It’s not quite a revelation to discover once you turn 70 that your health and well being decreases, sometimes dramatically.

Perhaps someone should write a manual that should be supplied from the moment we can read to tell us what’s going to happen.

And it’s going to happen whether you like it or not; no one is immune.  People try to stay young, change diet, regimen, start exercising, rue the day they took up smoking and then rue waiting so long to stop.

If only we had our time over…

Doesn’t work like that.  It’s inevitable, sooner or later, it’s going to happen.  The aches and pains, not wanting to get out of bed in the morning, everything taking longer to do…

The aging process catches up with you, and not to put too fine a point to it, like a car or appliance, things start to wear out.

It starts with organs like kidneys, livers, hearts, lungs, you know, those organs you kind of need to keep living.  When you’re young, you don’t think about it, and throw caution and common sense to the seven winds.

After all, who wants to live a boring life?  And we have to try everything at least once.  After all, what doesn’t kill you…

Well, if only we had that manual, with that one word that no one wants to see, consequences, in very large red letters.

So…

Here we are.

Over 70, and the only way is down.

I have psoriasis and psoriatic arthritis.  It took several specialists to get to the right treatment, the first more interested in stringing me along and charging exorbitant fees, to a doctor who took basically one visit to find and start fixing the problem.

It shattered my belief in the medical profession to the point where I don’t and never will fully trust any specialist.

But aside from that, I have the miracle drug Humira that has made my life so much better, but inevitably, drugs can only do so much, and the symptoms are sneaking back.

That’s expected.

It’s the other problems that are making an audience of themselves, such as the back pain, which is not operable, it will only make it worse, joint pains, which pain killers alleviate to the point of bearability.

The cramps and the side effects from other pills like methotrexate and nerve pain remedies, which I now realise I can’t take, at least not with the hallucinations.

I can live with all of that.

But then, out of left field comes the big one.

It’s the new problem, the one all men will suffer at some point.

That pesky thing called a prostate.

It’s not true, no matter how you look at it, that it sneaks up on you.  There are symptoms, plain as day, but these you tend to overlook, because you don’t want to think that something is wrong.

We blame old age; we tell ourselves that it’s just part of the process.

Then my older brother rings and tells me he has stage one prostate cancer.

Just the sort of news you need to start your day.

He’s three years older than I am.

Then, in the same week, your younger brother, 6 years younger, is messaging that he had an enlarged prostate.

What the hell does that mean?

In reality, it means run like hell to your doctor and admit the probabilities of you having a similar problem are very high.

I ran.

So this is how it unfolds…

A urine and PSA test.  The PSA tests are basically a crap shoot, but it’s a start.  Bad news, the PSA level is high.

Enough together me kicked to a specialist.

The anti-specialist fears kick in, and now I have to worry not only about the disease but also the medical profession.

I get an appointment, and just for the first consultation, the fee is eye-watering, with little recompense from the medical insurance.

You can see me drawing similarities with previous experience, seeing a cashed-up retired person willing to spend any amount to survive an extra week.

You read about old people being ripped off every day.  Why should the medical profession be any different, with such a large, largely untapped gold mine called gullible old people?

So… 

A brief consultation that leads to an MRI.  It’s free on the back of two PSA tests showing high numbers within a certain period.  I have to wait a few weeks to fulfil the criteria.

I get the MRI.

The scans show a shadow on film, telling us that something ‘suspicious’ needed to be checked, so the next step is a TP biopsy.

Not good news.  Not a fun time at the hospital.

And before you can say abracadabra its arranged.  Hospital, day surgery, doctor, anaesthetist, and a sheet that tells you about everything that can go wrong.

At least it was not on the back of another huge consultation fee, and the necessity to mortgage the house.

But there are non-refundable fees for the doctor, the hospital, and the anesthesiologist, with no change out of a thousand dollars.  For someone like me, that’s a lot of money just to get a possible death sentence, or worse, a lead in to a treatment that may or may not work, one that will destroy us financially.

Is it worth it?

In my opinion, no.   Others have differing opinions, but that has a lot to do with the idea of having to live without someone you’ve spent most of your life with.

Cancer, if it is, and aggressive as they all seem to be these days, is a sentence, not a word, with far-reaching and devastating consequences.

It’s not going to be an easy subject to discuss, and the anticipation is almost as bad as getting the news, good or bad.

But I’ll know next Monday, one way or another.