Flying out to consult Potentate of Prostates

It was snowing in Baltimore.

As we waited in the small room at Johns Hopkins Hospital, my whole life suddenly was centered on the small cardboard box that sat on my lap.

Not much bigger than Chinese takeout, it held my pathology results - nasty-looking goo smeared onto glass slides that had been studied under a microscope by somebody in a small, unremarkable building that actually sits behind a Chinese restaurant west of the Ashley.

I had picked it up the day before, like so much egg foo yong, and carried it carefully on the plane ride to Maryland.

My wife, Bonnie, sat beside me, holding my hand as we stared at the little box that soon would determine our future.

All we knew for sure was that I had prostate cancer. Twelve days earlier, those words had entered our life like those home invaders you read about in the paper. They kicked down our door, woke us up, threatened our lives and stole our security.

Next thing we knew, we were on the plane to see a doctor who specializes in this stuff. The little cardboard box would tell him all he needed to know.

We have been married nine months.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Why Johns Hopkins?

You may wonder why I went to Johns Hopkins.

Since announcing my illness to the world and deciding to write about the journey, some rightfully have asked why I was going out of town to have this surgery.

Good question.

The short answer is my doctor told me to.

When my urologist announced that my biopsy came back positive, he recommended we treat this intruder aggressively.

I nodded quickly in agreement.

He said he knew the top guy at Johns Hopkins, the center of excellence for prostate cancer. He would call, make an appointment if I wished.

I nodded slowly, assuming there was more to it than that.

He said this route would be more expensive.

I nodded again, figuring I owed myself one.

I'm a newspaperman, neither rich nor poor. But I don't have expensive habits or hobbies. I've paid my share of child support, put my kids through college and financed a few divorce lawyers. At 57, I finally get to keep all of my paycheck.

And I'm lucky - I have a good job with health insurance. What they don't pay, I will.

Apparently, this is that rainy day I've been saving for.

Sense of security

The doctor entered the room, introduced himself and looked at my slides.

He said two things that made us feel better.

First, he didn't think my Gleason Score was as high as predicted.

The Gleason Score is a 1-10 number that tells you how bad it is. I had peeked at my paperwork. Mine was 8. He said he thought it might be a bit lower.

Second, he said he was from Lake City, went to Furman and the Medical University in Charleston.

We all want to like our doctors and this gave us a warm, if not false, sense of family.

I had joked with Bonnie on the plane about going to see the Potentate of Prostates. I often use humor to mask fear.

I've learned, however, that people who battle cancer on a daily basis are somewhat humorless. They choose their words carefully.

No pie-in-the-sky predictions.

No promises.

Like all cancer patients, we were tossed into this ocean and told to swim. Fast.

In a short span of time, I've learned there are as many opinions about treatment as there are guys with prostates.

I've been told I'm doing the right thing; I should reconsider; have radiation treatment; consider nuclear seeding; see a chiropractor; try herbal remedies; seek treatment in Mexico; have laparoscopic surgery; have robotic surgery - the options seem endless.

I think each case is different.

My PSA is below 5, which is good. The cancer is palpable to the touch, which is bad. All of my biopsy samples were positive, which means my prostate probably looks like a poppy field.

You add up your own score, consider the odds, make a decision.

We scheduled surgery for April, walked back out into the snowy Baltimore slush, holding hands, hoping for the best.

Reach Ken Burger at kburger@postandcourier.com or 937-5598.