Fifty shades of beige -how to deal with your chemically castrated mate

Let’s begin with a truth bomb that should come with its own trigger warning: once you’re chemically castrated, you don't "feel like less of a man"—you feel like a retired man who's been laid off by his own body and wasn't even offered a cardboard box for his desk stuff. There’s no farewell party. No watch. Just a needle and the distant sound of your libido packing its bags and slamming the door on the way out.

Welcome to Androgen Deprivation Therapy—ADT to its friends (which are few). In my case, it's Firmagon. Sounds like a medieval battle axe, works like a medieval curse. One shot a month and you too can enter the exciting new realm of hormonal flatlining. It's not just chemical castration—it’s a metaphysical rebranding. One minute you're a man; the next, you're a slightly puffy, mildly weepy, heat-flushing human marshmallow who cries at dog food commercials and can no longer remember why he ever liked breasts.

The Shriveling
Let’s be anatomically specific, shall we? The testicles don’t hurt, per se. They retreat. Like war criminals going into hiding. They sense the hormonal apocalypse and evacuate the premises. You find yourself peeing like a sad bishop and adjusting your pants with the hollow knowledge that there’s less and less reason to do so.

Muscle tone vanishes. Your biceps, once mildly competent, now feel like overripe bananas. Your jawline begins to resemble a melted candle. Body hair gives up entirely. You become… smooth. Not “ooh-la-la smooth,” but wax museum smooth, with all the sexual charisma of a lightly used sponge.

Hot Flashes and Colder Truths
Men don’t talk about hot flashes. Because normally, we don’t have them. But ADT fixes that right up. Picture this: you’re standing in a grocery store, minding your own business in the frozen peas aisle, when suddenly your body attempts to spontaneously combust. Your neck sweats. Your scalp sweats. Your earlobes sweat. You panic—not because it’s dangerous, but because it might happen again in public. You learn to dress in layers like a menopausal spy.

And what of sex? That dear, lost hobby? Sex becomes an anecdote. You remember it fondly, like an old car or a high school band you were once in. The desire doesn’t just vanish—it dissolves. You’d rather alphabetize your spice rack than mount a partner. Erections become as theoretical as time travel. You develop a polite detachment from your genitals. “They're just here for show,” you say, like a man giving a tour of a museum he no longer believes in.

Emotions: Now in Technicolor
And then there are the feelings. Oh, the feelings. Before ADT, I could count my annual cries on one finger—usually triggered by sports losses or dog deaths. Post-ADT? I cried because I saw a pigeon limping. I wept during a pasta commercial. I sobbed when I couldn’t find the other sock. My wife looked concerned. Then amused. Then slightly afraid.

You're no longer “the man of the house.” You’re more like “the man-shaped person who watches bird feeders and talks about feelings with inappropriate intensity.”

The Social Landscape
Explaining this to others is a joyless ritual. "Yes, I'm chemically castrated. No, not voluntarily. Well, sort of. It's for prostate cancer. Yes, still technically a man. No, it doesn’t grow back. Yes, I’m fine. Why do you look like you want to call someone?"

People don’t know where to look. Other men avoid eye contact, lest the condition be contagious. Women offer sympathetic head tilts normally reserved for widows or dogs in wheelchairs. No one knows how to react to a castrated man who isn’t in prison or ancient China.

The Upside, If You Squint
They say chemical castration can lead to a kind of inner peace. I assume they mean the same peace you get when you’ve been lobotomized—there's simply less of you to argue. You don’t want much anymore. You don’t need to win. You’re not aroused. You’re not enraged. You’re just here—a hormonally muted Switzerland with a Costco membership.

And yes, there is some relief in being released from the tyranny of testosterone. You’re not constantly checking your phone for messages that never come, or pretending to enjoy lawn equipment. You're free—liberated from lust, ambition, and body odour.

But let’s not sugarcoat it: if this is the price of surviving prostate cancer, then surviving comes with terms and conditions, footnotes, and a major lifestyle update. And those terms include becoming a softer, sweatier, moodier version of yourself with a reduced interest in everything except napping.

Final Thought:

So here I am—chemically neutered, biologically deflated, but still kicking (gently, and only if stairs aren't involved). I am not “less of a man.” I am a different man. A quieter man. A man who cries at the sound of cello music and owns two kinds of moisturizer.

Would I trade it all to feel like my old self again? Of course.

But until then, I’ll be the bald, mildly tearful sentinel of aisle six. Do say hello. Just don’t touch me—I bruise easily now.