Well that’s just super…

C is for…

So, turns out I have cancer. How fucking great is that.

As I keep telling people though, it’s the good type though, so not to worry. It’s a bit like the good type of Aids, you know., the sort you get from a blood transfusion and not from a prison gang bang. The sort that you die with, and not from, the sort that you don’t even get your life insurance to pay out on so you can go to Vegas, because your cancer isn’t cancerous enough. The sort that you get to tell fun stories about apparently, because apparently, cancer is a laughing matter.

You know the sort.

I found out a few months ago. I’d just had my annual medical, and that includes the usual rummage around in my arse to check my prostate, and having recently hit 50 they throw in a PSA blood test to check the same. I remember coming home and telling Mrs Afterwards about how the Doc had said that should there be any issues with the PSA test I may need further tests and procedures, and then – with the sort of pleasure that made me think some chap may have recently wronged her romantically, perhaps with her sister or best friend – she explained in great detail how awful these procedures were and how they could ultimately lead to sepsis of the arse and that would be a truly awful experience.

About a week later I was out walking the dog in the snow and she left me a voicemail explaining that I needed to call back. Well you can imagine the thoughts running through my head, most of which involved her slapping my exposed ass as I was bent over a table and telling me, “Yup, you have arse sepsis sir, and all men are pigs!”

Anyway, I don’t have arse sepsis and most men are pigs, but after an MRI scan, loads more curious rummaging in my bottom (by a specialist rummager this time though) and being put into a medieval torture device – of which I will likely write about another time – and having the aforementioned specialist take a shit ton of samples from my prostate, it turns out I have a mild case of cancer.

I’m mostly ok about it I think. Told the kids, and as my wife and I predicted, the youngest worried and the eldest started to laugh. Eldest has this weird nervous laughter thing when it comes to death and misery. At least I think its that. He might just be a monster. He did recently ask if it was contagious, though it turns out he meant hereditary. This was realised too late to avoid a conversation about me shooting cancer jizz. Mrs Afterwards was horrified and then forced to introduce a rule that forbids anyone in the household from using the phrase ‘cancer jizz’. Especially over dinner.

I will be having more bloods this week to see how things are looking as the prognosis is really good and there are no plans to treat it yet, with the side effects of the treatment being wholly worse than the disease right now. So that’s a good thing.

Then again, what’s worse than arse sepsis and cancer jizz, right. Actually they sound like really shit superheroes don’t they.

Anyway, so that’s what’s been happening here. Life eh.