Wrote this today

YOU'LL DIE OF SOMETHING ELSE
In January 2024, fate threw me a curveball. What began as a routine blood test became an unexpected expedition to discover why my prostate had suddenly become the most interesting organ in my body. A parade of increasingly invasive tests followed, each one probing a little deeper, literally and figuratively, until I finally got my diagnosis.
I sat anxiously in the oncologist's office. He introduced himself as Rusty.
Rusty.
Not exactly the name you expect from the guy responsible for keeping you alive. It sounded more like an old pickup truck than a medical specialist. Fortunately, his credentials were in much better shape than his name.
"Dr. Rusty, do I have prostate cancer?"
"Yes."
"Is it aggressive?"
"Yes."
"Is it localized?"
"Yes, as far as we can tell. We can treat it with the goal of curing it or at least managing it successfully for a long time. You'll die of something else."
You'll die of something else?
Not exactly the five words I was hoping to hear.
As treatment unfolded, I heard those words over and over again. They came from oncologists, urologists, radiation specialists, my family doctor, and seasoned prostate cancer survivors online. After a while, I half expected to find them embroidered on the disposable paper pillow in the waiting room.
You'll die of something else.
It really ought to be the official slogan for prostate cancer.
Hallmark hasn't embraced it yet. Apparently, Thinking of You... You'll Die of Something Else didn't survive the focus group. It doesn't look great on a sympathy card, and it would make an awkward coffee mug.
The phrase is both comforting and mildly terrifying.
On one hand, it's excellent news.
On the other, my brain never waits for the last three words.
You'll die...
That's where it stops listening.
Immediately in my mind I'm updating my will, organizing passwords, deleting my browser history, and deciding who gets my golf clubs and coin collection.
Then the doctor finishes the sentence.
...of something else.
Oh.
So I'm still going to die, just not from prostate cancer.
Apparently, that's considered excellent news.
To be fair, it is. The doctors told me the odds were in my favor, treatment was likely to work, and prostate cancer probably wouldn't be what took me out.
Still, it's an odd sales pitch.
Most diseases promise misery.
Prostate cancer says, "Relax. Something else will get you."
It's a strange kind of optimism, a reminder that none of us gets out alive. But with a little luck, a lot of modern medicine, and a determined oncologist named Rusty, my prostate won't get the satisfaction of winning.
__________________
After months of treatment, I returned for a follow-up appointment. This time, we weren't talking about whether I would live.
We were talking about what living would feel like.
"Is decreased libido a typical side effect of my treatment?"
"Yes. Once you're finished with hormone suppression, it should return to normal in about a year. Frustrating, but it won't kill you."
"How about the weight gain? Especially around the middle?"
"Exercise and diet can help. It isn't fatal."
"What about breast tenderness and swelling? I almost need a training bra. "
"Another effect of the hormone therapy. It should resolve after treatment. You won't die from it."
"And the hot flashes?"
"Same reason."
"Are there heart risks?"
"Yes. We'll keep an eye on those."
An eye? I thought. I'd prefer two.
"My fatigue is pretty bad."
Rusty nodded sympathetically. Then he glanced at his watch. He'd probably heard this conversation a thousand times. I took the hint and decided to get everything on the table.
"Just so we're keeping score, I have bowel issues, urinary issues, depression, muscle loss, leg edema, shortness of breath, pelvic pain, anemia, and my A1C is climbing."
"They're all recognized side effects," he said. "Your family doctor can help manage many of them."
He stood, shook my hand, and headed for the door.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he smiled.
"Remember... you'll die of something else."
I sat there for a moment.
Every symptom I'd listed came with the same reassuring disclaimer.
"It won't kill you."
Apparently, once you've been told your cancer probably won't be fatal, everything else is just housekeeping.
Well, my house is in disorder. At this rate, I don't think I'll die of one thing.
My ‘something else’ will be death by a thousand side effects.
But if that day is still a long way off, I'll happily put my trust in the Rust that keeps reminding me I'll die of something else.