C word daunting whether with a capital C or lower-case

It’s something that’s always in the back of our minds. Something we all dread, yet at the same time know it can’t happen to us. We won’t get cancer. That happens to someone else.

This time, however, it happened to me.

It started innocently enough. I routine annual physical. Deep breath here, let’s take your weight over there. Let’s take a look in your ears (I’m always afraid, the doctor will tell me they can’t see ANYTHING in there – and mean it.) A little poking here, and prodding there. And finally finishing up by checking out (ahem) a few more personal spots.

A couple of weeks later, a call from the doctor’s office. “The doctor would like to see you like to see you.”

My first thought? Busted! I was sure he knew about that cheeseburger I ate. And if not that, then surely it was the Snicker bar I secretly snacked on the day before.

Instead of the lecture on my eating habits, I heard the word. The C word.

“It’s probably nothing to worry about. But your PSA level is higher than normal. Just to be safe, I think we should get it checked out.”

That visit led to another nothing-to-worry about procedure. An early-Sunday-morning MRI would show, once and for all, that there were no worries.

In fact, when I met with my new doctor after the procedure, he told me the results were great. In fact, they couldn’t look better! But . . . just to be safe, let’s do a CT scan.

This procedure was like watching a summer rerun. Scan goes well, results look good, everything is hunky-dory only . . . just to be safe, let’s do a biopsy.

Now I’ve never had a biopsy before, but this one didn’t sound pleasant. The doctor would be venturing to body parts as of yet unexplored. Really, though, how bad could it be.

It turned out to be pretty bad. And even worse, a few days later the results came back with the word I kept thinking all along that I was going to dodge. But just like in sixth-grade PE, there’s always a bigger guy, a faster guy, who’s going to nail you with that speeding rubber red ball.

I got nailed.

Prostrate cancer I was told. The good news, though, is that it was discovered early.

The news instantly took me back. I heard my diagnosis almost exactly 20 years to the day that my wife was diagnosed with cancer. Hers with a capital C. Mine, for now, with a lower-case C.

But that didn’t make it any easier. I was instantly whisked away to 20 years ago. I was reminded again of everything she went through in her battle with cancer.

And although I don’t think mine will be anything similar to hers, I still can’t help but wonder what my C world would look like.

My cancer looks like one that can be cured/removed through surgery. A surgery that is looming in the near future. And the unknown world of what my life will look like afterwards.

It’s with robotic surgery, which sounds very cool, but all I can think of is Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots. And that blue robot crawling inside me. He’ll have easy access to a kidney punch.

By this time next week, the surgery will all be behind me (no pun intended). I’ll be up and moving. Able to do a few things, maybe even play Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots.

But like many others, the C word has touched my life. I’ll just have to see what comes next.