I’m fifty-seven years old, verging on fifty-eight, and I just got some unwelcome news. My PSA level (prostate-specific antigen) is a bit high. Not four-alarm-fire high, but that together with the fact that I’m Caucasian (higher risk) and that my Dad and my Uncle Dave (his brother) both had prostate cancer at this age means that I’m headed to the Urologist for a biopsy.
And yeah, even if I have it, this is one of the most survivable cancers. And it’s far from a certainty that I do. But nevertheless, it’s a sobering reality check.
I am reaching the age of the Body Betrayal, when bit by bit the things I took for granted about how my body works (and should work) are being called into question.
It starts with the little things, like the way I just dropped a dish in the kitchen (full of gnocchi and red sauce) doing a thing I’ve done for years and years flawlessly – transferring it from the microwave to the counter. No apparent reason for it, just an unspecified hardware failure on my hand’s part.
A dear friend of mine shared how she suddenly has issues with one foot getting stuck behind the other. Suddenly simply walking becomes another thing to worry about.
And yeah, I’m not old yet (though our twenty-six-year-old friend Allison might disagree). But I can feel it creeping up on me.
My parents are both at that age when the bill starts to come more fully due, with macular degeneration on my Dad’s side and mobility issues for my Mom. And both are seeing their friends gradually departing for greener pastures.
Flying Spaghetti Monster willing, I’m still two or three decades from that point. And if I were to pass away tomorrow, I’d be pretty happy with what I’m leaving as my written legacy (though I’d be happier if more people would actually buy the books!).
But the less time I have, the more I realize how much I still have to accomplish, and how many stories are left in me to write.
So tomorrow, the biopsy, and next week, the results, and we’ll deal with what we have to, if we have to, when we have to.
But for now, I’m gonna go write.