prostate-assay
Yesterday (Wednesday, December 20) was my semi-annual prostate-assay at Urology Associates of Rochester.
Jack-a-Bill have probably had prostate-assays, as have Betty’s Tom and probably Peggy’s Paul — they seem to be only endemic to pants-wearers, since only we have the prostate-gland.
But regrettably mine wasn’t performed by the vauntedly-superior Boston healthcare system; i.e. in a suburban stripmall assembly-line.
And it’s “prostate,” chillens; not “prostrate.” A prostrate-assay could be easy. Jack wouldn’t even have to leave the comfort of his sofa.
All they’d need to do is visit 640 N. Elm St., West Bridgewater, where they’d find my brother prostrate on his couch watching NASCAR on his $7,000 plasma-baby, glomming Cheetos and sucking ‘Dew out of a 55-gallon drum.
“Prostrate-cancer” showed up in an Associated-Press story once at the mighty Mezz.
“What’s prostrate-cancer?” I asked. “Too much lying down?”
All the editors picked it up, and we had a field-day.
“Nice catch, BobbaLew,” said K-man.
This is a lot like my catch of “hammered-dulcimer;” although “hammered-dulcimer” has apparently joined the lexicon next to “hammer-dulcimer.”
“Sounds like the dulcimer is drunk,” I said. A “hammer-dulcimer” relies on tiny hammers to hit the strings, much like a piano.
Urology Associates of Rochester goes back a long way. It’s one of two referrals my towel-head pill-pusher made.
The other was Rochester Cardiopulmonary, where I have done at least two — maybe three — stress-tests.
Rochester Cardiopulmonary is so far away I’m thinking of switching. Urology Associates of Rochester is far too, but not as far.
Plus my doctor at Rochester Cardiopulmonary is a bit off-the-wall; a skinny towel-head obsessed with his skinniness — that all should be as skinny.
The doctor at Urology Associates of Rochester seems to have his feet on-the-ground, a golf-playing honky; more a Lexus-type than a Bimmer.
The Urology Associates of Rochester referral came out of the level of Prostate-Specific-Antigen (PSA) in my blood, which was climbing.
Urology Associates of Rochester did a few PSA-assays, and then decided to do a biopsy. The PSA first came in at 7.7 and then rose to 8.2.
The biopsy wasn’t too bad — tiny tubular needles through your scrotum to sample prostate-tissue.
But after-effects lasted for months: bloody urine and tenderness. I also had to double the antibiotics (to two weeks) to offset infection.
But the biopsy said no cancer.
Six months ago my PSA was 6.2 — ka-ching, ka-ching: “come back in six months.”
Yesterday was 8.0: highish (but not 8.2). No biopsy was advised. “7.7, 8.2, 8.0; maybe this is where you live.”
Internet-research by my wife suggests PSA climbs with age.
At Urology Associates of Rochester I was greeted as I came in by the pretty young brunette receptionist that is smashingly beautiful — same receptionist as last time.
“Can you provide us with a urine-sample?” she demurely asked. I have never yet visited Urology Associates of Rochester without peeing into a cup.
“The rest-rooms are down the hall. Put your sample in the metal transfer window.”
(Just imagine all them technicians awash in pee. Everyone has to provide a sample.)
After doing same, and reading my Classic-Car magazine for about five minutes in the waiting-room watching tiny glittering fish in a HUGE-AHHHHH aquarium (what do they think, seeing all those smelly geezers?), I was led out back into a windowless examination-room.
“What if the power goes?” I always think; “this place doesn’t even have emergency-lights.”
A nurse interviewed me and took my blood-pressure, trying to be perfunctorily cheerful — which means useless yammering about the weather.
She gave me a small slip hawking the fabulous Urology Associates of Rochester web-site (www.urologyrochester.com).
“You can click on this, and that, and then this-and-that; and find all kinds of useful information on your condition.”
“What if I don’t have a computer?” I’m always tempted to ask — but I don’t, because we have two. Sure; recommend your web-site to a smelly old geezer and you’ll get “the look.” (We gave our cellphones to my mother-in-law and Aunt [still alive at that time], and they refused to even look at them. “Ain’t usin’ no cellphone; sure is beyond me. Ne’er-do-wells; we’re part of the greatest generation that ever was. Survived the Dee-pression, and then made the world safe-for-democracy. Why we used to look for enemy planes from the Bath fire-tower. Shouldn’t hafta figure out no cellphone!”)
Finally the doctor came in, dapper in his Izod country-club T-shirt with the miniature embroidered crossed golf-clubs, and he suggested I don't need a biopsy.
But he didn’t leave without goosing me. Never in all my born days have I escaped Urology Associates of Rochester without getting goosed.
For thems unaware of what’s actually happening here, the Doctor dons a latex-glove and then inserts his finger in your rectum to feel your prostate.
“No lumps or bumps,” he said. Ka-ching, ka-ching: “see you in six months.”
Jack-a-Bill have probably had prostate-assays, as have Betty’s Tom and probably Peggy’s Paul — they seem to be only endemic to pants-wearers, since only we have the prostate-gland.
But regrettably mine wasn’t performed by the vauntedly-superior Boston healthcare system; i.e. in a suburban stripmall assembly-line.
And it’s “prostate,” chillens; not “prostrate.” A prostrate-assay could be easy. Jack wouldn’t even have to leave the comfort of his sofa.
All they’d need to do is visit 640 N. Elm St., West Bridgewater, where they’d find my brother prostrate on his couch watching NASCAR on his $7,000 plasma-baby, glomming Cheetos and sucking ‘Dew out of a 55-gallon drum.
“Prostrate-cancer” showed up in an Associated-Press story once at the mighty Mezz.
“What’s prostrate-cancer?” I asked. “Too much lying down?”
All the editors picked it up, and we had a field-day.
“Nice catch, BobbaLew,” said K-man.
This is a lot like my catch of “hammered-dulcimer;” although “hammered-dulcimer” has apparently joined the lexicon next to “hammer-dulcimer.”
“Sounds like the dulcimer is drunk,” I said. A “hammer-dulcimer” relies on tiny hammers to hit the strings, much like a piano.
Urology Associates of Rochester goes back a long way. It’s one of two referrals my towel-head pill-pusher made.
The other was Rochester Cardiopulmonary, where I have done at least two — maybe three — stress-tests.
Rochester Cardiopulmonary is so far away I’m thinking of switching. Urology Associates of Rochester is far too, but not as far.
Plus my doctor at Rochester Cardiopulmonary is a bit off-the-wall; a skinny towel-head obsessed with his skinniness — that all should be as skinny.
The doctor at Urology Associates of Rochester seems to have his feet on-the-ground, a golf-playing honky; more a Lexus-type than a Bimmer.
The Urology Associates of Rochester referral came out of the level of Prostate-Specific-Antigen (PSA) in my blood, which was climbing.
Urology Associates of Rochester did a few PSA-assays, and then decided to do a biopsy. The PSA first came in at 7.7 and then rose to 8.2.
The biopsy wasn’t too bad — tiny tubular needles through your scrotum to sample prostate-tissue.
But after-effects lasted for months: bloody urine and tenderness. I also had to double the antibiotics (to two weeks) to offset infection.
But the biopsy said no cancer.
Six months ago my PSA was 6.2 — ka-ching, ka-ching: “come back in six months.”
Yesterday was 8.0: highish (but not 8.2). No biopsy was advised. “7.7, 8.2, 8.0; maybe this is where you live.”
Internet-research by my wife suggests PSA climbs with age.
At Urology Associates of Rochester I was greeted as I came in by the pretty young brunette receptionist that is smashingly beautiful — same receptionist as last time.
“Can you provide us with a urine-sample?” she demurely asked. I have never yet visited Urology Associates of Rochester without peeing into a cup.
“The rest-rooms are down the hall. Put your sample in the metal transfer window.”
(Just imagine all them technicians awash in pee. Everyone has to provide a sample.)
After doing same, and reading my Classic-Car magazine for about five minutes in the waiting-room watching tiny glittering fish in a HUGE-AHHHHH aquarium (what do they think, seeing all those smelly geezers?), I was led out back into a windowless examination-room.
“What if the power goes?” I always think; “this place doesn’t even have emergency-lights.”
A nurse interviewed me and took my blood-pressure, trying to be perfunctorily cheerful — which means useless yammering about the weather.
She gave me a small slip hawking the fabulous Urology Associates of Rochester web-site (www.urologyrochester.com).
“You can click on this, and that, and then this-and-that; and find all kinds of useful information on your condition.”
“What if I don’t have a computer?” I’m always tempted to ask — but I don’t, because we have two. Sure; recommend your web-site to a smelly old geezer and you’ll get “the look.” (We gave our cellphones to my mother-in-law and Aunt [still alive at that time], and they refused to even look at them. “Ain’t usin’ no cellphone; sure is beyond me. Ne’er-do-wells; we’re part of the greatest generation that ever was. Survived the Dee-pression, and then made the world safe-for-democracy. Why we used to look for enemy planes from the Bath fire-tower. Shouldn’t hafta figure out no cellphone!”)
Finally the doctor came in, dapper in his Izod country-club T-shirt with the miniature embroidered crossed golf-clubs, and he suggested I don't need a biopsy.
But he didn’t leave without goosing me. Never in all my born days have I escaped Urology Associates of Rochester without getting goosed.
For thems unaware of what’s actually happening here, the Doctor dons a latex-glove and then inserts his finger in your rectum to feel your prostate.
“No lumps or bumps,” he said. Ka-ching, ka-ching: “see you in six months.”
posted by BobbaLew at 10:14 AM
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