Prostate cancer, taking a leak and being a man

I see you, fear
For the next few days, I maintain my upbeat outward demeanor. Inside, uncertainty bats at me like a cat with a toy. I even suffer a fair amount of shame for thinking that I am greedy to not only want to stay alive, but also to continue to have sex and be “dry,” in the jargon of urologists. My thoughts bog down and I find it hard to move forward in considering treatment options.

A previously planned mountaineering trip looms on the calendar and I tell my partner that I am unsure if I can make it. The excuses flow. I haven’t trained, I haven’t checked the gear, we have no trailhead accommodations, I don’t deserve it. Worst of all, I am afraid that if I try to climb this peak and fail, it will be some kind of grim curse on the coming battle.

Kindly, calmly, wisely, she tells me that she’ll handle the logistics. “All you have to do is climb the mountain, and I have absolutely no doubts that you can do it.”

Previous encounters with fear have set me up pretty well for some of what I’m going through. Another wise friend taught me that simply acknowledging fear, recognizing that I am afraid, is a great start. From her, I learned to say, “Hell-oooo, fear! I see you! How ya doin’?”

And I imagine that it is an object somewhere in my head, a smooth, three-dimensional stone that I can send my little remote-controlled mental cameras around from all angles. And I study it. And that’s it. This doesn’t make the fear go away, but it lets me accept it, it lets me know it. And this is calming, which is way better than the throat-gripping, mind-racing, ear-ringing alternative.

“Hell-oooo, fear!” I say, and pack my gear.

Sign up for alerts on the series.

A week to the day after my diagnosis, I find myself struggling up the slopes of Oregon’s Mount Hood. It’s a crisp morning in early May. Drifting cirrus clouds glow tepidly above the peak in the mounting dawn. I follow in my partner’s steps, imagining that she is my doctor and her boots are stomping on my cancer cells, her crampons ripping them from the healthy tissue and grinding them deep below the surface of clean crunchy snow.

The final chute is treacherously icy and fear wells up high in my chest as I carefully plant my ice ax, knowing that a slip here could easily be fatal. But we also need to move as briskly and decisively as we can, to get out from under the overhanging cornices and away from a potential traffic jam of other climbers.

Test yourself What's your risk for prostate cancer?

“Hell-oooo, fear,” I whisper.

We clear the chute and trudge up one last slope to the 11,249-foot summit and the sunrise. It is breathtaking. The emotions of the last seven days roll over me all at once. Behind my sunglasses, I cry and cry, fat manly tears rolling down my cheeks until I taste the salt.

MSNBC.com writer Mike Stuckey was diagnosed with prostate cancer in April. He will chronicle his battle in "Low Blow," a series appearing every other Wednesday. In the next installment, Mike checks out his options and wrestles with their consequences.

MORE FROM HEALTH

Health Section Front

It's down to the final four on 'Biggest Loser' Being thankful ... you’re not like mom and dad Woman meets the stranger who saved her life 6 tips for overcoming holiday diet fears   One girl’s wish for an organ transplant   Supporting St. Jude’s Children Hospital   Getting out of a workout rut Holiday gatherings could spread swine flu   Women bare all for prostate cancer Gasp! Babies’ fat rolls being airbrushed away? Health Section Front   Add Health headlines to your news reader: