowerbeds in old age, and the grandfather could barely stop to take a drink.

Through Digging, Heaney captures the essence of the Irish people, a people that works hard and is tough, proud, and persistent.

The best part about Digging is its sensuality. The poet describes the act of cultivation in such loving detail, you can practically touch and smell the new potatoes. Even the use of short choppy words mimics the rhythm of digging.

This poem is about respect for family tradition — Heaney is figuratively digging into his family’s roots. But times have changed, farming has become more mechanized, and the poet has chosen a different path. He no longer wields a spade like his father. Instead, “snug as a gun” in his hand is a “squat pen.” Heaney hopes that he can match the achievements of his father and grandfather using a pen to “dig” with instead of a spade. Why the imagery of the gun? To emphasize how powerful the pen is — more has been accomplished in the world with words than with violence.

In fact, Heaney became a successful poet and eventually was awarded the Nobel Prize. So his pen did bring honor to his family. And the impact of his “digging” (i.e., writing) went far beyond the confines of his father’s narrow farming community.

I think a lot of people can relate to this poem because they respect their forbears and take pride in their accomplishments but perhaps do not work with the same “tools” they did. In my case, my parents’ primary tool for bringing about change would have been religion; for me, it’s secular advocacy. But like the poet, I often wonder whether I measure up.

I want to use this opportunity to introduce you to a new undertaking by my sponsoring organization, Malecare, which also involves a lot of “digging” and hopefully will bring about change that is long overdue. Malecare has launched a petition which it will submit to our legislators around election day. The purpose is to “make prostate cancer a national public health priority.” We are hoping to get 100,000 people to sign it. Here is the gist of the petition:

“We, the undersigned, call on the President of the United States and the Congress to make Prostate Cancer research a national public health priority. Specifically, we ask the President of the United States to ensure that promotion and funding for Prostate Cancer research is, at all times, comparable to those levels allocated for Breast Cancer.

This is a reasonable and achievable goal: parity for prostate cancer when it comes to funding.

Here is a perfect example of how you can change the world with the stroke of a pen. With each signature, i.e., each keystroke, we will chip away at the “stubborn earth” and hopefully, create a revolution in the way people think about prostate cancer. We are sowing the seeds of change. Seeds of hope.

I urge you to sign the petition and ask everyone you know to do so as well.

Let us prove that the pen is indeed mightier than the spade.

Here is the poem. I will talk more about the petition in a future post. To sign it, go to http://prostatecancerpetition.org/.

———————————————————————-

Digging

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.

– Seamus Heaney

On the occasion of “National Impotence Day” (February 14, same as Valentine’s Day), the British newspaper, The Independent, offered some tips on how to boost one’s sex drive.

First they explained “la difference” in the way men and women *can’t* do it. Apparently, for men, the problem is “hydraulic,” whereas for women, “it’s mostly in their heads.” (I’ll drink to that, at least to the first part. Everything with men is hydraulic. See my posting on Penile Mechanics.)

Various aphrodisiacs are then presented, but I want to focus on the food. Most interesting to me was this:

“It’s the smell of food rather than its constituent parts that gets men in the mood, says the neurologist Alan Hirsch, the founder of the Smell and Taste Treatment and Research Foundation in Chicago. He measured the effects of aromas on penile blood flow and found that American men responded best to doughnuts, pizza, popcorn and strawberries. Men, he concluded, are turned on by smells that evoke the security and pleasure of childhood.”

Ladies, I would be careful about trying this at home. Smelling will lead to eating, and all those carbs will lull the man to sleep.