According to the Social Security Administration’s records, if you are a male who was born in early 1950s, there’s a decent chance your name is James, Michael or Thomas. And if you’re a James, Michael, Thomas or any other birth name from that era, there’s a good chance you or one of your 50- or 60-something golf buddies will eventually be diagnosed with prostate cancer.
The National Cancer Institute estimates there will be 217,730 newly diagnosed cases of this uniquely male disease in 2010. Approximately 32,050 men will die from prostate cancer this year. For reasons yet to be determined by the medical community, African-American males are twice as likely to receive this troubling diagnosis than any other ethnic group in the U.S.
Last month, President Obama issued a proclamation designating September as National Prostate Cancer Awareness Month.
Cancer doesn’t care about age or gender, nor does it care about ethnic background or income. It’s an equal opportunity disease. It’s the ultimate reality check — once given the diagnosis, it’s in your face. Like a cranky boss, it’s constantly there to remind you that your workload isn’t about to let up, and if anything, it’s about to grow immeasurably more difficult.
I know this because on June 10, my doctor phoned me with the results of my biopsy, “Mr. Cuttita, the biopsy shows that of the 12 core samples we took from your prostate, cancer is present in nine of them. I’m sorry to give you this disturbing news.”
In that dark and lonely moment, I felt as though I was the only person in the world to have ever been diagnosed with cancer. Fear and confusion rained down on me, my mind went blank. For the next several days, I tried to navigate my way through a dense fog of despair.
As the shock wore off and the fog lifted, I realized there was work to be done — challenging work. I was about to get an education I had hoped I would never need. An informed support system was critical to my well being, so I reached out. After a desperate phone call to the American Cancer Society, I was given the phone number of a gentleman who facilitates a support group of men who had already been down the road I was about to travel.
The guidance and reassurance I received from this community of brave and determined men has been crucial in my journey. The openness I shared with these warriors was unfamiliar to me, yet refreshing. My experience has been that men’s relationships with each other tend to be superficial, centered around the details of life, not the substance. Cancer changes that; it creates an emotional bond and a willingness to share. Suddenly my healthy guy friends realized this could be their own fate. My journey became their journey. Self-advocacy and a good support system, medical and otherwise, are vitally important at a time like this.
Had I not been diligent about getting annual physicals my disease might have slipped under the radar because prostate cancer has no symptoms; and when symptoms do manifest themselves, it may be too late.
In the absence of a just and equitable health care system too many are left with clinics, health fairs, and charitable organizations. Valuable resources all, but no substitute for the best medical care money can buy — or the robotically assisted da Vinci Surgical System, which will be used to remove my cancerous prostate on Oct. 13.
President Obama signed into law a watered-down version of health care reform, and the reactionaries went apoplectic. If we can’t agree on how health care should be managed or delivered, surely we can set aside our differences to raise awareness and support research of prostate cancer — and all other diseases that cut across socio-economic and political boundaries.
Thanks to a network of supportive family and friends, and a top-flight medical team, I expect to make a full recovery.
Thom Cuttita (thom@cuttita.net) was a member of the 2000 Colorado Voices panel. He blogs at .
