"You have a serious health issue that we need to discuss", said Dr. Michael Lyons as I walked in to his Glenside office on February 28 for, what I thought was going to be, my annual routine physical.

Those few words stunned me, eventually rearranged my life and sent me on a seven-month physical and emotional journey that I had never even considered before.

Most people take good health for granted. You live each day as if you are immortal. In my life I have been in the hospital overnight just twice. Once when I was five to have my tonsils removed, once 20 years ago for a double hernia. I don't like hospitals. I don't even like to visit them when somebody else is sick.

In preparation for my regular annual physical Dr. Lyons had sent me to have a series of blood tests at Abington Hospital the week before.

My relationship with Dr. Lyons goes back many years. My relationship with his office goes back further. As a small child Dr. Karl Mayer treated me from that office at 255 N. Easton Rd. in Glenside. Later on, from that office, Dr. Mayer's nephew Donald treated my family and me. And then, Dr. Lyons succeeded Dr. Don in the practice and became both our family physician and friend.

I always look forward to my checkups with him. They are usually lighthearted and carefree but this day he met me in the hallway and told me that he wanted to discuss "a serious health issue" with me. Oh boy.

I really never have had a serious health issue before so I wasn't very good at anticipating what was coming next. He cut right to the chase. In my series of tests was a PSA (prostate-specific antigen) test for prostate cancer. The prostate is walnut-sized gland that makes a fluid that is part of semen. The normal reading is 4.0, mine was 4.9. (The last time it was taken, two years ago, it was 2.9.) He told me that I might have prostate cancer or it might simply be an enlarged prostate. He told me that regardless of what I was doing the next day I had to stop doing it and plan on seeing Dr. John Mandler at Suburban Urological at 2:15 PM.

I was not emotionally prepared to learn that I might have prostate cancer. No one ever wants to hear that dreaded word in a sentence that has to do with him or her. It is the great unknown. But once I was faced with it I hit it head on. In this series I will detail how someone, like me, dealt with the news, researched my options and successfully battled the fears and uncertainty sparked by the most dreaded six-letter word in our vocabulary.

Some of my closest friends tried to discourage me from writing this. They said I'd be exposing myself to the public. That people would "know my business". But I finally decided to write this because it might help someone else deal with it. And despite all of the research I did, I was never able to find a single first-hand account of how someone like me handled this.

My wife Cindy has been a rock of support. She lost her Mother to lung cancer a few years ago and I was afraid of how she'd react when I told her of my problem, but she handled it in such a supportive way and was all for me putting my thoughts down on paper. My three sons - who now have to face the fact that, besides my baseball card collection, they might inherit this - have been very strong and caring supporters. My daughter probably took it the hardest, but she's the baby of the family and didn't want her Daddy to be sick.

Prostate Cancer is not selective. It strikes males, mostly over 50, and anyone it pleases. No one is even sure what causes it. New York Yankee manager Joe Torre has had it and has an informative website. On that site and he reflects on how he and his wife dealt with the news and faced adversity together. But Joe's a celebrity and his issues were a little different than mine - at least that's what I got out of his writings. Charlton Heston had it recently (Moses, imagine that) and former Felipe Alou another former baseball star and manager has dealt with it in the recent past. And, as the months unfolded, I found out that a staggering number of average guys, like me, are dealing with it or will be facing it shortly.

On the day Dr. Lyons told me of my potential problem he also told me lots of other things I needed to know. I didn't remember any of them. Not after hearing the word "Cancer". That's the kind of a word that shuts down your brain. My mind went in to over-drive. My Father had died of "Cancer" in 1949 at age 42. That was what I was thinking. Oh brother, I'm doomed and I'm not ready to be doomed. I have too many things to do.

Prostate cancer is found most often in men over 50. More than 80 per cent of those with prostate cancer are over age 65 (I'm 60, same age as Joe Torre was when he discovered it). They will diagnose 180,000 new cases of prostate cancer each year and the disease will claim 30,000 annually. It is the second leading cause of cancer death for men in this country, which is why early detection is so important.

Right after dropping that news on me Dr. Lyons took my blood pressure. It was through the roof. He mentioned that it was "a little high". I said it was a wonder his equipment counted that high. I don't deal well - blood pressure wise - with stress. My dentist, for example, refuses to take my blood pressure anymore.

The very next day I visited with Dr. John I. "Jack" Mandler who is one of the top urologists in the country. Dr. Mandler is a surgeon and Dr. Lyons had told me that surgery was the best bet if it was, indeed, prostate cancer. I dreaded the "s" (surgery) word almost as much as the "c" word (cancer).

Twenty-plus years ago Dr. Mandler removed my wife's kidney stone, so we had a bit of family history with him. Dr. Mandler is noted for being gruff and to the point. He comes by the reputation honestly. We chatted at some length. He told me about prostate cancer and how if mine was cancerous we had found it very, very early (just .9 over normal). He said the best way to find out was by taking a biopsy and he slated that for the following week.

Later that day Dr. Lyons called me on the phone and told me all the things that "he knew I hadn't heard" when I was in the office the day before. Among them he mentioned the possibility of treating this with radiation and told me that I had a lot of options and mentioned, again, "this will not be what kills you." He also repeated what he had told me in his office. It might be ten years before I even had any symptoms that men over 70 with other health problems seldom even get treated for it and, finally, more men die with it later in life than from it. He is a special doctor.

The biopsy was to be performed in Dr. Mandler's Abington Hospital office a week later. He told me that it would feel like a "pin prick" and when he did the first one I almost flew off the table. He asked if I was okay and I replied that I didn't know what kind of pins people had been pricking him with lately, but what he just did to me felt more like someone had clipped me with a pair of garden shears. He said the others wouldn't be as bad and he was right. (Of course, by comparison, once someone hits you over the head the first time the blows that follow are never quite as bad.) He said that it would hurt for awhile and to anticipate some bleeding in my urine. And boy did I get it. Then it cleared up and I was good to go. Then on Monday it (the bleeding) came back, strong as ever, and I was a wreck (there went the old blood pressure again) until Dr. Lyons prescribed some antibiotics to clear it up.

Another week passed and I went to Dr. Mandler's office and was hopeful he was going to tell me that I simply had an enlarged prostate - which is common as men get older. But, typical of his reputation, the first words out of his mouth were "it's malignant". Oh good, I thought. He then told me that it was tiny, located in the apex of my prostate (wherever that was) and that surgery would be the way to go. He then recited a number of evil sounding things that could befall me as a result of that surgery. Such pleasantries as incontinence, erectile dysfunction, problems with bowel function were at the top of the list. He asked me when I wanted to schedule the surgery. I told him I'd get back to him on that. Dr. Lyons' words "you have lots of options" were ringing in my ears.

As part of the whole package Dr. Mandler sent me to Holy Redeemer Hospital for a CAT scan to make sure that the cancer hadn't made inroads anyplace else. Up to the minute he mentioned that I had never even considered that potential added attraction. The CAT scan went well, I was in and out in a flash.

The good news from the CAT scan was that I was cancer free everywhere else but the old prostate and so my wife, Cindy, and I went to see Dr. Lyons to plot our strategy. He was still all for surgery. I said that I needed to know more about other treatments before I would push the surgery button. He said that was fine and sent me to Dr. Melvyn P. Richter, chief of Radiation Oncology at Abington Hospital's Rosenfeld Cancer Center. Dr. Richter was another heavyweight having once held the same position at Fox Chase Cancer Center. I'm sure that Dr. Lyons felt that once I heard about radiation that I'd still vote for surgery.

I liked Dr. Richter immediately. He was candid about the options I faced. He asked me about my family history and if there was any cancer in it. I told him that my father had died of cancer in 1949 but that I had no idea what kind of cancer it was. He concluded that it must have been colorectal and it may have been, but no family records exist and my sister Pat had no idea either. In those days you died of cancer, not lung cancer, colon cancer, pancreatic cancer, etc. I later mentioned that to Dr. Lyons who said that my father's cancer in 1949 really was not really a concern since treatment since then has come "light years". I hope so, that was 52 years ago.

In any event Dr. Richter noted that I was "clear thinking" (not everyone says that) and that everything else about me was fine (heart rate of 72, BP of 150/80) and so on.

Dr. Richter agreed that surgery would be an appropriate solution but noted that the location of the disease (right apex) that Dr. Mandler might need to modify his approach. He also noted that should I decide to go the radiation route, that he would recommend five weeks of conformal irradiation followed by brachytherapy (the implant of radioactive seeds directly in the prostate).

A few days later I met with Dr. Lyons again and told him that I still had doubts as to which way to go and he said, okay, go see his colleague Dr. Richard Greenberg, who is chief of urologic oncology at the Fox Chase Cancer Center. I said that would be a good plan and we set it. He was sending me to another surgeon, there was definitely a pattern emerging.

On April 11 I met with Dr. Greenberg who was cordial, informative and examined all the evidence. He checked the cat scans. He looked at the little pictures from the biopsy, he read the notes that Dr. Mandler and Dr. Richter had written to Dr. Lyons about me and then told me, in cold hard terms, what he thought about my problem. He said lots of things, told me of the surgical risks and then, mentioning that "apex" location (which, apparently is hard to access), and said to me, "I might tell you that surgery was the best way to go and then get you on the operating table, open you up, see the location of the problem, and decide that radiation was the better solution."

That, for me, was the old ball game. Game, point, match. I told him "thanks" and said that as far as I was concerned no one was going to open me up surgically and then decide, "oh well, there's a better way".

Over the next four days I did hours and hours of research on the computer, called a friend at the American Cancer Society and spoke with three people that I knew who had had either the surgery, the implants or radiation. Only the one who had had the surgery could tell me any horror stories, five years after surgery he still was having problems with his urinary and sexual functions. I also spoke with two nurses who worked with my wife (she's in the healthcare field) and I did some serious soul-searching. Oh yes, I prayed pretty hard for guidance, too.

When Cindy and I met with Dr. Lyons on April 16 I brought with me a seven-page document that I had worked on over the weekend. I drew up two columns, on one side were the pluses for surgery, on the other the minuses. I did the same for radiation. The conclusion was to do what Dr. Richter suggested, radiation first, seed implants next.

Among the minuses for surgery was the location of my lesion (that darned old apex), potential for long-term incontinence, impotence, bowel problems and overall quality of life in the future. There was the possibility, I was told at one point (and I don't even recall who anymore), that I would be unable to drive for up to 12 weeks after surgery, face a possible two-three week period of discomfort wearing a catheter and have a bag strapped to my leg. Nerve endings could be permanently damaged in surgery, a 30% chance that it will recur after surgery anyway and erectile disfunction. In a nationwide survey, listed on the American Cancer Society webpage, I learned that only one in four patients chose surgery. The obvious (and lone, at least as I saw it) plus was that the prostate would be gone - surgically removed.

The minuses for radiation included the fact that localized cancer may recur and external beams can damage healthy tissue and impotence. The pluses were many. They destroy cancerous cells, shrinks tumors, often as effective as surgery. For the radioactive seeds the feeling in many circles is that this will become the accepted, most common form of prostate cancer treatment in this decade. I learned that seeds control growth in 85% of the men for ten years and produce fewer side effects than long-term beam radiation. Incontinence is rare.

Now I must tell you that I was uncomfortable telling Dr. Lyons that I was, basically, going against his initial recommendation. I trust him with my health and that of my family, but my research told me that I had made the right choice and he, himself, had told me earlier that I had a lot of options. It just happened the option that I chose wasn't the one he would have selected for me. Though I had chosen to disregard his opinion he now fully supported my decision and told me so.

Having gotten over that hump I was back in Dr. Richter's office a few days later and the wheels began rolling toward getting this problem of mine under control. He ordered an ultra-sound. It was at this meeting that I met Dr. Scott Herbert who was actually going to handle the radiation and seed implant treatment. We set a further "get acquainted" meeting for the following week.

This was called a Re-Con session. Dr. Herbert is a bright young radiation oncologist who guided me through the next few months with information and good humor. He sensed that I needed to take a light, yet informed, approach and guided me in that direction. It turned out that one of his best friends was Jeff Kaplan, a man who was the CEO of the Fleer Corporation during part of the time that I was vice president of hobby sales, marketing and public relations for the sportscard and confectionery giant based in Mt. Laurel, NJ. Small world, huh?

Throughout the month of May the tests and the examinations continued and I was getting to be such a familiar face at the Rosenfeld Cancer Center that the parking lot attendant asked me if I wanted to buy a discount package. I declined, said I'd see him later.

Toward the end of the month I had a session in which I actually went in to the radiation lab (LA 2) where they took x-rays and made a body cast of my posterior. (Imagine that, a plaster cast of your fanny). It was something that I would lie in 25 times over a five-week period of radiation. It felt kind of funny and warm. They stuck things in me, as usual, drew little x's on me and actually placed little tattoos that would direct the beam radiation. I was getting used to those ugly gray and yellow hospital gowns. They asked me when I would like to do my radiation. Then they gave me a little card that I had to run by a scanner each day when I arrived and then told me what time they had available. I love a democracy.

Right before the radiation treatments were to begin I paid another visit to Dr. Lyons. We talked about my experiences thus far and he gave me my regular checkup. Cholesterol was fine, BP fine, everything else was as good as it could be.

For my first radiation treatment I came in having no idea what to expect. It was May 30. I didn't know how long it would be but I did learn that the valet parking people left at 5 PM so I got the bonus of being able to park anyplace I wanted and for free. They do radiation treatments to out patients at selected times during the day. My "selected time" came at days' end.

Anyone who experiences their treatments at Abington's Rosenfeld Cancer Center radiation facility is in for a satisfying experience. All of the technicians are caring, warm people. They realize, of course, that radiation treatments are no day in the park and they make it bearable. Mine were so brief in daily duration that it took me longer to get undressed and then dressed again than the treatments took. I met lots of interesting men over the next five weeks and we all shared our war stories. Some younger, some older. Some radiation veterans who were doing it again. But I never met anyone being treated for prostate cancer in my time slot. I thought that was strange. You see the same people every day and you strike up friendships. You are, afterall, in the same boat.

Just as I was getting in to the routine of things and making sure that whatever business plans I had, I had to be back in Abington by 5 PM I found out that five days-a-week are not always a given. I was to be guest speaker at the Central Bucks High School baseball banquet at Pinecrest CC in Montgomeryville on June 5 and told them I might be a bit late. At 3 PM the hospital called and said their machinery was down, that I was going to have to skip that day. It was okay with me, I made the banquet on time. The daily treatments resumed the next day when the equipment was fixed.

I was surprised to learn that I needed a urologist to actually implant the radioactive seeds and, presto, I was on my way back to Dr. Mandler's office in mid June. He was going to get a piece of me afterall. This time, however, the urologist I dealt with was Dr. Joseph K. Izes. He just wanted to meet me, say "hi" and probe my rectum. (Seems like that was a really popular place anymore. Everyone wanted to touch my lesion.) As luck would have it, there was also a resident in his office that day and, guess what, he wanted to probe it too. After he rooted around, for what seemed like ten minutes, I asked if he was looking for my wallet or what. The lesion was so small, so well tucked away, he couldn't find it.

On June 20 following the day's radiation I was told that Dr. Herbert wanted to see me and the next thing I knew he was simulating the implant procedure and sticking all kinds of scopes and probes in places where things are not comfortably stuck. Like a woman giving birth, I was on my back, and my legs were up in stirrups. Giddy-up. That day Dr. Herbert asked when would be a good time in August for me to have the seed implants. I told him anytime but the week of August 4-11 because we planned to be away on vacation. Of course a week later Dr. Izes' office called and told me that the procedure was set for August 8. Murphy's law I guess.

Like anything repetitious the radiation treatments got old and so July 6 was a welcome day for me. It was my last one. Since I was leaving on vacation that night it was imperative that I get the final treatment in and as luck would have it the machine went down. I ended up getting my final treatment on another machine and this one scoped my whole lower body and kind of knocked me for a loop. It was the second time during my treatments that this had happened.

The most obvious side effect was that I tired more easily. I also had some discomfort with my bodily functions.

When we returned from vacation my wife baked a batch of cookies for the radiation staff and I happily delivered them to a very nice group of people.

On July 20 I went to Dr. Izes' office for a cystoscopy. You don't want one of these things unless they are absolutely necessary. It is a long wiry scope that inserted in the end of your penis and Dr. Izes told me to take a deep breath as he inserted it. I was gasping at the time, so the deep breath just kind of evolved. If you grew up in my era the best way to describe the cystoscope is that it looks like Willie the Worm wearing a miners lamp on his head. (Willie showed Farmer Alfalfa cartoons on early Philly TV and had an unseen helper named Newton the Mouse. Willie was a piece of pipe, the kind you vent your clothes drier with. It felt like Willie, Newton and Farmer Alfalfa himself had all gone inside of me.)

All my preliminary tests were coming out great and so on August 1 I had to check in at the Abington Hospital pre-admission center. The center is, literally, tucked behind the coffee wagon in the Shoreday lobby making it somewhat hard to find. But I found it. I needed to go through all the pre-admission testing to make sure that I wasn't falling apart elsewhere and could physically tolerate the exciting experience that they had planned for me the following week. My appointment was 8:45, they took me at 9:15, not that bad.

The staff was friendly and I sailed through my interview, EKG and chat with the anesthesiologist who told me that my seed implants would kind of simulate the childhood game of "Battleship". "There will be a grid on the screen and they will implant the seeds according to what they see on the grid," he said. My hope, of course, was that my battleship didn't get torpedoed. The chest x-ray part of the routine proved to be a bit of an ordeal. I ended up waiting about an hour in a waiting room that was a little short of seats and then for a few minutes more in a holding room that was fresh out of available lockers. Oh yes, they gave me directions as to where to go the following week - Fifth floor, Toll Building. The directions lead me to the basement. A janitor showed me how to find the right elevators and quipped "it happens all the time". Wonderful.

The day before my implants I was a little confused. I got instructions from Dr. Mandler's office that said "don't eat anything for 24 hours before your procedure". I was only allowed clear liquid. On the other hand Dr. Richter's office said that I shouldn't eat anything after midnight the day of surgery (August 8). I compromised. I ate soup for lunch, had a light dinner. Both doctors said I did the right thing.

I woke up at 5 AM on the day of the procedure (August 8). We left for the hospital a 6 AM, got to the hospital at 6:.10, realized that my medical card was home and went back and got it. At 6:20 we returned. After having gotten lost looking for the elevator, I finally made my way to the fifth floor and was escorted back to a room where I was told to get undressed and get in to one of those nifty backless hospital gowns. I did that. I was laying there minding my own business when Dr. Lyons dropped by the see how I was doing. At that moment I was doing well but the low number on my blood pressure was heading north quickly.

My clothes were in a white bag that the nurse told my wife to leave behind. At that point, it seems, no one was quite sure whether I was going home after the procedure or staying there. Dr. Herbert, by the way, fully intended to have me stay. He told me later there was never a doubt that I was staying.

The rest of it unfolded pretty quickly. At 7:30 I headed downstairs. I was wheeled here and there. At 8 AM it was in to the operating room. People stuck stuff in me. I got a spinal and then some other drug that was supposed to put me in a "twilight" zone. (Rod Serling never showed up) It did, though they tell me we chatted throughout the procedure that took a couple of hours and in which I got 24 needles inserted in me, those needles depositing 78 radioactive seeds each about the size of a grain of rice.

I recall telling them about my baseball card collection, what cards are worth today and how I shot a 76 the week before and beat my cousin Jeff Stevens by one stroke. In a lucid moment that I recalled I told them of three blown putts that could have reduced my score to a lifetime record 73! Golfers never quit even sedated ones.

My next hurdle was getting out of the recovery room. They said as soon as (a.) I could feel my feet and make my toes work and (b.) they could find me a bed I'd be out of there. The feet were working for some time when they finally came up with the bed.
Since I was radioactive I needed to be in a private room and the guy in mine was taking his time about leaving. Upstairs, I learned later, one nurse had told my wife that I might be in recovery for five hours waiting for that bed. I'm glad they didn't tell me that.

Anyway, I got sprung and got my room and was met by my wife and Nurse Bonnie Klenk who was a real trooper and took very good care of me. My clothes were not there but Bonnie assured me they'd be over by 5:30 PM. At 10 PM that evening my clothes were officially MIA. No one had a clue as to where they were. I had visions of leaving the hospital the next day in my jockey shorts.

Dr. Herbert came in to see me and tell me how well everything had gone and then added that he wouldn't be in the next day. Seems like he was going to play golf. I told him that it was going to 100+ degrees. I wished him well and said up until now I trusted him, but I was beginning to wonder about his judgment. We both laughed.

I was hooked up to all kinds of things, a prisoner in my own bed. And the worst part of that was that I felt just fine. They had an IV in my left hand, had a catheter in (well you know where) and two massage things on my legs that, every minute or two, pumped and pummeled my calves to make sure I didn't get blood clots. I was told that if I need to have a bowel movement it would be bedpan city. I was not happy with that. And as luck would have it I needed the darn thing. Yuck.

Lunch was a spicy roast beef sandwich, dinner a spicy meatloaf. Heartburn was a given. And about 10 PM the heartburn arrived. At Midnight it was quelled by some lemon Maalox.

I didn't sleep much. I never sleep on my back and that was the only option given my marionette-like condition. At intervals throughout the night the nurse came in to take my blood pressure and my temperature. Any sleep that I sandwiched in between visits was a miracle. By 4 AM I was watching the Brett Butler show on TV - it was the best thing on - and later I watched a re-run of the Fox 10 PM News. By 5 AM I was reading a book about facts and myths surrounding Abraham Lincoln's assassination.

Dr. Matt Gerstein was the first to visit me the next morning. He is a resident from Temple and had taken part in my implants. He said I had done fine. Dr. Izes came in soon afterward. I told both doctors about my MIA clothes. Dr. Izes said, "oh great, I can see your column now. 'they cured me of cancer but lost my clothes'". It was an idea I was working on. But in no time my personal Florence Nightingale (Nurse Klenk) had come up with clothes and all was getting to be well with the world.

Shortly after that my catheter was removed by an associate of Dr. Herbert's. It was another one of those "take a deep breath" instructions and I was, of course, gasping.

I ate breakfast - two kind of dried out pancakes, one little tub of syrup - and then started gulping water, since I was told I could go home as soon as I urinated. By 9:45 I was ready to go home. It was a great feeling. It was all behind me (no pun intended) and I could truly recite one of my favorite lines.."Today is the first day of the rest of my life".

Once I got over being more tired than usual, I began to feel pretty good again. For the next several weeks I had to wear lead-lined undershorts to protect little kids and pregnant women from any radiation that might be coming from. (I wore the lead-lined pants to Lehigh University on August 15 when I took my 8-year-old Granddaughter Brittany to visit the Eagles practice. When she went home and I took them off I felt 10 pounds lighter.) Most people cannot get any radiation from me - in fact I was told it was questionable if anyone could actually be harmed by it. It was explained that the earth probably emits more than I would, but being safe is always a good bet. My wife wondered if I'd glow. Kind of like a night light, but I didn't.

I will be getting regular checkups, they say, for the next five years. That's okay. I stay on top of my health anyway. Would I do anything differently? Absolutely not. I made an informed decision and am confident that, for me, it was the right one.

It was a long seven months and when I look back on it I wonder if there was anything I could or would have done differently. And the answer is no, I feel that I made the right choices based on the information available to me.

Prostate cancer is so common among males it is frightening. But I'm here to tell you that if you are diligent and watchful and catch it in the early stages it is highly curable. Life is a series of episodes. I'm glad and thankful to God, my doctors, my family and friends that there are potentially many more episodes in my lifetime adventure.