"Our final stage of psychosocial development takes us from 65 years of age to death – known as maturity.
This stage is one of reflection. We slow down, are less productive, and spend time reviewing our accomplishments throughout life.
Success is in the belief that we have achieved our goals and found happiness, leading to the feeling of integrity, “a sense of coherence and wholeness”. We feel we have achieved much and are ready to meet our end with a sense of peace. Success leads to the virtue of wisdom – a sense of completeness.
On the other hand, failure may be experienced as despair and regret over things not done, completed, or mistakes made. We are bitter about the past and present, frightened about coming to the end of our life without a sense of having lived well."
I fit within the Success category. I've had a wonderful 78 years during which I've done everything I wanted to do, even having a successful marriage with a woman anyone would be proud to call their wife, and two great children. I've numerous friends and met thousands of wonderful people.
So, when I was diagnosed with advanced prostate cancer (level 9 of 10 on the Gleeson Scale) in December 2024, I wasn't surprised having already had a couple of issues indicating that something was wrong with my urology. My urologist told me there were many excellent treatments for cancer, especially prostate cancer, and not to rush off and write my will. (I already had one!). After reading some research on prostate cancer (PC), I realised how fortunate I was not to have had one of the much worse cancers like breast or pancreatic cancer.
I decided to remain positive, to follow the various treatments recommended by my oncology specialist and see what eventuated. No point in becoming depressed.
Before being diagnosed with PC I had suffered at least 10 months of grueling back and upper right thigh leg pain. I had to stop going to the gym three times per week and was living on pain-killing drugs. I booked an appointment with an exercise physiologist after a doctor had told me my pain was "probably arthritis and I'd just have to grin and bear it."
Several sessions with the physiologist didn't achieve anything, so I gave that away and just continued taking daily painkillers, eventually being told the only one that really worked - ibuprofen - was something I shouldn't take and having to drop it. Such is life.
Eventually, I experienced a blockage of the prostate that prevented me from urinating, so I presented at the local hospital to get catheterised - a new experience I would have liked to avoid, but couldn't.
Aside: Having a urethra that went through the middle of the prostate seemed to me to be another example of evolutionary or intelligent design failure.
A couple of days later my wife who has had plenty of experience inserting and retrieving catheters, took mine out and I could suddenly piddle like a draught horse again - thank goodness.
This was the event that had my GP put me immediately on tablets to shrink the prostate, arrange an appointment with a urologist, and within a week or two I had had a CAT scan, ultrasound, MRI scan and a PET scan, the latter that identified the cancer that had spread everywhere from the prostate.
Interestingly, when I began taking the prostate tablets, my pain disappeared almost immediately.
By the end of the week I was in hospital for a biopsy and TURP (trans urethral resection of the prostate), something like a valve grind and decoke. Neither sounded like a lot of fun, but fortunately, I was knocked out by an anesthetist and didn't feel or see a thing.
Shortly after, I commenced six rounds of chemotherapy and a change in drugs, including a three monthly sub-cutaneous injection that works in conjunction with some tablets designed to kill off my testosterone that was said to be feeding the cancer.
During the first chemotherapy round, I experienced a reaction that felt to me like I was having a massive heart attack, but the excellent medical staff pulled me out of it after a short while and reduced the input rate of the poison they'd been dripping into my veins.
The following five chemotherapy sessions at three week intervals were much more relaxed since the oncologist had prescribed some pre-meds designed to prevent reactions.
After chemo session three, my hair began to fall out, so I decided to have it cut short and I began having some side effects, the worst of which was terrible fatigue and exhaustion. Just having a shower or getting dressed knocked me about so much I'd have to lie or sit down for a while to recover.
As I write, it's a week after the end of chemo session six and I'm still feeling exhausted occasionally, but I feel I'm getting better.
Tomorrow I have a CAT scan to see what the outcome of my treatment is and I discuss that at the end of the week with my oncologist. There are several options and I'll just have to accept the one that nature has presented me with.
Whatever the outcome, I am grateful for the wonderful life I am having.
"Per Ardua Ad Astra"
