Bob. A man after my own darkly roasted, over-caffeinated heart.

Yes, I worry about recurrence. In fact, I worry professionally. I’ve made it a hobby, possibly even a side hustle. If prostate cancer had frequent flyer miles, I’d have enough points to redeem a free PET scan and a lukewarm hospital sandwich.

As for anxiety; absolutely. This whole process is like being trapped in a Kafka novel with a co-pay. But I’ve developed a few coping mechanisms: gallows humor, writing cynical essays about the absurdity of it all, and glaring at brochures titled “Living Well with Prostate Cancer” as if they personally insulted my intelligence. (Which they did.)

Now, regarding the psychiatrist wife. Living with a trained mental health professional is like living with an emotional TSA agent. She sees every psychological twitch and says things like, “Do you think this is really about the PSA, or is this more about your father’s disapproval in 1973?” Meanwhile, I just want to know if I’ll still be able to pee standing up next year.

Her help is… nuanced. She's supportive in that quiet, clinical way, but after hearing me obsess about recurrence for the 200th time, she now responds with phrases like, “I hear you,” which is married-therapist-speak for “please shut up.” (Actually shut the f up)

So yes, Bob. I worry. I write. I laugh at inappropriate times. And when that doesn’t work, I eat toast and watch reruns of Columbo. It’s not a cure, but it beats spiraling alone in a waiting room with a man in Crocs who wants to talk about his bowel habits.

Welcome to the club. We’ve got matching hospital gowns and an unhealthy fixation on our next PSA test.