The Workout

Is, What it Is.

“How badly you wanna live?”

Is is a query that should not arise for most people.

It was that small voice inside his head at the end of the third set, fifteen reps, and he really wanted to stop. Stop and go eat. The fifty pounds to which the machine was adjusted, was giving his triceps a challenge.

The day before, he had had a detailed discussion with Glen, the gym professional, a former college shot putter, about serious weight and diet work.

He was fatigued, tired and hungry. Thirteen weeks’ workouts had helped shed ten pounds. He had six more to go to slip comfortably under a BMI of 25.

Mike, his school friend and wrestling teammate, had told him, “When you least feel like working out, that’s exactly when you should work out…”

Word was, the weight would not melt away without serious weight lifting.

It wasn’t a cosmetic effect that was the goal: it was his lungs and 15 pounds weight accumulated during hospitalization. The radiotherapy and chemo had stopped the spread of stage 4 prostate cancer. There were mets, a lot of them, and when he first learned, it was as if his body had been riddled with parasites.

It was enough to make the skin crawl, and worse if you find yourself the subject of the diagnostic testing, not shocking news about a close friend or family member.

Naturally, there had been an immediate sense of denial, futility and discouragement, of revulsion and betrayal that his body, which had always been reliable and durable, had somehow come to this.

He knew his adverse, positive family history, and in fact, his career in cancer detection technology perhaps left him with the cavalier notion that he was, by virtue of academics, immune.

That’s not how it worked.

No one had prepared him for the way the lining of his lungs had been ruined by the therapy. Yes, he was alive but couldn’t breathe, and as such, couldn’t sleep.

He was supposed to be dead by May 28th. Half of patients with his exact diagnosis had 14.5 months survival expectation. In addition, he had one genetic tumor marker that conferred a thirty percent chance of surviving recurrence.

He had enough experience as a biologist to know a lot about PTEN, a tumor suppressor gene, the deletion of which is a bad sign in the tumor genome for those diagnosed with metastatic prostate cancer.

Both Mike and his wife pointed out that these were statistical predictions, and could not be applied to individuals. That was a transitory comfort, but he never took it to heart as some kind of guarantee he was different.

As the date approached, he had prepared himself for any outcome. He knew false hope was almost as lethal as ignorance.

Several unexpected circumstances seemed to intervene to kindle a certain cautious optimism.

***
The progression had been so gradual, it shocked him to find himself with a bladder that would absolutely not be emptied in mid-March 2025.

The signs were there: he ignored them.

He had consulted two other medical professionals who had missed it completely. It wasn’t until he sought relief from chronic lower back pain, possibly spinal vertebral issues, from an orthopedist whose radiologist first raised the alarm. It wasn’t a recommendation or comment: it was urgent.

There were appointments, and waits for an appointment, and delays for a few months.

He figured to swing by the ER early on a Thursday morning, have it emptied then go on to work at the winery immediate after.

Not so fast.

He had been admitted immediately.

No need to dwell on the details, but he was fortunate to have a wife who was a physician and cancer researcher herself, and the winery owner was a pulmonologist who, after his first hospitalization, recognized his lung problem as an acute threat.

The pulmonologist’s concern led to his first-ever ambulance ride from winery back to the hospital.

***

Fast forward sixteen months.

He left his job as senior winemaker to devote full time to rehab in January. His pulmonologist suggested a six-week cardio-pulmonary rehab program with a certain measure of skepticism.

Turned out to be a critical and positive turning point in recovery. The oncology issues were brought to a standstill by his excellent medical oncologist (there was no cure or hope for cure at this stage), but the lungs had not improved until rehab and a dedicated continuing workout regimen post hospital-rehab.

Like others along the way, the rehab tech at the hospital saved his life.

There were many philosophical and physiological/medical issues. He might or might not write about them. He assured me, however: he took great notes all along and asked me to Stay Tuned…

So, his story ain’t over; the jury was still out.

Ivermectin?

They’d have to wait and see.

But he promised to keep me posted.