My Own Ultimate Mulligan
It was February 23, 2012. 2:15 p.m. My wife and I sat nervously in the small exam room—waiting.
Dr. Smith (not his real name) opened the door abruptly and rushed into the room, while blurting out, “Well, you have cancer.” After which the door closed behind him.
Since being rejected for a life insurance application some six months earlier, I actually expected this outcome. For what quickly followed, however, I found myself ill prepared.
“You’ll need to have this prostate removed within four weeks! But first, we need to get you a nuclear bone scan and some other tests, just to be sure this hasn’t spread.”
“But, Dr. Smith,” I stammered, “didn’t you just tell me during the biopsy last week that at my age (53) I should be considering radiation rather than surgery?”
“That was before we had a solid diagnosis. Standard protocol is removal no longer than four weeks from diagnosis. If you want the robot, I could sure use the practice.” Translation: I am a surgeon with very limited experience and don’t get compensated if you have radiation.
All I could think was, ‘wow!’
I really did expect this diagnosis—really—and felt quite calm in the face of the big ‘C’, but this sales job was just a little too much to absorb.
My response (and I think I was civil in my delivery): “We’ll need some time to process this before making any rash decisions.”
The coming weeks found me the recipient of abdominal and pelvic CT scans and a whole body bone scan (the nuclear variety). With those results in hand I made appointments with two different Radiation Oncologists. The first one was quite anxious to have me start radiation therapy right away. The second one, from the Huntsman Cancer Institute, smiled and calmly said, “With this pathology (one minute sample of cancer cells out of 12 core samples) and a PSA level barely above 4.0, there is no compelling reason to take drastic measures at all just yet. Has your Urologist mentioned active surveillance as a viable option?”
“No, sir. I learned about that option on the internet.”
“All I ask,” he continued, “is that, if you take my medical advice to watch and wait, then be sure to have quarterly PSA results submitted directly to me.”
By early August, a friend referred me to a different urologist. Dr. Jones (not his real name, either, in fairness to Dr. Smith) and I had much in common (age, ecclesiastical responsibilities, a deep interest in basketball, to name a few) and hit it off quite well. By October of the following year the PSA had eclipsed 10.0 and Dr. Jones figured he’d humored me long enough. So, he called and told me that it was time for action.
Two days later we met face to face in serious consultation. “Doc,” I said, “knowing what you know, if you were sitting in my chair, what would you do?”
Without a moment’s hesitation he replied, “I’d have my partner do it.” Dr. Jones stands six feet five inches tall and can easily palm a basketball. His old school scalpel-via-the-perineum (where the person meets the saddle) method has certain drawbacks. His partner, 15 years our junior, was the top expert in the state in the use of the DaVinci robot and had tremendous results. In a split second while eyeing hands the size of catcher’s mitts and realizing where the perineum actually was, I agreed to meet with Dr. Younger (not his real name, either).
The handoff was complete and my date with DaVinci was set for December 13, 2013. That it was a Friday had not occurred to me. It was simply the first available date on his schedule where I could be the first victim, er, patient. Besides my only real superstition has always been to not step on the baselines while heading from the dugout to the field and vice versa. After all, they were only to be stepped on while actually running the bases.
Other than two bouts of bladder cramps (5-10 times worse than passing a kidney stone) in the days following the surgery, my Mulligan was soon complete. My first half-day back on the job was December 31. By January 2, 2014, I was working full days and attending to all of my ecclesiastical duties (I was serving at the time as the bishop of a Young Single Adult ward in the LDS Church).
It’s hard to pinpoint the exact source of this Mulligan. A highly skilled surgeon, multi-million dollar equipment, 150 or so congregants fasting and praying for my recovery, or perhaps even the patented and clinically proven vitamins that I faithfully consume twice each day. While a likely beneficiary of the aggregate impact of all of the above, in my heart I attribute my full recovery and continued status as cancer-free to the Ultimate Mulligan Giver, my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
That is certainly not to imply that others who contract cancer and do not survive are not equally precious and watched over by a loving Heavenly Father. I have been extremely blessed to be given a second chance. And what did I do with this Mulligan to improve my life going forward? The next year I lost almost 50 pounds! But that, my friends, is another Mulligan story for another day…
A Friendly Word of Caution: If you are a male over the age of 40, have a waist line of 37 inches or more, or have a history of prostate cancer in your family (this is a hint for my own sons), please get your PSA tested regularly.
