The fickle finger of fate—far more whimsical and less gloved than the urologist’s. And yet, here I am, Hans, apparently the Prozac in this prostate saga, the levity in our lamentations, the gallows-humor gremlin that fate wedged between our symptoms and sanity.

It’s touching, really. Who knew my presence would serve as emotional duct tape for this brave band of biopsy veterans? I'm just glad it's my wit that's probing deep into your souls and not the urologist’s knuckle.

Writing keeps my mind off this crap. I mostly do it to keep myself busy and not get in my wife's way. We've all been through our own version of the prostate cancer gauntlet — whether it was surgery, radiation, seeds, ADT, or something else entirely — so I invite you to add your voice. No two paths are exactly alike, and your perspective might be the missing piece someone else desperately needs. The goal here isn’t perfection or consensus — it’s honesty. It’s building a collective record, written not in medical jargon but in lived experience. Because the next guy to hear those three words — You have cancer — deserves more than just a pamphlet and a pat on the back, he deserves a map drawn by those of us who’ve walked the trail, blistered feet and all. And that's us, after all.

Carry on, comrades—together we laugh in the face of side effects... mostly because we're too dizzy to stand up straight.