I can’t say I’ve ever been terribly sick, but a few years ago my doctor noticed that my PSA levels had spiked. I had to look it up (prostate-specific antigen) and look up what it meant. The doctor had other things to look up.
I took some antibiotics for a few weeks, to get rid of or rule out an infection, and drank all the while I was taking the antibiotics. So the levels barely budged.
I was referred to a specialist – an understandably well-paid person, given the specialty - for a biopsy. For just under an hour, I had what looked like hair tongs sheathed in a condom pressed against my prostate. The hair tongs had teeth, and took little bites of my prostate every time the gun went off. The doctor invited me to watch the procedure on a monitor. I remember being very polite as I asked him, please, to just get on with it.
The results of the biopsy were fine, although the doctor signed off with the disclaimer that the test was only on the stolen tissue: “We can’t guarantee there’s nothing in there.” This was good news, although I was happy enough with the removal of the hair tongs.
I was given more antibiotics. I was careful where I sat for a few days, but I drank while taking the second round of antibiotics as well, until I stopped taking the pills altogether.
My other PSA levels, those measuring my propensity to swallow alcohol, were not tested, but were obviously off the chart.
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