PSA II...

The end result. 

When I wrote a blog about my high PSA (prostate specific antigen) test I was amazed at the many responses I received.  

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2016/05/the-aging-process.html

Three buddies stepped forward and provided  me with scary, yet useful information. They relayed their personal experiences of having this trouble making gland surgically removed. All three were incredibly honest in their assessment of what life is like without a prostate. Surprisingly, they were all upbeat about their futures. They had beaten cancer. 

Then again, I heard from many who had also heard the bad news of an elevated PSA test. More than a few went on to undergo a painful biopsy. The results were good in their favor. Yet, in introspect, the bloody procedure seemed so unnecessary. 

I even received strongly worded messages from a few women acquaintances. As far as I know, women don't own a prostate, but they sure have opinions! 

With all these wide ranging thoughts going through my head, I paid a visit to a Boulder urologist on June 14th. 

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2016/06/fight-or-flight.html

After a back and forth session of information gathering by both patient and Doctor, we got down to business.

"Well, Jeff, it's time for you to assume the position." 

I sheepishly submitted to a body cavity probe. (Never again will I think of going into a burning building as a strange choice of careers.) 

When he was done,  he told me what I already knew. "You have an enlarged prostate." 

No surprise since I've sat on a bicycle seat for over a quarter million miles in my life. I was pleased that he didn't exclaim, "Oh My God! There's a bloat of wallowing hippopotamuses growing on your prostate!" 

The Doctor then advised me make an appointment for an ultrasound prostate test. He also wrote out orders for a more in depth PSA blood test. 

On June 16th, a vial of red stuff was drawn from me and sent to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. (No wonder health care is so expensive.) 

Today, I opened up a secure website to see my grades. Here's my scores:

6/16/2016 10:50 AM

• TOTAL PSA 2.30 ng/mL
• FREE PSA 0.30 ng/mL
• PSA RATIO F/T See Comments ng/mL

Dr. Lonny said they rate a "very good." 

I am now very relieved and happy. Maybe now I'll be less distracted in my day to day activities. (Like losing five Nalgene bottles in a month and driving over a solar shower). 

Now I can on with my travel plans for the summer and go back to being a full time Wandering, Wondering Jew. It's a dirty job but someone's got to do it. 

To all of you who did welfare checks on my mental health along with good tidings, a sincere Thank You! It was very appreciated. 

I know I worried about this a lot. Sid Sambur passed on his worry gene to me. 

Sid also had prostate cancer at my age. 

I bought lakeside property to celebrate. I'm camped at Horsetooth Reservoir for another night. Come on up and join me and Barley. I have plenty of IPAs and I'm willing to share.

It's true, health is our greatest wealth. Just ask Steve Jobs if you were now able to.

There are so many pretty places to see.

Cheers and thanks again,

Jeff

PS! There still time to sign up for the G W,W J Sweepstakes!

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2016/06/the-great-wandering-wondering-jew.html

My Father didn't play with...

me. 

For Sid, being a Dad meant being a good provider. He brought home the brisket (can't say bacon. Our kitchen was strictly kosher). We were raised with Old World family values. This makes sense since my parents were escapees from Hitler's insane concept of human genetics. (That is why I flinch when a Presidential candidate proposes "round ups" based on ethnicity.) 

In the Sambur household parenting tasks were strictly divided and adhered to.

Clara was in charge of nurturing, hugs, feeding us (too much) and making sure we wore our galoshes on rainy days. In Mom's eyes, her three children were God's perfect creations.. Mommy's love of her "boychicks" (little boys) was boundless. We could do no wrong. I think she  often overlooked our transgressions in a Jewish Motherly way.

Dad provided the reality check. Sid's approach to parenting was laissez faire. He believed in hands on intervention only if we strayed away from the concept of being a "mensch." (From the Merriam-Webster Dictionary: a person of integrity and honor.)

Punishment came in two forms. We would hear about our screw ups forever, despite our many hang-our-heads-down apologies. When I became an adult, I still found myself muttering "I'm sorry" to him for a bad deed done decades ago.. It's true, Jewish guilt is the gift that keeps on giving. 

The other form was physical, but never brutal. If we were given the choice, we would have chosen physical over emotional. At least, the slap was over and done with in a second. 

Sid still loved us, just sort of in a different way. 

I'm pretty sure I became a mensch too.

Now I'll get to the point:

I've  never been a father (at least, not that I'm aware of) but I've been around a lot of children. Instinctively, I follow Sid's example and tend to shy away from these miniature humans. Sure, I'll smile at them, wave and say hello, but I'd rather be somewhere else. Being around kids never felt natural to me. 

Well, that changed with Little Dylan. She stole my heart. I think it's her smile that's so reminiscent of Clara's. OK. She giggles a lot too. 

I think Sid would've been taken by her too. He might have even played with her. 

Happy Father's Day! Sid! 

I love you. Thanks for instilling me with sensible values.

It's not too late to sign up for the Great Wandering, Wondering Jew Sweepstakes
OY! What have you got to lose?
http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2016/06/the-great-wandering-wondering-jew.html

Fight or Flight...

I'm an escapist.

For 28 years I served as a mercenary for the Poudre Fire Authority. I received good wages to battle occasional blazes and deal with medical emergencies that would make normal citizens cast their eyes skyward to an imaginary Goodyear Blimp. It was a career that suited the aggressive side of me. That's my fight instinct.

(Read all about it in my book Destroying Demons on the Diagonal)

http://www.amazon.com/s?ie=UTF8&page=1&rh=n:283155,p_27:Jeff%20Sambur/

When a situation or a relationship begins to be bothersome, I take to the hills. Literally. That's my flight instinct kicking in. Maybe that's why I wander so much.

So when Dr. Lonny informed me my Prostate Specific Antigen test came in high, I went into flight mode. (After making an appointment to see a urologist on June 14th.)

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2016/05/the-aging-process.html

I sought succor in four reliable pastimes: baseball, buddies, brews and views. I've been on the road since May 26th. 

Here's a few of the venues I gave flight to: 

Paid homage to 14 Fallen Firefighters. 

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2016/05/another-tribute-to-fallen.html

Took in five games of Junior College World Series Baseball in Grand Junction. It's always a pleasure to visit Jack, Judy and John T too.

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2015/05/play-ball.html

Another visit to Great Sand Dunes National Park. I'll never tire of the sensual subtle curves of those high dunes. (Forgive me. It's been awhile since I had a GF) Its amazing what Mother Nature can do with sand, wind and water in the right setting. 

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2015/05/it-more-than-huge-litter-box.html

Lastly, I was ambushed by a rock on my descent off of West Spanish Peak. Outcome: A visit to the ER and four stitches. (If you want to see the gore, look it up on Facebook.) Steven Spielberg is thinking about making my self rescue into an action adventure film starring George Clooney as the Jewish blogger.

Alas, you can run but you can't hide. Occasionally I'd give thought to my upcoming Doctor's appointment. The other night I woke from an awful dream. My heart was pounding as if I was trying to keep pace with the Kenyans sprinting the NYC Marathon. 

The nightmare went like this. I was at the urologist's office. The Doctor, who had the bedside manner of Josef Mengele, told me too bluntly that I had prostate cancer. He then laughed. 

If the urologist looks like the sicko in my nightmare, I'll tell him what I think of the Aryan Race and the Final Solution. Then I'll leave. That'll teach him to mess up my night's rest.

I'm hoping this dream doesn't come true. 

Wish me luck,

Jeff