Message to the zigotos who insult and threaten me on social media.
I have good news and bad news for you.
The good news (well, for you) is that I have prostate cancer.
“You have cancer cells everywhere in the prostate,” my urologist Paul Perrotte told me, on September 24 at 9:30 a.m. “Bottom, top, left, right.”
The bad news (still for you) is that my cancer is early, not aggressive and my chances of recovery are 90%.
Fa that you will have to put up with me for a long time to come.
Well, if all goes well.
For me, of course.
TO THE TRASH!
The bad news came in stages.
First step, after I went for a routine blood test in March: “Everything is perfect, except your PSA level (a protein made by prostate cells) which is abnormally high. You should have a magnetic resonance test to see if you have a lesion on your prostate.
Second step, after the resonance test: “You have a lesion. You should have a biopsy to see if you have cancer.”
Third step, six weeks after the biopsy (yes, it takes six weeks to get the results in the public system, six weeks during which you wonder if your days are numbered): “You have cancer.”
So I had time to prepare.
To see it coming.
Well, I didn’t see it coming.
I was sure I had nothing.
I have never been sick! I had no symptoms! I’m pissing like the aqueduct that burst next to Télé-Québec! And when it comes to sex, I’m like Napoleon in his coffin, standing like a deer!
No matter: my prostate is scrap.
“I would rather be a protester than have my prostate on the ground,” said Les Cyniques in one of their sketches.
Well, I’m a prostate protester.
That’s good to say.
So I had a choice: have rays shot into my lower abdomen (x-ray) or have my prostate removed.
“Take this away from me and throw it in the trash!” I said without hesitation. Or give it to me, I’ll sell it on Kijiji…”
The time has come for my prostate and I to go our separate ways.
Thank you for all the happiness you have given me over the years, but our astrological signs are no longer compatible.
I am Leo, and you, dear prostate, are Cancer.
On October 16, therefore, on an operating table at the CHUM, surgeon Hugues Widmer (who will be seated in front of a computer, because robots will open my stomach) will officially proclaim our divorce.
And I’ll wake up with a tube in my penis that I’ll have to keep in for 10 days.
Seeing your favorite playground transformed into a construction site, what joy.
We’ll barely put an orange cone next to my pocket.
LA BIBITTE
It seems that I will still be able to use my cannon, but that I will fire blanks.
Ugh.
One, I have three children, the shop is closed. And two, I’m going to save on Kleenex. SO…
It also seems that in the cancer lottery, I picked the right number. Cancer cells all over my prostate, but none that escaped, no metastasis.
A good little cushy stage 1 cancer, who walks around listening to Engelbert Humperdinck.
We’ll see.
I think of those who, like Karl Tremblay, did not have my chance. To all those men who have been hit hard by stage 4 cancer.
Complaining would be an affront to their memory. So, I won’t complain.
I’m just going to repeat this message a thousand times: “Go get tested, guys. Even if you don’t like a doctor poking around with an inquisitive finger in your garbage chute. The earlier cancer is diagnosed, the better.”
When I’m back on my feet, I’ll be tested for colorectal cancer.
You can never be too careful with this thing.