Seven and a half years ago, while in Luxor, Egypt, I had a medical emergency.
The problem had been building for some time, but I had become accustomed to it and dealt with the symptoms stoically. Prior to Egypt, I had been living in Venice, Italy. My habit was to walk many miles each day, wandering through the spiderweb of narrow passages and across countless footbridges, taking street photographs. I noticed increasing pressure from my bladder and found myself making frequent stops to urinate.
Then, while in Egypt, my Arabic brothers—who are like family to me—wanted to take me out for dinner and a boat ride on the Nile on Christmas Eve. The wives had prepared a wonderful meal, and the boat was ready to cast off, but I was in crisis. I could not urinate. The pain was intense, and I had to decline the invitation and return to my hotel room.
That night was excruciating.
The following morning I went to my friend Haggag. He took me into the city, and thankfully we found a urologist in a rather shabby office who nevertheless was kind, competent, and immediately inserted a catheter, allowing my bladder to empty.
Although I had airline tickets to Ethiopia, I cancelled all my travel plans and returned to the United States with medications, a catheter, and a urine bag strapped to my waist.
Facing the prospect of surgery, I instead tried a course of medication that, within days, greatly relieved my symptoms and gave me back a more or less normal life.
Now the prostate issue has become an intrusion into normal living once again.
I live with discomfort every day. I continue to have annual examinations, usually in the United States, and thankfully there has been no indication of cancer.
Recently, I sought out a highly respected urologist in Oaxaca. After performing a sonogram in his office, he told me that my prostate was considerably larger than normal and that he could see stones or calcifications within it. His opinion was that surgery would likely be necessary, though he explained that the stones could complicate the usual approach.
Since then I have undergone a battery of pre-operative tests, all of which suggest that I am healthy enough to proceed if surgery is recommended. A CT scan provided much more detail. Amy and I also met with an internist to review the results. He was bright, kind, and exceptionally helpful. He has shared his evaluation with my urologist, and tomorrow I have another appointment to discuss the findings, review my options, and learn what the next steps might be.
One thing I have appreciated throughout this process is the level of attention I have received.
Because I am not fluent in Spanish, every consultation requires patience. Amy helps, and we often rely on our phones for translation. Yet I never feel rushed. The doctors take whatever time is necessary to answer questions and explain what is happening. I appreciate not feeling as though I am being squeezed into an artificial fifteen-minute appointment slot while someone watches the clock.
From what I understand so far, the usual possibility is a procedure in which instruments are passed through the penis and into the urethra to remove obstructing prostate tissue and perhaps some of the calcified material. An epidural would numb the lower half of my body, so I would remain awake but feel no pain. That thought is not exactly on my list of favorite experiences, but if it helps restore my quality of life, so be it.
I may still seek a second opinion if possible. I have written to my longtime urologist in Santa Fe, though so far I have not heard back from him.
All things considered, I suspect the total cost may end up being similar whether I pursue treatment here or in the United States. Medicare would cover much of the procedure in America, but there would still be travel expenses, lodging, and various incidentals. Here in Mexico, the operation itself is estimated to cost roughly one-quarter of what the same procedure would cost in the United States.
For now, I am gathering information, asking questions, and taking one step at a time. I am grateful for competent medical care, grateful for Amy's support, and hopeful that somewhere ahead lies a more comfortable chapter than the one I am currently navigating.
TOP IMAGE:
"Changing Woman" by Navajo artist, Dennis Jeffy 70 x 70 inches, oil canvas,
collection of Amy Córdova Boone