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Prostate Cancer. Male Denial, and the absurdity of it all
Men don’t go to doctors. We go to garages, sheds, or pubs—sacred spaces where nothing must be spoken unless it involves timber, oil, or football. A man will discuss the death of a beloved dog with more emotional clarity than the lump in his groin. Medical consultation is, in our private mythology, reserved for catastrophic limb loss or inconvenient decapitation.
Denial, for the average male, is not a moment. It’s a system of belief. A cathedral built brick by stoic brick over decades. Our fathers taught us to tough it out. Their fathers taught them to die quietly. The cycle continues. Illness is weakness. Complaining is unseemly. Preventive care is for Americans and people who own yoga mats.
The body begins to fail, of course. Quietly at first. An ache here. A dribble there. We assume it’s just age—or, if we're particularly committed to the illusion—just the weather. That persistent night-time urination? Must be the evening tea. Or the mattress. Or the fact that one side of the bed is clearly cursed. Anything but the organ slowly strangling itself inside your pelvis.
When a partner urges us to “just get it checked,” we bristle. If she persists, we stall. If she makes the appointment for us, we go—resentfully, like a man being marched into a pottery class. We crack jokes to signal comfort. We quote obscure statistics to display control. And when the doctor dons a glove, we retreat into the last true fortress of the aging male: irony.
Once inside the machine—tests, probes, scans—we begin to perform the Ritual of Masculine Surrender. It starts with a joke about turning your head and coughing, and ends with the quiet realisation that you’ve become the punchline in your own dark comedy.
Some men weep. Others double down on stoicism. Most just sit there, nodding solemnly, trying not to vomit on the doctor’s tasteful shoes.
And still, we resist. The diagnosis arrives like a telegram from the front. The prostate—previously unknown, unsung, and unappreciated—has declared war. It’s built a fortress. It’s bringing in reinforcements. The bladder is collateral damage. Erections are taken hostage. Hope is put on long-term disability.
But even then, we maintain the illusion. We call it “a little cancer.” We say, “It’s treatable.” We compare notes with other men, like generals discussing failed campaigns. “Oh, you went the radiation route? Interesting. I opted for chemical castration and despair.”
Because to admit the full weight of it—the fear, the humiliation, the betrayal by our own biology—would be to strip away the last tattered remnants of the male fantasy: that we are somehow exempt from decay.
We are not. We are meat with delusions of grandeur.
So we bluff. We limp into the clinic, complain about the parking, and read Car and Driver while contemplating mortality. We tell ourselves we’re strong. That we’re brave. That it’s just another phase of life, like puberty, except this time everything is shrinking.
Eventually, we stop pretending. But only after it’s far too late to benefit from honesty. By then, we’ve been poked, scanned, shaved, dosed, and told—very politely—that we will never urinate like a young man again.
But don’t worry. There’s a pamphlet for that too. It’s got a photo of two smiling seniors on bicycles.
Neither one of them is wearing a nappy. You’ll find that comforting.
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I did go to the doctor every year, brought up my family history. and asked about screening. Three different PCPs told me not to worry because of my age (mid to late 40s). At 50 my PSA was 5 and later I was diagnosed with GS8….
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6 Reactionsgreat read found myself completely nodding along with each thought. i too was invincible i thought. but am trying to find a real and more humble strength
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5 ReactionsFor the longest time, heart attack was on my mind; that caused my father's death when he was 60. Or maybe colon cancer for which I have an exam every couple years. When I turned 68, my doctor ordered a PSA. Then she referred me to a urologist. By February 2025, I knew I have cancer, totally unexpected.
Like @rssplit , I hope to find strength. I had my first SBRT treatment yesterday, 4 more to go, ending on the 21st of April. Hoping for the best.
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8 Reactionsi have a feeling you have the strength you will need. praying for the best for you. stay positive keep smiling and win.
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5 Reactions@vircet
I’m right there with you, 68 and had my 2nd SBRT treatment today. Keep on keep’n on…
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6 ReactionsI had a muscle pull in my right leg that after 2 months was not getting better. Walk-in sent me to bone doc, he took x-ray and said I have cancer. Told him I didn't think so, around the corner for another x-ray. Yes you have cancer. Off for an MRI and then to my new friend with the title of Doc of Oncology. Had biopsy pulled from my hip, went back for results. I heard people will ask what stage it it, so I did, for some reason figuring maybe a 1 or 2, (not knowing at the time what either one means). Dr said 4, aggressive. I about fell off my chair. It certainly is a learning experience. As Phil has mentioned, we take the car in for checkup but not ourselves. Best to all.
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5 ReactionsMy greatest surprise from it all is how much I miss a natural erection. Apparently I equated that with my manhood far more than I realized. I've learned how to create them with VED's and Trimix which I appreciate, but I lament needing the artificial help.
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4 Reactionshans casteels, that is so right on.
You need to write a book about this whole process. So many of us can identify with what you write about. Somehow this prostrate cancer has made me feel like a flawed person. Less confident & more vulnerable. Of course still dealing with anxiety 7 months after stopping adt. I wish I could forget the whole thing & past 2 years. Also wish I could stop thinking about it every day. You are right. We are aging. Our body starts to breakdown like a used car. So why can’t we accept it. I guess some can & some can’t. Any advice from anyone out there give a shout out. I / We just want to find some inner piece. Peace to all.👍
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4 Reactions….appreciate your eloquent and expressive narrative….it’s only when we come to the absolute end of ourselves, which is possible to do before we go the way of the world, that it all makes sense….
….although there is much more to the story, this 2 minute clip from the final monologue of “The Incredible Shrinking Man” is the beginning of coming to the “absolute end”….
All the best!
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3 ReactionsHey @rparsons, We all hear you, buddy! I think about this crap every GD day- when I wake up, when I look in the mirror, when I see young guys bopping around care-free… it reminds me what I’ve lost but then I think of others far worse off.
If you ever want to feel better about yourself and your situation, Google something like “Ukranian battle injuries”. Click on “images” and then sit back and watch the horror unfold.
You think WE lost something?? You think we are flawed? Guys 19 yrs old with all four limbs gone; no faces, no eyes… mutilated and forced to actually live like that in a country that no longer has sidewalks or hospitals, let alone handicapped ramps, motorized wheelchairs and support groups like this one.
We too, have lost something; we too, have suffered a catastrophic event which stays with us and won’t give us rest or peace…
But we didn’t lose it at 19. We can still SEE, walk, run, pick up a forkful of food and put it in an actual mouth and CHEW.
I’m really torn about posting something like this - and it’s surely NOT aimed at you, bud, but all of us - me especially cause I’ve been the worst at what you describe. Your post simply elicited some thoughts that have been swirling around in my confused and conflicted brain. We really need to reset our expectations, dammit!
We all love, love, LOVE @hans Casteels thoughts for the day; they really get to the nub of our feelings, our shared humiliations, our collective loss of manhood - all of it.
But there really IS another side to all this. I guess you’d have to call it perspective? Relative? Comparative?
Is our daily anxiety about our cancer returning really worth all this wasteful energy? Aren’t there people on this forum living that scary notion RIGHT NOW?? Living pretty good lives, to hear them tell it?
Would any of them trade any of their pain, suffering or side effects for no hands? No feet?
A dirty drinking straw for a catheter, because there weren’t any clean, sterile ones? I really don’t think so…I really don’t.
I’m not a fan of the word “blessed” because I straddle both the camps of atheism and agnosticism; so let’s say “fortunate” perhaps? Fortunate that we have a cancer that CAN be treated and CAN be stopped. Not cured, so boo-hoo…Fortunate that we live in a time that better, less invasive treatments are now offered…Fortunate that drugs like Orgovyx stop our cancer in its tracks and more are coming….
Fortunate that when we sit down at the dinner table tonight with our loved ones we can see their faces; that we can feed ourselves, that we can taste how good that food is and how that next episode of your favorite Netflix series is on in a half hour. Our lives are good!!
Think of all this - and then think of those poor mutilated soldiers; and then tell me what any of us have to be anxious or fearful about…
Apologies to @hans Casteels for any use of proprietary content I may have stolen in the construction of this purgative - and unasked for - tirade…
Best to All,
Phil
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