Those Sneaky Ninjas

This wasn't supposed to happen. I followed the plan: I exercised, kept in shape, didn't drink, didn't smoke, ate healthy (hell, I went vegetarian for almost a 10 year period in my 30's, and to this day I probably have no more than one small serving of red meat a year), meditated, did yoga, lifted weights, didn't do drugs, yada, yada, yada.

And yet, still, the cancer found me. Apparently it stalked me silently, ninja-like, profiting on my laziness with getting a physical, content as I was in the knowledge that my lifestyle required no validation from any medical professional that I was the picture of health. It grew, again silently, stealthily, with not a single overt symptom to indicate that there was now a ticking time bomb deep within my temple, the machine I call my body. Those crafty little cancer ninjas.

I have prostate cancer, which is remarkably trite, as it is the most common cancer for males to get. Not even anything exotic, just plain, old garden-variety prostate cancer. At 54, I'm pretty young to get this, although in the short time since the diagnosis was confirmed (about a month now), I've already talked to one guy who beat me by 8 years, a dubious honor, at best.

Men tend to get this in their 70's, and since it does tend to be slow-growing, most guys with it will die from one of the many other things that kill us; heart disease, other cancers, stroke, diabetes, etc.. But it will still take its annual ante of 40,000 of us, a sort of depraved toll on the parkway of life.

I'm at stage 2, Gleason score of 7, last PSA at 13.5, for those of you that have any idea of what these things mean - if you don't, that's great, because it means you don't have it (or possibly do and don't know yet - see above and go get a physical) or have anyone close to you that has it. Basically it means it's moderately aggressive, and because of my age, I can't afford to adopt a "wait and see" approach, where they monitor your PSA levels via blood tests, with the expectation you'll die of something else first. They've been pretty clear on this - wait, and it will likely metastasize, the worst thing you want in a cancer; it means the ninjas will multiply to the point that they leave their prostate dojo and go forth and practice their evil art in my lymph nodes, bones or blood, and do their very ninja best to get me on that list of 40,000. As parasites go, they're pretty stupid; a smart parasite doesn't kill its host. Stupid ninjas.

So here's my plan: grab the little bastard ninjas by their collective throats and choke them until they die. Assassinate the assassins, metaphorically speaking, of course. I've been told I have the option of surgery or radiation to get rid of the little buggers, and thus far I'm leaning towards surgery, since it's a familiar process to me, and also, I'm just not fond of the idea of nuking my insides; I'm old-fashioned that way.

I'm off to Memorial Sloan-Kettering Hospital in NY to get a second opinion and see if there are other assassination methods at my disposal. I'm not going medieval on them; I'm going Soprano's on them. Them, their families, even their pets - wipe them all out, leave no survivors to exact revenge for their fallen comrades. That's just how I roll. Peace.