Hismones 07/31/25 "Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow"

Well, I was expecting to have another PSA test done July 22 and follow-up appointment with radiation oncologist July 29, but apparently I have been transferred across the hall to the surgical oncologist/hormone therapy specialist who can't see me very soon. I was scheduled to meet with him September 9, but we will be out of town. My next PSA will be September 2 and I'll know the results a few days later, but I won't be seeing this specialist until November. If the test results aren't as expected, that will likely change. Now, back to the blogpost title: every bit of body hair below my neckline is reverting to childhood. It's the strangest thing: head hair and shaving are remaining as normal, but all (and I mean, ALL) of my hair from arms, chest, abdomen, thighs and legs is becoming "peach fuzz." I suppose that's another result of having no Testosterone, including some very appreciated body parts shrinking back more like they were when I was 12. If I remain on hormone therapy for the full recommended two years, I read that I have about a 50/50 chance of life returning to normal afterward. This week following vacation, I've returned to a regular exercise regimen, and that helps a bit with energy levels. I repaired a leaky toilet, unstuck a door latch, and am about halfway to a cooling fan solution for our daughter's Miata. Last weekend, though, edging front and back yard and washing my wife's car apparently were a bit too much for one day. I continue to have urinary and bowel urgency/frequency issues and have been prescribed a new medication (generic for Mybetriq) that will hopefully reduce my getting up four times nightly. Imodium helps me ge through mornings that typically include three serious bathroom visits, starting about as fast as I can get to a bathroom when first waking up. PT is progressing well following June's hand surgery and I've been allowed to use a topical NSAID for pain despite taking Eliquis. Hormone therapy is no joke, but I read about more severe treatments others receive for more immediately life-threatening cancers. My next medical event is a Calcium chest scan Monday (outside insurance) to determine what heart-related arterial blockage I may have. This test may simply provide a baseline or it may suggest additional treatment. I'm not having concerning symptoms at this point. Thanks for reading and for joining me in prayer through this journey!

07/22/25 I wish I had written this!

"Fifty Shades of Beige: How to deal with Your Chemically Castrated Mate," copied from a prostate cancer support group post: "Let’s begin with a truth bomb that should come with its own trigger warning: once you’re chemically castrated, you don't "feel like less of a man"—you feel like a retired man who's been laid off by his own body and wasn't even offered a cardboard box for his desk stuff. There’s no farewell party. No watch. Just a needle and the distant sound of your libido packing its bags and slamming the door on the way out. Welcome to Androgen Deprivation Therapy—ADT to its friends (which are few). In my case, it's Firmagon. Sounds like a medieval battle axe, works like a medieval curse. One shot a month and you too can enter the exciting new realm of hormonal flatlining. It's not just chemical castration—it’s a metaphysical rebranding. One minute you're a man; the next, you're a slightly puffy, mildly weepy, heat-flushing human marshmallow who cries at dog food commercials and can no longer remember why he ever liked breasts. The Shriveling Let’s be anatomically specific, shall we? The testicles don’t hurt, per se. They retreat. Like war criminals going into hiding. They sense the hormonal apocalypse and evacuate the premises. You find yourself peeing like a sad bishop and adjusting your pants with the hollow knowledge that there’s less and less reason to do so. Muscle tone vanishes. Your biceps, once mildly competent, now feel like overripe bananas. Your jawline begins to resemble a melted candle. Body hair gives up entirely. You become… smooth. Not “ooh-la-la smooth,” but wax museum smooth, with all the sexual charisma of a lightly used sponge. Hot Flashes and Colder Truths Men don’t talk about hot flashes. Because normally, we don’t have them. But ADT fixes that right up. Picture this: you’re standing in a grocery store, minding your own business in the frozen peas aisle, when suddenly your body attempts to spontaneously combust. Your neck sweats. Your scalp sweats. Your earlobes sweat. You panic—not because it’s dangerous, but because it might happen again in public. You learn to dress in layers like a menopausal spy. And what of sex? That dear, lost hobby? Sex becomes an anecdote. You remember it fondly, like an old car or a high school band you were once in. The desire doesn’t just vanish—it dissolves. You’d rather alphabetize your spice rack than mount a partner. Erections become as theoretical as time travel. You develop a polite detachment from your genitals. “They're just here for show,” you say, like a man giving a tour of a museum he no longer believes in. Emotions: Now in Technicolor And then there are the feelings. Oh, the feelings. Before ADT, I could count my annual cries on one finger—usually triggered by sports losses or dog deaths. Post-ADT? I cried because I saw a pigeon limping. I wept during a pasta commercial. I sobbed when I couldn’t find the other sock. My wife looked concerned. Then amused. Then slightly afraid. You're no longer “the man of the house.” You’re more like “the man-shaped person who watches bird feeders and talks about feelings with inappropriate intensity.” The Social Landscape Explaining this to others is a joyless ritual. "Yes, I'm chemically castrated. No, not voluntarily. Well, sort of. It's for prostate cancer. Yes, still technically a man. No, it doesn’t grow back. Yes, I’m fine. Why do you look like you want to call someone?" People don’t know where to look. Other men avoid eye contact, lest the condition be contagious. Women offer sympathetic head tilts normally reserved for widows or dogs in wheelchairs. No one knows how to react to a castrated man who isn’t in prison or ancient China. The Upside, If You Squint They say chemical castration can lead to a kind of inner peace. I assume they mean the same peace you get when you’ve been lobotomized—there's simply less of you to argue. You don’t want much anymore. You don’t need to win. You’re not aroused. You’re not enraged. You’re just here—a hormonally muted Switzerland with a Costco membership. And yes, there is some relief in being released from the tyranny of testosterone. You’re not constantly checking your phone for messages that never come, or pretending to enjoy lawn equipment. You're free—liberated from lust, ambition, and body odour. But let’s not sugarcoat it: if this is the price of surviving prostate cancer, then surviving comes with terms and conditions, footnotes, and a major lifestyle update. And those terms include becoming a softer, sweatier, moodier version of yourself with a reduced interest in everything except napping. Final Thought: So here I am—chemically neutered, biologically deflated, but still kicking (gently, and only if stairs aren't involved). I am not “less of a man.” I am a different man. A quieter man. A man who cries at the sound of cello music and owns two kinds of moisturizer. Would I trade it all to feel like my old self again? Of course. But until then, I’ll be the bald, mildly tearful sentinel of aisle six. Do say hello. Just don’t touch me—I bruise easily now." Now, my next PSA/Testosterone blood test? This Thursday, 7/24