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A wife's manual for her husband's prostate cancer support
A black-hearted manual for wives reluctantly enlisted in the prostate cancer wars
There is no medal for this. No parade, no flag, no swelling orchestral soundtrack as you stand beside your husband in the oncology waiting room, clutching a tote bag full of medical documents and snack bars he won't eat. You’re not Joan of Arc. You're just tired. And now you're married to a man who's being chemically neutered in slow motion.
Prostate cancer is, allegedly, a “good cancer” to get if you enjoy being slowly unmade in body and spirit while everyone around you insists you’re lucky to be alive. There are no pink ribbons, no empowering slogans. Just the quiet, grinding bureaucracy of survival: bloodwork, bowel prep, and the ever-diminishing definition of manhood.
As the wife, your job is to watch this unfold like a long, awkward play where the lead actor keeps forgetting his lines and occasionally wets himself. You are expected to smile, encourage, and listen. You are the sponge that absorbs fear, the administrative assistant to decline, the emotional custodian of a man who now gets hot flashes and cries during Jeopardy! reruns.
Let’s speak plainly. Your husband is changing, not in some uplifting “journey of transformation” way, but in the sense that his testicles are retreating like shy woodland creatures and his emotional range has been expanded to include “despair,” “impotent rage,” and “wistful whimpering over lost erections.” You, meanwhile, are supposed to adjust. Silently. With compassion. Possibly in beige slacks.
And yes—this part must be said—not all men lose their erections. Some carry on with a surprising and frankly irritating degree of function as if the laws of biology just skipped them out of politeness. But others, many others, begin a tragic quest not just to regain physical sensation but to reclaim something far more elusive: the illusion that their manhood resides in a single, occasionally operational appendage.
You will bear witness to this crusade.
It starts innocently enough. Maybe a blue pill. Then a stronger one. Then, a combination of pills and complicated rules: take this with water but not food, not after 6 p.m., avoid grapefruit. Grapefruit, of course, now becomes his mortal enemy. When pills no longer deliver the resurrection he seeks, he will wander deeper into the pharmacological forest. He will emerge with a vacuum erection device—essentially a transparent phallic chamber attached to a bicycle pump- and he will stand in the bathroom making mechanical whirring noises while you wonder how your life became an off-brand episode of Black Mirror.
If that fails, there will be creams. Gels. Suppositories. Pellets are shoved into the urethra like tiny space probes. "MUSE," they call it. An acronym, presumably for "My Urethra Suffers Eternally." He’ll wince. He’ll lie. He’ll pretend it worked better than it did. You’ll pretend you believe him.
And then—eventually—he may pull out the syringe.
Yes, the penile injection. Self-administered. On purpose. Not because he’s a masochist, but because he’s chasing the ghost of himself. He will hold the needle like a man about to defuse a bomb, trembling, focused, determined. He is not trying to arouse you. He is trying to resurrect himself.
You may ask, internally or aloud: Why?
Why do men place such desperate, disproportionate weight on the existence—or non-existence—of an erection? Why does this one hydraulic function determine so much of their emotional stability, identity, and sense of purpose?
You could say it’s biology. That it’s evolutionary. That society rewards virility and strength and uprightness, in every literal and symbolic form. But deep down, it’s simpler. The erection is not just an act—it’s a memory. A tether to youth, to potency, to simplicity. To the time when life didn’t revolve around radiation side effects, PSA scores, or how many times you’ve voided before your appointment. It’s not about sex. It’s about proof. Proof that he is still here. Still alive. Still him.
And so, he stabs, and pumps, and swallows, and prays—not for orgasm, but for a sense of continuity. For the illusion that all is not lost. That something, some part of the machine still works.
You, the wife, are expected to smile through this carnival. To encourage the experiment. To affirm, affirm, affirm. To reassure him that this counts. That he counts. Even when his penis resembles a science project. Even when intimacy feels like a choreographed dance designed by pharmaceutical reps and sadists. Even when what you really want is a cup of tea, a warm bath, and a day where the phrase “intraurethral insert” is never spoken aloud.
Support, in this hellscape, looks like not laughing when he fumbles with the vacuum pump. It means nodding gravely as he explains the blood flow mechanics for the third time. It means pretending the sterile, mechanical attempt at intercourse wasn’t tragic, even as you both silently grieve the loss of spontaneity, mystery, and warmth.
This is marriage in the oncology era: a co-authored descent, where the vows get reinterpreted to include “in sickness, in degradation, in mild psychosis, and while hallucinating from hormone swings.”
And yet—because you are still here—somehow this is love. A love not made of candlelight and sonnets, but of cracked jokes in the parking lot after blood tests. Of silent forgiveness after hormonal meltdowns. Of saying “we” instead of “you” when the doctor uses the word “metastatic.”
It's the kind of love no Hallmark card would dare print. The kind forged not in passion, but in mutual unraveling. Dark. Bitter. Ferocious in its own bleak, unyielding way.
So yes, support your husband or your partner. Stand beside him as he fades and returns and fades again. But don’t pretend it’s noble. Don’t pretend it’s easy. And for the love of all that’s unholy, don’t forget to keep something of yourself intact. You’ll need it when the next test result comes in. And again after that.
Cheer his victories, however strange and pharmacologically enhanced. But ask the real question, too: Who are we without this obsession? Because love, in the end, may not be about erections at all, but about showing up. Staying in the room. Holding each other in the silence after everything else has failed.
Because cancer may be his diagnosis. But the fallout? the awkward, noble, grotesque, human fallout—that’s the shared part. The hardest part. The most real.
Welcome to the long goodbye. There’s no guidebook
And if all else fails… well, there’s always gin.
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And you guys are so worth it. In every struggle, every travail, through what you perceive as failure, we're just loving you.
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14 ReactionsI second that Gently !!! AND I do not agree with about anything said above, however nicely written and with great style.
For long time I wanted to make a post titled : "You are NOT a lesser man" and explain to all male members here that no part of your "equipment " down there makes you a REAL man. Even more so - it is easy to be "a man" when all is just well and dandy, lets see how manly one is when faced with cancer ! Why is a scar on a face considered manly ( even sexy), and scar on your belly is not ? Why do you think that there is one and only way to make love to a woman ? Do you actually know what true intimacy is ? Do you understand that if you are truly loved nothing else matters. That we are HAPPY to be there for you, no matter what ? Do you think that we are not aware of our own aging and body failing in many aspects over the years and that we can not relate to mood swings and vulnerability ?
Every chronic diseases and every other cancer can and DOES cause change in lifestyle and in some personality traits also and yes, in libido too. It happens to both genders BTW.
Also, why is treatment of cancer here often measured by erection success, testicle size and some minor incontinence and not by longevity gained and length of remissions or by years enjoyed and spent with loved ones ?
This disease is no different than any other serious disease period ! And it does NOT MAKE YOU a lesser man in any shape or form and especially not for us who love you dearly < 3 !!!
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18 ReactionsAnyway, when the doc was explaining about what the ADT and chemo was going to do to my man hood, me and my wife starting laughing, won't be able to blame ED on the meds. I still get to make the joke to my wife to stop looking at me like that, she knows I'm meds. Best to all.
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4 ReactionsWhat a wonderful description about the other side of prostate cancer. Beautifully written and full of heart felt truth. We considered ourselves lucky to go through the surgery and recurrence 6 months later and to come out after 2 years, sexually intact. I've often thought of writing a short book for the wives and partners. I would love to include this writing. Thank you, it brought tears and smiles to both of us.
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1 ReactionIf it helps the awareness cause, of course.
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1 ReactionYou Are Not Your Penis. Sorry If That’s a Shock.
I had wanted to post something bluntly titled "You Are NOT a Lesser Man." But it turns out that would require a widespread redefinition of what it means to be a man — one that doesn't involve obsessing over the girth, stiffness, or factory condition of your reproductive hardware.
Let’s face it: If the average man spent half as much time tending to his emotional intelligence as he does mourning the decline of his erection, we might already have cured half the world’s problems.
Yes, cancer changes things — body, libido, mood, functionality. Join the club. Women have been silently adjusting to hormonal avalanches, surgical mutilations, and social invisibility for centuries. We don’t measure our worth in millimetres or pump pressure. We just get on with it.
Why is a scar on your face "rugged" but a scar from life-saving surgery "emasculating"? Why is the success of prostate cancer treatment discussed in terms of who can still pitch a tent, rather than who got to attend their daughter’s graduation?
Let’s say it clearly: If your manhood is that fragile — dangling by the thread of a functional erection — then cancer didn’t take your masculinity. It just revealed how hollow it was to begin with.
Intimacy, by the way, has nothing to do with penetration and everything to do with presence. But if that sentence made you uncomfortable, congratulations — you’ve just met your real growth opportunity.
This disease, like any serious one, forces adaptation. It separates the self-absorbed from the self-aware. And here’s the kicker: the people who love you don’t love your penis. They love you. If that’s not enough — maybe the problem isn’t the disease.
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7 Reactions…or manly Kentucky Bourbon!
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2 ReactionsYes Hans, in the words of our famous American Poet Laureate Andrew “Dice” Clay, “I just needed to be held…”
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3 ReactionsYes, or that.
My wife entered my prostate cancer journey quite emotionally, having difficulty with the thought of cancer being in my body. It was my job from that point on - in addition to dealing with all that I had to deal with - to allay her fears and keep her (and my) life as normal as possible.
First, it was very rare that I had her accompany me on my doctor visits:
> she only met my urologist twice - once very early on; and once about 9 years later for my fourth (& final) transrectal biopsy before receiving active treatment, I invited my wife to be in the room where the MRI-guided transrectal procedure was being done. I wanted her to see that it wasn’t as painful as she was imagining. She said ok; the urologist said ok. So she sat in the corner of the room (towards my head) during the entire procedure.
> she met my radiation oncologist only once prior to treatments started, and only once a week during treatments (on Fridays when we reviewed my status).
> she met my medical oncologist only once (at my first appointment)
That was it. Other than that, I did keep her up-to-date on everything - test results, etc. - but other than that, very little else. Even then, I would watch my words carefully, always cautious about saying anything confusing or worrying,
Though I did go through a few rough patches, I never let her know about those. There was no need to trouble her. Keep her life as normal as possible…..
As for being chemically neutered - I simply told her that my testosterone level was below 50 ng/dL (which she had no clue what that meant; most people don’t). By maintaining a robust weightlifting, running 5Ks, and swimming regimen, she was not really aware of any change in me.
Due to the ramped-up exercise program, I experienced mild side-effects - mild warm flashes, muscle atrophy, etc. My libido did go to zero, but I never had ED; everything worked; so, I went through the motions anyway; she was none the wiser. Life was pretty much normal for her and me.
There were a few times during my swimming competitions when my wife would joke that with such low testosterone levels, I should be competing against women! That showed me that I was successful in keeping life normal for her.
These days, she’s quite informed on the nuances of prostate cancer - PSA tests, biopsies, hormone therapy, active surveillance, side-effects of surgery and radiation, and the perils of over-treatment.
This prostate cancer experience has been my journey, with her being kept up-to-date as needed. That was my plan after being diagnosed and was factored into all of my treatment decisions. Today, life goes on as normal…...for the both of us.
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