Biopsy-Daisy Redux

Those of you who remember my original experience with the wonderful experience of a prostate biopsy last year will recall the initial panic-mode into which it flipped me. I’m proud to say that, much as familiarity breeds contempt, it also helps prepare one.

The good news about this round is that it came one year after the last one. How, might one ask, is this good news? Well, that’s very simple. The alternative would have been every six months. (See? Every silver lining has a cloud. Or something like that.) Anyway, six months after the first biopsy, I had my six month check-up. The pre-check-up blood test showed that my PSA (Prostate Specific Antigen, the marker for the potential of prostate problems) was down from the previous measurement, a positive sign. That still wasn’t sufficient to ward off another “manual pat down” of the gland in question. But it was sufficient for my doctor to say that, at this point, a six-month biopsy is not necessary. Yes, I walked out of the officer quite content that day, despite having scheduled the NEXT biopsy before we left.

Now, as medical procedures go, a prostate biopsy is really not all that bad. Intrusive in a sensitive area? Yes. Bad? No. I know that now, having been through it already. So last year’s sense of panic, unknown and impending doom was completely absent this year. Would I prefer not having to endure it? Absolutely. But, hey, I’m a veteran now.

The date of this round was exactly one week from the day we returned home from our sojourn in the Caribbean. The day before I left to fly down to Florida, I had gone to the lab to have my blood drawn. (Blood tests, at one time, were enough to cause me to become weak-kneed. And that was before they even inserted the needle. I’m a big boy now, though.) This would be the pre-biopsy PSA screen. It wouldn’t affect whether or not I was going to have the biopsy. That was a done deal. But it’s to continue tracking the PSA level as a guide for future decisions. So, having gotten that bit of unpleasantness and bloodshed out of the way, I headed off to cruise the sunny southern climes.

Apparently, there was a stomach bug of some kind running around on the ship. It didn’t affect me during the trip (although it got my mother-in-law by the time we returned to Fort Lauderdale) but it caught up with me during the week. Having just returned from vacation, I was out for the Thursday and Friday of that week. One thing that feeling miserable does is it prevents you from dwelling on other things. By the time I had recovered sufficiently to say, “Oh crap, biopsy on Monday,” it was already Sunday.

The procedure was scheduled for 0900, so we were up at 0630. There is a minor thing to be done within two hours of then scheduled procedure which is a mini-version of a colonoscopy prep. ‘Nuff said. You figure it out…or not. So, having endured that bit of indignity, I sat down to have a cup of coffee and read the morning comics and sports section of the newspaper.

Now, I may be a veteran and know what to expect, but there was no way I was going through this without resorting to better living through chemistry. I recalled the spacing of the happy pills last time and began replicating the dosage schedule. Now, for me, the gold standard of pre-procedure dosing was my vasectomy where one and a half pills put me into la-la land.

With last year’s biopsy, I did not get the same “knock-out punch” even after three pills. It was just enough, but my index is how aware I am of what’s going on around me. This year, after two, I was all too aware. Apparently, though, my subjective assessment of my mental state and Joy’s objective observation of it were two almost unrelated things. I started to take a third pill and she made me give her the pill bottle before I got another pill out of it. That set off a round of debate between the two of us as to whether I was to be allowed the third magic pill. (Mind you, this is while sitting in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. And because I also had my iPod with earplugs on, I wasn’t doing a very effective job of voice moderation.)

Joy finally said it was too late for me to take another one for it to have an effect before the procedure. Lawyer that I am, I made the counter argument that even if that was the case, the placebo effect of taking another one outweighed her argument. Finally, I suspect, just to shut me up, she let me have another one…but not before she broke it in half. Well, half a loaf….

Shortly thereafter, my name was called an I headed into the torture chamber…oops, I mean examination and treatment area of the office. Having obeyed the instruction to go the head and empty my bladder I shuffled off to the indicated room. Pants and underpants, off, up on the table, iPod earphones in my ears, My Favorites playlist running and curled into a fetal position on my left side. I was as ready as I was going to be.

T.M.I. WARNING: Read the remainder of this paragraph at your own risk for T.M.I. You have been warned! Recalling the last experience, I knew the biggest issue for me was the two injections to numb the area (remember I am needle-phobic). Not this year! I will have to have a discussion with my doctor when I see him for the results and follow-up. Last year, the probe was absolutely no issue. This year, it felt like the probe had not been lubricated! Damn it! And I didn’t even get flowers or dinner first! Maybe that bit of discomfort was to mask the feeling of the injections but they did not bother me as much as last year. OK! All downhill from here. WRONG! After the first probe is removed a second one is inserted as a guide for the biopsy needles. Once again, someone forgot to sufficiently lubricate the probe.

Oh, and before I forget to mention it, once I was sufficiently numb (and this year I could actually feel that) the doctor who would perform the actual biopsy walked in. She walked around and introduced herself. Yes, I said she. (Okay ladies, I know all about the number of OB-GYNs who are men.) That was a bit of surprise. I kind of said “Hi” and went back to singing along with my iPod.

The biopsy itself fells like someone is snapping you with a thick rubber band, but well up inside. Ten snaps later, we were done. Cleaned up and dressed, I walked back out to the waiting room. Now I was just hungry so we went downstairs to the restaurant and got breakfast. The effect of caffeine (coffee) and adrenaline (Wow! It’s over!) caused me to be wide-awake and not feeling at all medicated.

In the aftermath, this time, I felt sore and internally uncomfortable which I don’t recall from last year. That, however, was easily addressed with Tylenol. By the next day that, too had passed. So now it’s just a matter of waiting to get the results (which will be in two weeks). Am I worried? Not overly much. But there’s always that little bit of anxiety whenever the term “biopsy” is involved. But for now, mission accomplished.