Your Health Comes First

The receptionist asked for my date of birth, and without thinking, I gave Gracie’s instead. She glanced at her chart, then back at me, looking confused. Before she could speak, I realized my mistake.

“Oh, that’s my wife’s birthday,” I clarified.

After spending 40 years as a family caregiver—juggling surgeries, appointments, hospital paperwork, and insurance—I had become so accustomed to answering questions about dates that I did it without a second thought. This time was different, though. I was at the cancer center for imaging and treatment as a patient, preparing for radiation therapy for prostate cancer. Luckily, it was caught early thanks to regular check-ups and a diligent doctor. The prognosis looks good, which is a relief.

Even so, the experience felt odd.

Most of my adult life has revolved around taking care of other people in hospitals—this time, they were calling my name.

Looking around the waiting room, I felt like the youngest person there. That’s not something I encounter often anymore. Later on, one of the staff mentioned that most patients were over 70. There are rarer visits from men in their 60s but also, occasionally, from those in their 50s.

This visit marked my newcomer status.

I moved my chair slightly, avoiding intruding on a group of older men who seemed to know one another well. They reminded me of the elderly folks who used to gather at Nick’s grocery store back in my hometown in South Carolina. In my childhood, I would often grab a soda or candy bar while listening to them discuss everything from weather patterns to church matters.

The topics varied by day, but the flow of conversation felt natural and effortless.

These men had a remarkable ability to chat. One moment they would be discussing fishing and suddenly shift to something completely different without anyone really noticing.

Then, the talk turned directly to prostate cancer: treatments and the various indignities that come with aging. I even heard one researcher mention how a blanket had shifted during a test.

The nurse, without missing a beat, quipped, “Don’t worry. If I see something I’ve never seen before, I’ll kill you.”

That’s the sort of humor you’d expect at a cancer clinic in Montana.

Everyone laughed, and I couldn’t help but raise my eyebrows, thinking, “How reassuring.” Still, I chuckled along.

When they called me back, the technician positioned my feet and explained the rather complex-looking machine around me. Honestly, it looked like something out of an old “Star Trek” episode, something similar to the device that kept Spock alive when someone had stolen his brain.

Once the instructions were given, the technician left the room, and I was left alone for a few moments.

After a short time, a technician returned, appearing somewhat perplexed.

“We have a bit of a challenge.”

I asked, “What’s the issue?”

“Gas bubbles are forming,” she explained.

My expression must have said it all, as she clarified, “It’s… in you.”

Oh. Various responses flitted through my mind. One imaginative thought even included extending my index finger, but thankfully, years of maturity had taken over. Instead, I asked, “What do you suggest?”

“Maybe take a walk and see if that helps.”

So there I was, pacing through the halls of a cancer center, working on a problem that would have been easily handled without any professional help when I was a kid with three brothers. It felt like a campfire scene from “Blazing Saddles,” in a strange way.

The challenge arose from being instructed to drink a lot of water beforehand for proper imaging. In trying to solve one issue, I risked creating another.

Men over 50 have their reasons for approaching certain situations with caution.

But it all worked out in the end. Ahem.

Once the imaging was completed, the planning was finished, and I was told to return in a few days to begin treatment.

As I walked out, I noticed a bell hanging in the hallway. I’ve seen bells like that before; patients ring them when they finish their treatment.

I thought to myself, it would bring me great joy to ring that bell in a month.

Driving home, my thoughts drifted to the older men I’d seen waiting. None of them seemed eager to be there, but they also didn’t appear intimidated.

They were well-versed in the ropes—where to park, where coffee could be found, and which jokes were worth telling.

In essence, they knew what to expect.

Eventually, if you stay on the same road long enough, you stop asking for directions and start giving them.

Perhaps someday, sooner than I’d like to acknowledge, I’ll be the one sharing stories with newcomers, no matter how embarrassing they might be—including the one about gas bubbles.

For years, I’ve urged fellow caregivers to prioritize their own health rather than waiting for a crisis. This experience has reinforced that belief.

Prostate cancer is often dubbed a silent disease.

In my case, it was indeed silent.

Fortunately, silence doesn’t have to be deadly.