The man, the prostate, and his wife

Having prostate cancer is already an all-you-can-endure buffet of indignity. But being married to a psychologist while having prostate cancer? That’s the prix fixe tasting menu of Freudian hell—complete with diagnosis, interpretation, and a side of "How did that make you *feel*?"

In most marriages, when a man becomes hormonally neutered by Firmagon and starts sobbing uncontrollably during toilet paper commercials, the wife expresses concern, makes tea, and perhaps calls the oncologist. Mine, however, nods solemnly and murmurs, “Interesting… Tell me more about your father.”

You see, when your spouse is trained in the delicate art of dissecting your psyche like it’s a frog in an undergrad lab, you don’t just *have* cancer. No, no. You *are becoming* cancer. Your tumor has meaning. Your cribriform pattern is a repressed cry for the validation you never received when you got second place in the school science fair in 1967. Your Gleason 7? A textbook case of unresolved castration anxiety. The metaphor writes itself—and then it analyzes your handwriting for narcissistic traits.

The great thing about being married to a psychologist is that nothing is ever just a thing. Hot flashes? “Somatic displacement of emotional trauma.” Night sweats? “Your body metabolizing suppressed grief.” That small moment where you yell at the microwave for blinking 12:00 again? “Transference.” To the microwave. Obviously.

But the real gift—the golden Freudian ticket—is the permission, nay, the clinical *encouragement* to blame everything on your father.

Low testosterone? "Well, your father *was* emotionally unavailable."

Loss of libido? "Sounds like paternal over-control in your formative years."

Crippling fear of dying alone in a hospital while being wheeled past your own urologist who doesn’t recognize you? "Classic unresolved father wound."

It’s beautiful. Elegant, even. Every symptom, every awkward side effect, every petty outburst or existential spiral—wrapped up in a neat DSM-compatible bow and tossed at the feet of dear old Dad. A man who, in fairness, was mostly just trying to survive two wars, pay off a mortgage, and raise a son without the benefit of mindfulness journaling or artisanal oat milk.

I now understand that my prostate cancer is not a random biological betrayal but a psychosomatic love letter from my repressed inner child. Or something. I tuned out halfway through her TED Talk on epigenetics and attachment theory. But the upshot is: I’m not responsible. Dad is. Or possibly his dad. Either way, it’s generational trauma, not metastatic spread.

In the oncology world, you get used to words like “control,” “management,” “response.” In marriage to a psychologist, the words shift: “process,” “explore,” “reframe.” At night, while I Google survival curves, she gently asks, “What story are you telling yourself about your body right now?” To which I usually reply, “That it’s actively trying to kill me.”

But there’s comfort in this too. Because when your world collapses into blood tests, bone scans, and existential dread, there’s something strangely stabilizing about being with someone who insists there’s *meaning* in all this mess. Even if the meaning is that you have now fully become your father, right down to the enlarged prostate and the quiet panic.

So here I am—cancerous, cranky, chemically castrated—but free. Free to feel, to weep, to rage, and to squarely blame every physical and psychological hiccup on the man who once told me “real men don’t cry.”

He was wrong, of course. Real men *do* cry. Especially when their PSA hits double digits. Especially when the psychologist they married is sitting beside them with a knowing smile, a therapeutic tone, and a diagnostic code already queued up.

And in that moment, prostate cancer isn’t just a disease. It’s a catharsis. A diagnosis. And—if you're married to the right psychologist—a teachable moment about your father.

Bless him.