Men's things XXXII: For the Boys in the Room: Why Your PSA Matters

Life After Radiotherapy

Much as I have not been giving frequent updates about life after prostate cancer radiotherapy treatment, I can say that life continues with gratitude.

The usual side effects persist; the urinary symptoms are not as concerning and remain quite manageable, there is no discernible bowel issue, and weekday nocturnal insomnia gets some respite with weekend lie-ins.

My voice still vacillates between a weak, hoarse whisper and the normal timbre I am known to have. It does need checking out. When my mother first heard the weaker end of my vocal spectrum, she started casting and binding in the name of Jesus on the phone, with no exchange of pleasantries; it literally freaked me out.

Monitoring My Progress

I have a biannual consultation at the Christie Hospital with an Oncology and Urology nurse, as part of the aftercare monitoring, which may continue for another couple of years. This means that within two weeks of that appointment, I must obtain a Prostate-Specific Antigen (PSA) test, usually from my GP.

My most recent PSA level has now fallen to the lowest reading recorded since that first test in February 2024, which began the journey to an aggressive prostate cancer diagnosis.

I have written quite a bit about what this has involved, but may I suggest that you also listen to the AI Podcast for November 2025, where each of the terms related to a prostate cancer diagnosis is explained in detail.

An AI discussion podcast
on blogs published in November 2025
Reflections on Health, Heritage, and Humanity

Sharing the Good News

Meanwhile, I am doing fine, happy with the progress and thankful for the support and encouragement I get from my partner, Brian, my friends, and my colleagues. Upon receiving the result, I posted a comment in a wider Microsoft Teams chat, where I addressed them thus, with a link for them to assess their prostate cancer risk:

For the boys in the room.

I got some good news earlier today. Having undergone prostate cancer radiotherapy treatment about 18 months ago, my PSA is now the lowest it has ever been. Obviously, there is a hospital visit to review the situation.

Please, take some time to check your risk.

Thanks

Check your risk in 30 seconds | Prostate Cancer UK

Take That First Test

I take every opportunity to advocate for checking your prostate cancer health and going for at least that very first PSA test.

Beyond that, I try to address the concerns and fears that attend having your delicate bits inspected by medical personnel, as I have been through the whole gamut of touches and feel-ups. My verdict: nothing to fear and everything to gain, catching issues early and dealing with them promptly.

I hope you all find this helpful. Until the next update on men's things.

Blog - Men's things XXXI: Can Intimacy Be Reclaimed After Prostate Cancer?

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - Three Things I Wish I'd Known

Blog – Photons on the Prostate - A year from starting radiotherapy

Blog - A prostate cancer diagnosis, one year on

Blog - Men's things - Prostate Cancer blogs

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Heritage Without Nostalgia

Observing Heritage from a Distance

Two events this month should have created a kind of nostalgia in me, but I seriously failed to be excited about either. I had become an observer of sorts of elements that have formed part of my identity.

Whilst in Cape Town, there was the Commonwealth Day Service at Westminster Abbey on the 9^th of March, and then yesterday came the conclusion of the first UK state visit in 37 years by a West African head of state, the Nigerian one. [The Royal Family: State Visit by The President and First Lady of Nigeria]

The first event gained significance through someone I follow on Twitter/X who had been invited to a reception at St James's Palace, though he could not attend because he was indisposed. As an activist for Nigerian immigrant causes, he had become prominent enough to be noticed and recognised as an important Nigerian diaspora figure.

For the state banquet at Windsor Castle, several people of Nigerian heritage were invited to represent the Nigerian community, many of whom have stronger roots in the United Kingdom than in Nigeria.

An English Identity

My living parents are Nigerian, but I was born in England, and though I have strong influences of Nigeria in my identity framework, I do not identify as such. To any question about where I am from, I respond that I am an Englishman, and I am originally from England.

This is reinforced by the fact that two-thirds of my life has been spent in Europe. Even for ethnic purposes, I would describe myself as Black English rather than the typical Black British or Black African.

This distinction matters to me because Black British functions as an umbrella term that groups together vastly different backgrounds and experiences, often implying a hyphenated identity or connection to a diaspora narrative.

Black English, by contrast, centres my English identity as primary. It asserts that I am English who happens to be Black, rather than suggesting divided loyalties or perpetual newcomer status.

The choice is deliberate: it reflects where I was born, where I belong, and how I understand myself. It challenges the assumption that Blackness and Englishness are somehow contradictory, and it refuses to accept that “English” is synonymous with “white.” For someone like me, whose connection to Nigeria exists more in memory than in meaningful attachment, this specificity matters.

The Outsider's Accent

I can reminisce about aspects of childhood and development that have served me well from having lived in Nigeria, yet for the simple reason that I had an accent, I was always an outsider.

That accent was no affectation; it was the sound of my formative years, the linguistic imprint of the England where I first learned to speak, to think, to understand the world. By the time we moved to Nigeria, my identity architecture was already established.

The English pronunciation I arrived with immediately identified me as different. In the playground, in the classroom, even within extended family gatherings, the way I spoke became a constant reminder that I did not belong in the same way others did.

Children would mimic my speech, adults would comment on how I sounded “British” or call me “Òyìnbó,” and I became known as “Ọmọ ìlú Òyìnbó,” the boy born abroad, or more literally, the child born in white-man’s land.

The accent was an audible barrier that no amount of time or adaptation could fully erase, a daily declaration of otherness that shaped my understanding of where I truly belonged.

The irony, of course, is that this very accent that made me perpetually foreign in Nigeria was simply part of the spectrum of English voices from the West Midlands. In Nigeria, I was told daily through reactions to my speech that I was foreign; in England, I simply was.

My parents, who moved from Nigeria to England and back, could navigate both worlds with the fluency of belonging. They spoke the languages without pronounced accents, understood the unspoken rules, carried the cultural memory in their bones. I had none of these inheritances.

Where they were returning home, I was simply living abroad. This distinction, between inherited belonging and biographical accident, crystallised my understanding that identity is not a matter of bloodline but of lived experience and genuine connection.

The experience taught me something fundamental: identity is not about where others place you, but where you place yourself, and where you are recognised as belonging without constant explanation.

Detachment and Memory

In terms of identity, whilst I am interested in what goes on in Nigeria, I am more detached than ever. The closest association nowadays depends on whether my flight between France or the Netherlands and Cape Town flies over the Nigerian landmass, where place names trigger some memory or recognition from more than 50 years ago.

In general, I have determined there is no reason to visit Nigeria since I left over 35 years ago. I have the name, I have the influences, I have the memories, but the nostalgia has fully settled into obsolescence and insignificance.

Gratitude Without Nostalgia

Yet I love that Nigeria was part of my upbringing because it strengthened elements of self-identity, self-esteem, and self-respect. For that alone, I am grateful for the Nigerian experience, as it reinforces the context and sense of who I am.

God bless Nigeria, for when things are going well in Nigeria, there is less anxiety for all of us associated, even in the remotest sense, with Nigeria.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Taking Praise to the Bank

The Grace of Acceptance

In life, whatever you do, whether by nature, through practice, or by good fortune, compliments do not come easily. Perhaps they do for others; however, what matters most is having the grace to accept those encomiums when you have been appreciated.

Yet sometimes familiarity makes praise seem either mundane or biased. I am occasionally embarrassed by how Brian compliments me; the thought crosses my mind that he cannot possibly be talking about me. His words can be effusive and quite adoring. I suppose a sense of modesty suggests it is too much, whilst a feeling of inadequacy implies I have not yet reached the standard for which the applause has been loudest.

An Unexpected Exposure

Then this afternoon, a work conference segued into a conversation between two. Idle banter touched on many things, and then she said, “I found your blog.” She had been searching for information when the results led her to my blog. Shock and surprise on my part brought the realisation that I had been exposed.

However much we try to compartmentalise our lives through secrecy, segmentation, or even sequestration, we can only be so successful when we leave footprints online. I got my first email address in 1994, just as I began a subscription to CompuServe. My identity number is just about to slip from memory in the present — I remember it now.

The Weight of Recognition

Not only had she learnt a great deal about me, in blogs spanning almost 23 years, but she also appreciated my writing: my use of language, and the ease of reading. She enjoyed everything she had read and pleaded with me not to stop blogging. Amid this deluge of compliments, I was close to blushing.

There is no day when I do not receive compliments, usually from strangers, and I respond with thanks. It is different when a colleague at work, who knows you in a particular setting and character, sees another side of your expression and acknowledges, commends, praises, and compliments that aspect of your art. You want to take it to the bank and cash it.

Cashing It In

In this case, I have taken it to the bank of this cache of over 4,250 blogs and cashed it in as an acknowledgement. Brian has always maintained that I can make a blog out of the simplest moments or interactions. This is one of those instances. Thank you—you know who you are.

The Evolution of my Blog from 2003.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Turning 60: Finding the Light Switch

Crossing the Threshold

Imagine walking into a new house, having received the keys, unlocked the door, and taken a first whiff of the atmosphere and ambience of this new place. You reach up to shoulder height, feeling around for the light switch. You turn it on, and there is a revelation.

That is how you begin to live in the house, with the recognition that it is your own space. It will take on a character you impose over time that makes it uniquely yours: a home, a place of rest and peace, where you go for recuperation, rejuvenation, and renewal.

The Reality of Sixty

However, before we get philosophical in the pursuit of empty platitudes, this allegory is a nod to my turning 60 two days ago. I received the keys into the cohort of sexagenarians and stepped into the realisation that I am 60. There is a process of doing what people who are 60 do, while also being every other age you can be, from adolescence to fully geriatric.

This morning, I decided to find out about some of the benefits of being over 60 in the UK. The first was getting a Senior Railcard, which offers one-third off train fares across the UK.

Of course, there are restrictions around peak-hour travel, but just seeing the prices melt into affordability made me eager to get on a train, just to wield my Senior Railcard and see the train conductor do a double-take, wondering whether I was 60 or had picked up an inadvertently misplaced card from the wayside.

Identity and Proof

Then, you do have to provide proof from a government-issued identity document to register for the railcard. I suppose another side to this is the self-doubt about whether I have truly arrived, or whether I am an imposter in the 60-plus club.

I can find comfort in the fact that I have lived every single day that adds up to the 60 years I am, not because I earned it as a badge of achievement, but because the grace of God has granted me the unmerited favour of this testimony filled with miracles and wonder.

Exploring New Horizons

Meanwhile, the research continues in gathering what else this accumulation of years alone grants us. I even asked AI, and with a bit of refinement, I received a checklist of things to do. One thing is certain: age offers the opportunity for a life-enriching experience, but you must get out there to live it. Otherwise, the business of living risks going into liquidation.

To paraphrase the lines of a song that reminds us of the glory of the Garden of Eden: "Let's get back to living, and living on top of the world."

Some interesting information

Harnessing AI for Better Writing

I have an AI bot with an extensive prompt that does a grammatical check of my blogs, avoiding any restructuring of my thoughts and sentences that my voice will not be lost in the process.

This follows British English conventions, along with a few aesthetic flourishes to help with the flow when the blog is read. I then ask the bot to tell me what has changed, with the reasons why. After which, it should provide a review of my writing style and feedback for further debates or blog ideas.

The Value of Feedback

I reproduce the broader feedback on the blog below, and I can say, given this feedback over the last two months, it reinforces the good parts of my writing ability whilst laying bare the flaws that need review and improvement.

Broader Feedback

Style: Your writing blends personal narrative, spiritual reflection, and practical observation in an engaging way. The tone is conversational and authentic, which draws readers in.

Subject matter: The milestone of turning 60 is rich territory. You've touched on identity, self-doubt, gratitude, and practical benefits, all of which resonate.

Potential debate points:

• The tension between age as a number versus age as a state of mind
• The role of faith and grace in longevity versus personal agency
• Society's treatment of older people (concessions like railcards versus ageism)
• The concept of "earning" versus "receiving" life's milestones

Angles to explore in future posts:

• Specific experiences using the Senior Railcard (where you go, what you discover)
• A deeper dive into the "imposter syndrome" of ageing
• Comparisons between who you were at previous milestone ages
• The practical checklist AI gave you and your journey through it
• The spiritual dimension of gratitude for years lived

My Dear Boy: Turning Sixty

Reflecting on Six Decades

I suppose for most people, except those who, as a matter of doctrine or belief, do not observe celebrations, birthdays are moments of significance marked with both reflection and revelry. I would not suggest I am given to the latter except under duress.

From yesterday into today, I have received many congratulatory messages across numerous platforms to celebrate this momentous day. Family, friends, neighbours, the church community, acquaintances, colleagues, and well-wishers have contributed in ways that have made the day exceedingly memorable.

One such endearing message came from my father, including the phrase, "My dear boy." In that simplicity of language, my father had encapsulated the span of 60 years into a single memory and recognition. [Facebook Status]

The surprise of my birth, announced by a telegram dropped through the letterbox at 7:00 AM, invited him to attend the maternity home immediately for formal matters concerning my transfer to a larger hospital for neonatal intensive care for premature births. Then the realisation that that child is now 60 must be profound.

Heartfelt Tributes and Quiet Celebration

Brian, my partner, wrote a proclamation that should, at some point, be recorded as a dramatisation of a town clerk announcing at the entrance of a city hall the significant occasion of a diamond jubilee.

The low-key event I preferred took place in the Manchester Cathedral library within a bible study group, where we had, amongst other things, a cheese platter and cupcakes. Then, in the evening, my neighbours, who had put up "Happy 60th Birthday" banners in our corridor and on my door, took me out for a meal.

As expected, I also made full use of napping time, so I missed many calls on my phone. Some I was able to return much later in the day.

Staying True to Myself

Some who would think one should have had a grand celebration or now prepare for one, but that is not what I want, need, or desire. I am not the partying type; the prospect of it is already draining my resolve, and I hope I can nip it in the bud before it gains support, currency, and momentum.

Thank you to everyone who has graciously afforded me love, recognition, consideration, and greetings for my birthday. May the joy of Christmas and the best things for the New Year be with you, your kith and kin.

Sixty and not tiring to retire

A Miracle in the Making

Considering only man's machinations and all the wiles that deceive us, when that little boy was placed in the hand – not hands – of his father, they were solely thinking of his next breath. That was the precariousness of the situation as it was conveyed to me.

Then came the subsequent hour, for only a city could support him; my small town lacked the medical facilities for such an early arrival. Then the weeks in a bottle, or more accurately, behind glass, and then years have turned into decades. Today marks a diamond jubilee.

Living Proof

I am a living miracle of blessing and good fortune. There have been many doubts and confusions suggesting this day might not be seen, an endless list that needs no further mention.

Congratulations are also owed to my parents. They have a child of 60, yet I still navigate the parent-child dynamic, as if I had never become an adult. That has spawned many stories as well. I am simply filled with gratitude. It is incredible: I am really 60 years old, and I get to tick that other age group box.

Gratitude and Partnership

So many people over the years have shaped this story, and for the past seven years, my partner Brian. His unwavering presence has been a steady source of strength, especially during some recent uncertain moments of my life. Work and health issues, marked by fragility and doubt, created challenges and milestones; Brian's support has been invaluable.

Sharing this part of my extraordinary journey with him has inspired dreams, ignited hopes, and declared visions. We are not tiring to retire but eager to aspire and grasp the essence of our imaginations. Thank you for celebrating this jubilee with us.

Blog - Ain't no stopping the Gen X Diamond Jubilee now (January 2025)

Strength to Endure: A Year of Recovery, Work, and Gratitude

Jolly Off the Year

As my year of work concludes today, I am filled with wonder and gratitude for all it has been. For so long, I have had the opportunity to finish the year on or just before my birthday; that's one of the benefits of it falling just ten days before the end of the year.

A Year of Significance

Many things make this year significant. A year ago, I was recuperating in Cape Town after radiotherapy for prostate cancer. It was also a difficult time; we had barely enough to make ends meet, but for the generosity of friends who contributed to help.

Although I should have extended my sick leave, I was eager to return home and regain some normalcy. From my experience 14 years ago, one of the signs of recovery was returning to doing what you once did: work, travel, the everyday routines, even if there was barely any strength to cope.

The Return Home

I returned to Manchester on the 30^th of December to find my home in complete disarray, and I had a house sitter for the seven weeks I was abroad. After about 20 hours of travel from door to door, I still don't know where I found the strength to run the vacuum cleaner around the apartment while keeping my composure at the state of my home, the occupant aware of when I was returning.

On the 3^rd of January, I signed on my work laptop and informed my managers that I would be back on Monday, the 6^th of January, and we would take it as we went. I did not use a paced return-to-work plan but dove straight in. Aside from the two-week break I took at the end of August into September, I have worked every single day, bar public holidays and hospital appointment days.

The Body's Remarkable Capacity

The body’s ability to adapt and condition itself to the challenges of a working environment, without what I had previously experienced, is admirable. The side effects of fatigue, nightly insomnia, bladder incontinence, and a fluctuating voice, notwithstanding, strength grew to endure and thrive.

There were times I wondered if, by the will of my spirit over the exhaustion of my body, I was doing too much and not adjusting pace, momentum, pressure, and ease enough. Thankfully, I had great support from my manager. He demonstrated much emotional intelligence and empathy as I pushed myself, sometimes being the first in the office and the last to leave.

The People in My Circle

Brian, my daily strength and support; Kola, my friend into the fifth decade; Funmi, who took me from the office at closing during the summer months; colleagues who were kind, understanding, and considerate; and the professional support personnel who listened, advised, and counselled. I could not have had better people around me.

To a stranger, they wouldn’t realise this was a man, 18 months after a prostate cancer diagnosis that required active treatment starting 15 months ago. Then, in September, the PSA readings were the lowest they have ever been. I read stories of men whose results were over 40 times the highest reading I had in March 2024.

Gratitude and Blessings

God, I am grateful for Your mercies and loving kindness.

To top it all, I still had 14 days of annual leave at the start of the month and agreed to work five more days this year, with the plan to carry those five days over into 2026. On the eve of turning 60, it has been a wonderful year. I am blessed beyond measure, and that is my testimony, for I live to tell better stories. Thank you to all who made 2025 the year it was, and there is more to come.

The prescient December clues

When birth is due

December speaks of dreams and beauty, the surprise of my nativity which for me as a person was not earlier than I expected, especially when others tend to stay longer than necessary. I can remember the many times I have never needed to fulfil a quota; when what needs getting done is done.

To many, I was preterm. However, I was ready when I arrived, just after Michaelmas. That they brought in cavalry to sustain my arrival was a responsibility placed on those who cater for such things. I simply rode the wave because it was there for my pleasure.

If I had chosen January, I would have slipped into another year for which I could lament the inexplicable. The Hilary Term would never have suited me. I could hardly be considered a spring baby, yet, as provenance would have it, one was conceived in the Trinity Term.

Silent in the light

In the advent of the diamond jubilee, I have scarcely prepared much. I hope to mark it without much fanfare; I am exhausted in crowds and flailing in the company of many. It is something to celebrate without trumpeting, but I would scarcely be afforded that luxury.

It is a time for contemplation, reminiscence, thankfulness, and gratitude. The journeys, the companions, the supporters, and friends that have made it auspicious leave me astounded at the wonder and the gift of living.

Junk the funk

Gloom Over Bloom

The number of times I have written about the joy of living and the pursuit of happiness would suggest to some that I never experience periods of funk, where dark clouds loom as harbingers of the rains of depression.

Like a cloud, it creeps up on you from a height where things might not seem discernible until the cool of the shadow hits your skin, the direct impact of sunrays abruptly taken from sight. As you look up, you hope the cloud is moving and that soon the sunrays will return, but you can never predetermine how large a cloud might be.

Depending on the weather of life, the cloud might linger for longer than is comfortable for the soul and body; it begins to affect your spirit. This is where you need a lift.

Count My Blessings

It was in the shower this morning (and a lot of interesting contemplation happens under a showerhead) that I realised I seem to have lost that lovely feeling, a kind of lethargy where the desire to do anything is lost. Plans percolate in the mind but never reach an execution stage, with procrastination unwittingly taking the fore and control.

There are many things I have had the intent to do but cannot seem to be bothered with, apart from feeling swamped by the underachievement or the lack of it. The inability to produce is like an infirmity.

I began to think of how to get out of this rut: by cultivating a spirit of thankfulness, getting out to do something even though I do not feel that sociable, then reflecting on what things I have wanted done. Moreover, I should stop thinking in terms of the means but rather the opportunity to do.

Desert Island Discs: Beyond losing everything

Beyond What You’ve Heard

My journey through the past episodes of Desert Island Discs on BBC Radio 4 continues, and I am just into December 2013. I once took notes on the music and choices made by people who have left footprints in the sands of time. Even some guests who appeared up to two decades ago are now centenarians; I guess I just keep looking up the people and their stories.

“Now whenever I finish something I take some photographs and say 'goodbye'. When you lose everything, you realise that the only thing you have is what's in your head.” Barbara Hulanicki

She is known for being the co-founder of the London fashion store Biba in the 1960s. A bit of trivia: Anna Wintour became an employee of Biba at the age of 15. However, the latter part of the quote resonated with me.

Amazing Spirit Power

When I lost everything, I had more than just what was in my head in terms of knowledge and experience; I had memories, but most of all, I had hope.

Hope, however, may not be sustainable when it is just in the head, a part of your mind and emotions. I believe, as a matter of faith, that I am sustained by my spirit, and that hope is enlivened by the spirit, giving life to the things you imagine.

The spirit of a man sustains him in sickness, but as for a broken spirit, who can bear it? [Bible Hub: Proverbs 18:14 (Amplified)]

I have encountered much adversity, illness, and misfortune that ordinarily I could never have endured, let alone survived. My spirit, however, like a dynamo, keeps going, giving strength to my soul and body.

That is the story I get to tell. Losing everything is not the end of living; rather, from the inner reaches of your spirit, you find the seeds of new growth: the hope and imagination that create the experience of a new life, purpose, and reasons to be thankful and full of gratitude for the gift of life and the people you get to share it with.

An old blog hits 10 million page views

A blog adrift

When I reflect on this blog, it is maintained at my leisure, not to pursue any agenda or shift opinions. I work in the information technology industry, I am probably too old to be considered a geek, I could be curious, sometimes observant, and it is quite likely that I see things differently from others.

Many topics I write about are the concern of activists, yet I am not one. I like to see fairness, justice, communication, and understanding among people. I am not thoroughly lettered, but I have learnt through life the importance of being able to express oneself quite clearly in any language used, to avoid misunderstanding.

I have had no formal training in journalism or the creative arts; it has never been my intention to turn this into a professional pursuit, but almost 22 years of this blog is no mean feat. I do not criticise myself for not being as prolific as I would like to be, I write as I am inspired, urged, or persuaded.

A blog immigrant

I had been blogging for about 7 years when the local hosting service I used decided they were bored with it. I guess the trend was shifting from the written word to podcasting. I do not blame them, but I was left in a quandary, with the prospect of migrating about 1,500 blogs along with all the engagement elsewhere, without migration tools.

I lost the comments, interaction, many graphics, and links in the process, along with the statistics that exceeded 10,000,000 page views a month. By 2011, I was simultaneously publishing blogs at the now-defunct location of akin.blog-city.com and on Google Blogger with the domain name of akinblog.nl; that old hosting location closed on the 1st of January 2012. [WayBack Machine: Akin (Old blog)]

A blogger's thanks

Here, I have ploughed my furrow in near obscurity without seeking fame or creating any sensation for the purpose of popularity or going viral; all that does not really matter, but I am glad for the readership and engagement that have followed my blog since December 2003.

Early yesterday, my blog reached the milestone of 10 million page views since it moved to Google Blogger. Someone somewhere considers my viewpoints interesting, and that is quite gratifying. I do not take the following or readership lightly; it is your interest and engagement that made this happen. Thank you very much.

Photons on the Prostate - XX: A year post-radiotherapy treatment

No crowds on cancer’s road

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A post shared by Akin Akintayo (@instaforakin)

Each day is a blessed day of gratitude in the joy of living, and it was a year ago today that I rang the bell at the Christie Hospital, signalling the end of hypofractionated radiotherapy treatment for prostate cancer. It was a journey with very few companions, a lover, a friend, a sister, a neighbour, a brother, a few colleagues at work and at church, on a road often travelled to a destination rarely known.

The weeks that followed radiotherapy brought fatigue, pain, and urges, but the reality that dawned on me was I needed to be taken care of as my strength waned even as my will and my spirit held on to the hope that there was a better story ahead of my circumstances.

I embarked on sick leave to recuperate, open-ended about my return from Cape Town and hoping to spend as much precious time with Brian who sometimes helplessly watched from afar how I tackled the diagnosis of prostate cancer and navigated the medical establishment and healthcare system to select what I believed would lead to the best medical outcomes.

My gratitude for care and support

In our daily conversations there was a bulwark of support, strength, and encouragement. Against the protestations of others, I boarded that flight, almost an invalid and with a voice that could barely be heard, knowing that Brian would take care of me.

The improvements in the past year have been quite encouraging, as it was last week that I learnt that my PSA test result had fallen to the lowest level since February 2024, after an uptick in March 2025 that left me wondering about how effective radiotherapy was.

While I do find myself having to wield my Just Can’t Wait card even as recently as three days ago, a lot more has settled down, as I manage from the occasional insomnia, the regular nocturia, and my voice slowly returning to normalcy, the opportunities to spend time with Brian have been a blessing.

I am thankful, grateful, happy, and blessed, each new day is full of grace and mercy. Yet we rise encouraging others to attend to their men’s things, notice the changes and have it all checked out. Catch it early, so you have options and the possibility of looking in the rearview mirror at that once threatening cancer that no longer has a hold on you.

Other related blogs

Blog - Men's things XXV: Prostate cancer under control

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - A year from starting radiotherapy

Blog - A prostate cancer diagnosis, one year on

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - XVIV - I Just Can't Wait

Blog - Men's things - XXIV - A presentation

Blog - Men's things - Prostate Cancer blogs

Photons on the Prostate - A year from starting radiotherapy

Some reflections

What a year it has been since I received the first of twenty doses of hypofractionated radiotherapy at the Christie Hospital. The story isn’t just about the treatment, but also about how the side effects have altered or softened my way of living and expressing myself.

Internally, I experienced fatigue and bladder issues, along with the occasional bowel discomfort, and for the insomnia, I couldn’t entirely blame the radiotherapy. The most noticeable change was in my voice, which sounds close to normal now, but it still sometimes holds that weariness or tiredness.

It wasn’t until mid-August that I felt confident enough to present myself for a bible reading at the cathedral. I had given up my place in May because my voice was still quite squeaky. I am encouraged, thankful, and grateful for the progress so far.

Two episodes of epididymitis in May and August have been worrying; probably some sort of urinary reflux around the pipes in that area, causing considerable discomfort and inflammation. I guess this keeps me vigilant for small changes and creeping symptoms.

My partner, Brian, has been an incredible support and anchor during these challenging times; his care and love have strengthened me, even when I outwardly appear to be doing well. With my friends and the fantastic support from work, I have made significant progress. I am thankful to God for everything.

I enjoy living, and I love thriving. There are even better stories ahead. Thank you.

Blog - A prostate cancer diagnosis, one year on

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - XVIV - I Just Can't Wait

Blog - Men's things - XXIV - A presentation

Blog - Men's things - Prostate Cancer blogs

Thought Picnic: Breaking the yoke of the firstborn

Good intentions count for nothing.

I reflected recently on a situation where many depend on you, but you cannot depend on them. It was highlighted clearly but unnoticed at the time when an appeal was made for help and support.

What was obvious was what others actively did to contribute to that appeal, while those who were expected to do more were caught hand-wringing and hesitating, and were more concerned about how my plight affected them than genuinely caring about what I was going through.

Any contribution, no matter how small, would have helped, but all I heard was intention, and it never amounted to more. I am very grateful to those who, from afar, showed their generosity to a man who was going through a difficult period in his life.

I cannot say if it was a total indifference or a lack of compassion that informed the lack of interaction that visited my cancer diagnosis last year, because a cursory view of my blog and social media activity would have revealed as much, but it might be conceited to think others should be that concerned.

They care little for you.

And so, when one re-evaluates issues as they are, some tough love must be applied to relationships that have become transactional due to family responsibilities. I dare say, they have lacked the care, love, or attention one would normally expect in such settings.

In my many experiences with adversity, they have not been the ones offering to support me; it is friends who stood by me. My shortcomings have been more an embarrassment to them than an opportunity to help, whether emotionally or materially.

Even the supposed comfort once offered by the matriarch soon wore thin as I struggled with my confidence.

Firstborns bear significant burdens of duty, often at the expense of their well-being, especially in non-Western environments. Extraneous demands are placed on us to deliver with little respite; we invest considerable resources with little return, as expectations and entitlement drain what little we try to save for tough times.

Firstborns Anonymous to the rescue.

The lesson we fail to learn is that everyone eventually manages on their own, whether we are there or not. How we burden ourselves at the cost of our own good is rarely talked of. A support group like Firstborns Anonymous could help us break free from these constraints to focus on ourselves.

We have become hostages to misfortune; we did not choose where we end up, and if, for many, we haven't asserted ourselves to gain privileges from our birth circumstances, then perhaps a selfish gene should take over, setting different priorities from cultural norms.

None of it was an investment.

We need to close the door to endless demands and build sufficient capacity for ourselves before we help others. Sadly, none of what was expended was an investment; if it had been, there would be some returns, some relief, some ease. Instead, they are sunk costs we struggle to walk away from, like unprofitable ventures.

In the end, when everything is accounted for, you owe nobody anything. When you exert yourself, do so with the hope that it benefits those who are truly grateful for what you do, and rest assured that if times are hard, they will stand by you.

The disappointment is tangible; our expectations were misplaced in what once seemed like a store of treasure, in family.

Thought Picnic: There is always someone worse off than you

 In the shoes of another

“I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.” Helen Keller

I stepped out this evening because I had a craving for hash browns which would normally be served as part of an English breakfast meal. I care nothing for having at supper, what should be had for breakfast.

A younger man met me to ask for alms and we both recognised each other, because over the last 18 months or so, I have been opportuned to facilitate boarding, meals, and other things that could alleviate his situation.

As I had no change, but was going to the local supermarket, I asked if he would want something to eat from there. I had not noticed that he always hid his right arm. This time as we conversed because he was aware I had cancer; he decided to show me his right arm.

Changing a congenital narrative

A condition from birth meant the bones in his arm were poorly formed and the hospital had decided to amputate the arm. He left the care of the hospital because he was not ready to deal with an amputation, but the hand was hanging of the arm, limp, swollen and could develop into a serious life-threatening condition as sepsis or worse.

That had me concerned that I advised him to seek further medical supervision based on how the possible loss of the arm might impact his quality of life. Introducing some humour, I suggested if he had a hook for a right hand, he might get to share thrilling stories with kids, because the state of the limb at this time did not offer any utility or confidence to his situation.

Nipping it in the bud

In a moment of self-deprecation, I averred that I would not want to be the making of a nursery rhyme that ran along the lines of

He was a tall and big man, it would seem,
But the walnut of his prostate was the end of him.

What can be dealt with before it becomes too serious to manage is best dealt with now. We got a meal, a snack and drinks before we parted ways. He said he would return to hospital to see what can be done for him.

I thought about how fortunate I have been, even after two episodes of cancer, no precarity, deprivation, or adversity, I have ever experienced compares to any extent, the challenges this man has seen in his own life. I hope I give him some encouragement that things can change, but anytime I see him, whatever I can do to help him, I would do.

There is always someone worse off that you, count your blessings and be grateful for who you are, and what you have.

A prostate cancer diagnosis, one year on

Time always matters.

In the passage of time lies the recognition of many things: living, living well, and the joy of living. This is true despite, and in spite of, other issues such as adversity, disappointment, unfulfilled yearnings, betrayals, and episodes of diagnoses that lay bare our vulnerability and mortality.

I count my blessings and celebrate each day as an opportunity to enjoy and behold the goodness in people, ideas, and places. Having the strength and means to do so places us among the privileged in ways we often fail to appreciate.

I rarely consider myself lucky; I am more inclined to think of myself as fortunate, not by my own doing or ability, but by mercy and grace. I can only express my gratitude that each day brings opportunity and ease, ample ability, and extraordinary capacity.

The extent of our imagination and vision defines our limitations; we can only exceed them through inspiration and revelation. The scope of our influence can be limitless, but until we believe it and are convinced of that possibility, we resemble chickens seeking the perspective of eagles.

Once you know, you know.

A year ago today, I was reading hospital notes from the consultant I had seen the day before, and in an instant, I became a victim of computerization without appropriate human oversight.

A diagnosis that I should never have learnt about before meeting the responsible consultant appeared in my records and was something the consultant I visited the day before should have reviewed before posting.

That is how I unwittingly discovered the diagnosis of adenocarcinoma of the prostate. A year is quite a long time when it comes to a cancer diagnosis, as you are left wondering what it entails, if it is treatable, how you will tolerate the treatment once you have decided on whatever course is available, and the aftereffects of that ordeal.

Giving thanks always.

I was not prepared for a second diagnosis of cancer, but when it came, I encouraged myself with words and sermons about healing and living, seeing beyond adversity, and leaving no room for discouragement, regardless of the prospects ahead.

Obviously, some eight months after completing radical radiotherapy, some lingering side effects remain; my voice is light, high, and sometimes sounds quite tired, but in myself, as Brian would typically enquire, I am doing fine. All thanks to God, my partner, my friends, my colleagues, the teams of medical personnel striving for the best outcomes, and that earnest desire to tell a better story.

This puts everything into perspective; each day is a blessing.

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - XVIV - I Just Can't Wait

Blog - Men's things - XXIV - A presentation

Blog - Men's things - Prostate Cancer blogs