Tag Archives: prostate cancer

VanRamblings | 2026 | Raymond’s Health Update

July 23, 2026Broadview Co-op, fixin to die rag, Food & Health, Jude and Megan, Stories of a Life, Vancouver, VanRamblingshealth, prostate cancer, raymondRaymond Tomlin

After 265 arduous and often painful days of my recovery from prostate cancer surgery at Vancouver General Hospital, I can report to VanRamblings’ readers today that I am well on the way to a full recovery and that, at present, there are no hurdles in respect of my once upon a time prostate cancer that is of concern to me.

The front entrance to Broadview Housing Co-operative, in the heart of the Kitsilano neighbourhood

Today, then, allow me to provide you with some insight into my eight-plus month recovery journey, commencing in early November 2025, when I was bedridden and in immense pain, cared for by friends and neighbours — in particular regarding the latter group, my Broadview Housing Co-operative comrades and in-house health saviours / providers: Heather Redfern and Kevin Stewart, in particular, but also Judi Burley, Laurie Reid, Max Burley, Jordan Patrich, Bobby Asgari, Laurette Yelle, and Libbi Dowd — without whose caring, able assistance and dedication to working with me towards my recovery, I might very well not be here today.

Meaghan, pictured above, was also a core saviour, the light in my life, during my recovery

Meaghan Brister also played a significant — dare I say, pivotal — role before and in the many months after my prostate cancer surgery. I’ve previously published a photo of Meaghan and her husband Alasdair’s 2-year-old daughter, Elliott, sitting at the bottom, on the left hand side, of my bed, an ever present Teague the dog nearby. The whole family have long been very close friends of mine (lucky me!).

Perhaps most important of all over the past 16 months, my personal health saviour, Kelly Ryan

In the time to come, I will dedicate a whole column to Kelly, as I will to Heather — these two angels from heaven, more than any of my other deeply devoted caregivers and friends — were the difference makers in my life these past eight-plus months, who ensured I was eating enough to keep me alive (I had no appetite for months, my weight dropping to 135 pounds from 175 pounds a month prior to my October 31, 2025 prostate cancer surgery, and from an initial 225 pounds when I was first diagnosed with Stage 4 prostate cancer on September 5, 2024).

Raymond and Fergus when I weighed 225 pounds, when Fergus was 3 years (he’s 7 years old now)

Each month of my recovery brought some new variation and often uncomfortable transformation, very rarely pleasant, more often troubling and painful in the month of November 2025, requiring that I be hospitalized three times that month, carried out on a stretcher, and rushed to Vancouver General Hospital.

In the month of November, I suffered three hematomas, my bed and my apartment covered in blood prior to my being taken to hospital in an ambulance, Heather, Kelly and Kevin standing by to provide whatever assistance to the paramedics that was deemed necessary.

A hematoma is a sac of pooling blood — composed of red and white blood cells, platelets and fibrin and plasma — that accumulates when a blood vessel becomes damaged and then ruptures, causing blood to rush outside the body from deep within tissues, internal organs and various other body spaces, kind of like a burst blood clot, but messier and more concerning, not necessarily dangerous but should the deep bleeding emanate from inside the abdomen — which is where my invasive prostate surgery took place — can cause severe internal blood loss, leading to life-threatening shock.

Each of my hematomas, once burst, poured blood from my body’s right side for hour upon hour, such that I woke up covered in blood, my bed soaked — like the scene from The Godfather, when the movie producer wakes up covered in blood — and as I attempted to get up, blood tracked throughout my apartment.

Finally, towards the end of November, upon my third hospitalization, urologic oncologist Dr. Amy Sherman came to visit me in my hospital bed, harrumphed and said, “Enough of this!”

Dr. Sherman then proceeded to “sew” up my wound subcutaneously, which served to permanently stop the blood flowing from my body.

I asked her, “Why are you the first doctor to come up with a subcuteneous resolution to my hematomas,” to which she replied (with a twinkle in her eye), “Because they are not as good, as skilled and knowledgeable a doctor as I am.”

Throughout November and December, I received daily care at home from a home care assistant — mainly responsible for cleaning me up, and bathing me in bed, while exploring the potential for a problem that required medical intervention.

In addition, a registered wound care nurse — who, as a group, are very well respected for the work they do — who visited weekly.

Just to wrap this up, and get to the “end”, if November was the month of hematomas, December was the month of fecal incontinence (don’t ask, it was messy), and January (for me, the worst month) a month of constipation that was painful and unrelenting.

February, as Heather visited her sister in Grand Forks for the first two weeks of the month, celebrating her birthday over on Vancouver Island during the latter two weeks of February — something she and her husband, Jason, have done for years — I was pretty much on my own, and left to my own devices.

Truth to tell, my appetite began to return (my neighbour Libbi, who herself was being treated for cancer, told me, “Raymond, the secret to recovering your appetite: the Filet O’ Fish at McDonald’s … and so it proved to be).

In February I was up and walking Teague the dog, slowly and fitfully, but walking throughout my Kitsilano neighbourhood nonetheless, initially with a walker and then with a cane, and eventually — much to my family physician Brad Fritz’s chagrin — I was walking, if a little unsteadily, sans cane or other mobility devices.

Three more notes of interest before I bring today’s Health Update post to a close …

- In early December, on my way to the washroom I passed out, falling to the floor. For six hours, I “slept” on the cold laminate flooring in my home. At the time, my apartment door was always open. At 7am, after my neighbour Jordan had been up all night wrestling with 2-year-old Wynn and 4-year-old Orlo to get them to sleep, he decided to look in on me. Seeing me sprawled out on the floor, Jordan — a husky, fit guy in his early 40s, and the only Broadview member strong enough to perform strength-requiring physicality — gently lifted me off the floor and into his arms, carrying me to my bed, whereupon he covered me up, as I fell back to sleep. Heather arrived precisely at 9am — as she did every day, 7 days a week, for three solid months — to feed me, do the dishes, clean the floors and put in a wash, emptying the garbage and doing the recycling, as well, finally leaving exhausted for her home on the third floor — having been informed by Jordan of my overnight “event;”
- Incontinence. Yep, one loses control of their bladder in the months, up to a year and a half after prostate cancer surgery (which, by the way, turns one into a eunuch which, truth to tell at near 76 years of age, has come as a welcome relief in my dotage). Recently, at Khatsalano Day making my way up West 4th Avenue from Macdonald Street, where I visited each of the political booths that had been set up, I was alarmed to discover the my entire front was soaked (in urine, both Donald Trump and I, alas). I took an EVO home, took a shower, and changed into clean clothing. I have come up with a resolution to the incontinence “leaking” — I wear a diaper, of course, but I place bamboo / cotton boxer protective underwear over top of the diaper, and voilà, no more embarrassing and compromising “leakage”;

Alasdair and Fergus, ‘football’ and rugby stars both

Saving the best for last. When I left hospital November 1 2025 — Alasdair and Fergus picking me up from the fourth floor urology recovery floor (a story all in itself) — to bring me home, as we were leaving, I was told that come the autumn of 2026, as my surgical team had not caught all the cancer, I would be subject to five weeks of, five-day-a-week radiation therapy at the B.C. Cancer Agency.

This past Monday, expecting a call from Dr. Miles Mannas, my skilled prostate cancer surgeon, my expectation was that I would be negotiating a date after the upcoming October 17 municipal election for my radiation therapy, which both Dr. Brad Fritz and my friend Roni Jones suggested should occur in the afternoon, because I would be beat in the morning, and barely able to get out of bed …

Roni, in response to my question, “How am I going to get to and from my apartment five days a week to arrive at the B.C. Cancer Agency, and then be ferried home more than a little worse for wear — both Roni and Brad told me that the latter three weeks I would be bedridden (gosh, just like last November). Roni came up with the suggestion of HandyDART for transportation!

At any rate, at 11:45am on Monday morning an ebullient Dr. Miles Mannas called me, cheerful, friendly, voluble and warm of spirit and cadence to say, as I began my radiation therapy negotiation, Dr. Mannas kindly interrupting me …

“Raymond, I don’t know who told you you’d be going in for radiation therapy in the fall, that we hadn’t caught all the cancer during your surgery last autumn. All of your current tests indicate you are cancer free, we caught it all. There is no necessity for you to subject yourself to radiation therapy, it’s simply not necessary.”

We spoke for awhile more, Dr. Mannas asking …

“So, how many diapers are you going through a day? ‘One’, I told him. “Only one,” he asked, a tone of surprise in his voice. “Yep,” I replied. “And how are you feeling these days, “Pretty darn good,” I replied. “I’m writing again, walking up to and beyond five kilometres a day with my dog, socializing with friends, and all and all, I feel as good as I did before I was diagnosed with prostate cancer almost two years ago.”

“And what about your pain medication, the hydromorphone? Have you found your way clear to reducing your pain medication intake?” I replied that I had not taken a hydromorphone tablet in over two months, and prior to that I had reduced my intake to a 1mg tablet most, and then, some days, that I was good.

We spoke for awhile more, as I said to him …

“As you may be aware, prior to my surgery last year, each of the four nurses, two of the anaesthesiologists, three of the surgeons who would be assisting you, and a number of other medical professionals who would be present in the operating theatre during my surgery, told me of how skilled you are, and how fortunate I was to have you as my surgeon. But they said more …

Each individual who visited me prior to my surgery told me how much they loved you, of your wry and boisterous sense of humour, how you always remembered their birthdays, how collegial and supportive you have been in regards to their careers, and their deep and abiding affection for you. We don’t always know what people are saying about us when we’re not around, not in the room. I thought it right to let you in on how much your colleagues respect and admire you, and how much you have added to the quality of their lives, and their work experience at VGH.”

There was a momentary pause, after which Dr. Mannas said …

“Thank you, Raymond. Your words mean a great deal to me. Really, I had no idea. Thank you for your kindness in letting me know. You’ve made my day!”

I thanked him for his skill and all the work he had put in, all of the tests and interventions in which he had engaged on my behalf over the past eighteen months, since he first began treating me in early January of 2025.

And with that, our call came to an end.

And now, all these months later, I am over the moon!

Stories of a Life | Oct. 31st | Raymond’s Surgery Day

June 20, 2026fixin to die rag, Food & Health, Jude and Megan, Stories of a Life, Stories of a Life Redux, Vancouver, VanRamblingsalasdair, dr. andrzej buczkowski, dr. brad fritz, dr. fergal donnellan, dr. miles mannis, elliott, fergus, gemini ai, gwen giesbrecht, heather, hilar cholangeocarinoma, kelly ryan, meaghan, nick ellan, prostate cancer, radical robotic prostatecomy, susan walsh, teague, vancouver general hospital, wendy pedersenRaymond Tomlin

Saturday, October 31 2025, Raymond is admitted to VGH for a radical prostatectomy

As I’ve written previously, on Friday, October 31 2025, I was admitted to the Vancouver General Hospital for a radical prostatectomy, in response to my Stage 4 prostate cancer. My prostate would be removed over the course of a 3½ hour surgery.

My friend Susan Walsh drove me to the hospital, leaving at 8:45am, arriving at VGH at 9am, where she dropped me off.

I climbed the stairs on the west side of the Jim Pattison Pavilion, just off Laurel Street, and upon entering the building walked down the long corridor towards the Admitting desk, where a woman behind a glass enclosure told me that my arrival was expected. Next, I was directed to an elevator leading to the third floor, and ushered into a carrel, with curtains on three sides, and given a blue gown to wear, a new, softer gown construction less given to exposing a patient’s body. I then climbed into what I found to be a quite comfy bed, the back of the bed tilted up.

No sooner was I comfy in my bed than a young woman in her 30s approached the carrel, my bed and me, introducing herself as Jen, the lead nurse on my upcoming prostate cancer surgery, that was planned to start 75 minutes hence.

Staring directly at me, Jen said …

“Cholangeo, huh?” ‘Yep’, I replied. “You know, Raymond, every other patient I’ve worked with who had been diagnosed with cholangeo died, yet here you are, looking pretty darn fit, and in good shape and quite ready for your upcoming cancer surgery. Why is it that you are here, lying in your comfortable bed, full of vim and vigour, when all of the other cholangeo patients who suffered from your cholangeo diagnosis are long gone, expiring within weeks or months. Gone. Dead.”

“A miracle,” I said. After which I explained what had occurred in the year of my discontent in being diagnosed and treated for my Hilar cholangeocarinoma.

“Well, I’m glad you’re still with us,” Jen said. “I’ll see you in the operating room in about an hour. I’ll be the one keeping an eye on the doctors to make sure that all goes well. You can count on me.”

An Explanatory Digression

Hilar cholangeocarinoma. A bit of background. On October 7th, 2016 I was diagnosed with Hilar cholangiocarcinoma by Dr. Fergal Donnellan.

Weekly for the next six months I attended at VGH where Dr. Donnellan installed a stent in my bile duct. By Christmas, I was in palliative care at St. John’s Hospice at the University of British Columbia. Apparently, I was a goner, the tests definitive.

Problem was, I felt pretty great (October 2016 was the worst month of pain I had ever experienced), in January 2017 attending the Women’s March — with Gwen Giesbrecht, currently running with COPE for a position on the Vancouver School Board, and longtime DTES community activist Wendy Pedersen, and her then 11-year-old daughter — to protest the election of Donald Trump as U.S. President.

Long story short, my family physician, Dr. Brad Fritz, assigned me to meet with VGH urology specialist and surgeon Dr. Andrzej Buczkowski to review my case.

In early January 2017, Dr. Buczkowski showed me the results of several MRIs, CT scans and PET scans, which showed from the neck down, the lymph nodes in my body were a flaming red, the bile duct cancer having spread throughout my body. Dr. Buczkowski expressed surprise that I looked healthy, and fit, when given the surfeit of tests I had been subjected to for months indicated I should be dead.

Over the course of the next two months, I was tested and re-tested, ending up on an operating table at Vancouver General Hospital at 6am on Friday morning, March 7 2017, where from 6am to 3pm, Dr. Donnellan rooted around in my body looking for the cancer spread — the results of the tests conducted by Dr. Buczkowski indicated that my bile duct cancer had disappeared. At 3pm, I was wheeled to a ward, still fast asleep, and still under the effects of the anaesthetic I had been given.

At 4:30pm, standing at the foot of my bed, Dr. Donnellan voiced what he told me later were the three most difficult words he had ever expressed: “It’s a miracle!” My cancer was gone, there was absolutely no trace of my cancer anywhere, not in my liver, pancreas, gall bladder, lungs, or bile duct. And so it has remained until, and I expect beyond, this day.

My friend Margery Duda, a longtime community pools advocate (whom Kareem Allam must meet), picked me up from the hospital to ferry me home.

I’ll write about the entire journey of my Hilar cholangeocarinoma in days to come.

Jen and I spoke for about 10 minutes, after which she departed, where upon three of her nurse colleagues who would be attending at my surgery approached my carrel to introduce themselves. Next up, my surgeon, a cheerful Dr. Miles Mannas and three of his urologist colleagues dropped by my carrel, as well as two oncologists who had been supervising my case, three anesthesiologists and the two doctors who would be conducting my upcoming, precise, robotic surgery.

At 10:25am I was wheeled into the operating room for my radical prostatectomy that, unlike the “photo” above (created with Gemini AI), appeared to be the size of a football field. I was approached by the lead anesthesiologist, with whom I had met previously, in preparation for my prostate cancer surgery. “I am going to apply the anesthetic now,” he said. And I was out like a light.

The surgery lasted until late afternoon, after which I was wheeled to a recovery ward, where I was attended to for the next 12 hours by an absolutely tremendous nurse — with a wry and wicked sense of humour — and very well cared for.

Alasdair and Fergus walking down Waterloo Street towards Almond Park

At 10am on Saturday morning, my friend Alasdair and his son Fergus (about whom I wrote on Tuesday) arrived to pick me up and take me home, where I remained bed-ridden for the next three months, continuing the worst part of my recovery through early June, cared for by Nick Ellan, Alasdair, his bride Meaghan (and their two children, Fergus and Elliott), my neighbours Heather, Judi, Kevin and Laurie — and all other members of my housing co-op, for that matter, about which circumstance, I will write several times over the coming weeks and months — my good friend Kelly Ryan, and the dog we share, Teague the schnauzer wonder dog.

Teague the schnauzer wonder dog, my constant and much loved companion

Health Update: Raymond Goes Into VGH today for Prostate Surgery at VGH

October 31, 2025Food & Health, Jude and Megan, Vancouver, VanRamblingsdr. brad fritz, dr. miles mannis, prostate cancer, radical robotic prostatecomy, surgery, vancouver general hospitalRaymond Tomlin

Fourteen months after being diagnosed with Stage Four prostate cancer — as is the case with former U.S. President Joe Biden — today I was admitted to the Vancouver General Hospital for a three and a half hour radical robotic prostatectomy, after doctors at VGH discovered — following an MRI, a bone scan and a biopsy (more than one actually — that, like Joe Biden I had a Gleason score of 9 …

For the past 9 months, I have been subjected to a number of biopsies and regular injections, and participated in the Gun Study — a multi-centre North American clinical trial headed up by the Vancouver General Hospital’s Dr. Martin Gleave, the head of the Prostate Clinic at VGH.

Early on, it was determined that I must have my prostate removed employing the radical robotic prostatecomy procedure.

Over the past months, I have taken a variety of medications — Apalalutamide, Zytiga and Prednisone — which has effectively removed my sexuality and turned me into a eunuch, which is to say a male who has been chemically castrated, and with the removal of my prostate surgically castrated.

This morning after being transported to Vancouver General Hospital by my friend, Susan Walsh — spouse of my friend, the late Michael Walsh, who for 50 years was the lead film critic at The Province newspaper — who accompanied me to Admitting, after which I was escorted to a bed in a ward in the south tower of the Jim Pattison Pavilion, on floor T6.

As you read this, I will be in surgery, a three and a half hour major surgery where an extensive, complex procedure will see my abdomen “opened up”, which is to say, my surgery involves entering a major body cavity ( in this case the abdomen). My anaesthesiologist told me that, under his supervision, I will be given a general anesthesia that will require an at least initial 72-hour long recovery period, requiring an overnight stay tonight, or if complications arise, an extended hospital stay. In any event, my anesthesiologist told me that, “Raymond, you will be ‘stoned’ for at least 72 hours.” Fun times ahead, I guess.

I will be left with three incisions — a three and a half inch vertical incision at the bottom of the public bone, and two more somewhat lesser incisions, top right and top left. I was told I must not lift anything heavier than 10 pounds post surgery, less the incisions rupture, creating wound dehiscence, which occurs when a surgical incision reopens, where internal organs might protrude through the wound.

Should things to well with the surgery — which my family physician, Dr. Brad Fritz, Dr. Mannas, my surgeon (and other of his colleagues in the Prostate Clinic), and my anesthesiologist believes is most probable — I will be picked up from hospital at 10am on Saturday, by my friend the every beauteous, incredibly bright, politically astute, accomplished and loving Meaghan (and her incredibly great football (British football) loving husband Alasdair, and their two children, Fergus and Elliot, who are the most zen children I’ve ever met — needless to say, I love both children (a reciprocal affection, it would seem), as I do Alasdair and Meaghan.

Count me as one very lucky and grateful individual.

I will spend the weekend in bed at home, attended to by Susan, by my Co-op neighbours — again, count me as the luckiest man in the world that Jason, Heather, Laurie and Kevin, Tatiana, Judi, Jette, Alex, Alexandra and Jordan, and all of my other fellow Broadview Housing Co-op members are possessed of an uncommon humanity, and a dedication to building a better and more loving world.

Post surgery I will have a catheter inserted, for a period of one week — rather than the five plus weeks I had a very painful catheter inserted in March and April. Like ouch. Julia, the registered nurse who has given me regular injections over the past 9 months (“Pants down, Mr. Tomlin. Bend over now.”) will remove the catheter on Friday, November 7th. My friend, and personal health saviour, Kelly Ryan (we provide “co-parenting” of Teague) will travel with me to the Gordon and Leslie Diamond Centre for removal of the catheter, and then ferry me home.

Teague the dog, only the most loving dog in the world

There will be a one-year post surgery recovery period during which I will have to wear incontinence underwear. Friends of mine who have had prostate surgery tell me that the worst of the incontinence occurs during the first three or four months.

Now that I’m off the prostate medication, it is likely that my energy and vitality will return, affording me the opportunity to provide more intensive coverage of next year’s Vancouver municipal election.

My support for 46-year-young Vancouver Liberals Mayoral candidate Kareem Allam — Vancouver’s Zohran Mamdani (ssshhh, don’t tell anyone) remains strong, as I hope to write (extensively) in the months to come.

VanRamblings Weighs In On Raymond’s Health. Pt. 1

September 5, 2025fixin to die rag, Food & Health, Stories of a Life, Unbelievable Truth, Vancouver, VanRamblingsdiagnosis, lifelabs, MRI, prostate cancerRaymond Tomlin

One year ago today I was diagnosed with prostate cancer by my family physician of 42 years, the phenomenally skilled Dr. Brad (“call me Brad”) Fritz, who in 2016 also diagnosed me with my first rare form of terminal cancer, hilar cholangiocarcinoma, more commonly known as Klatskin’s tumour, a type of bile duct cancer.

My latest cancer diagnosis arose from a concerning PSA — prostate-specific antigen — blood test, an early detection of prostate cancer, that would require an MRI, followed by a biopsy of my prostate, to confirm Dr. Fritz’s diagnosis.

At the time, I was told that there would be a 3 month wait for an MRI (magnetic resonance imaging) test. By month’s end, I was told that the wait for an MRI was one year, and offered the opportunity to have a $2500 MRI at a privately operated clinic, not covered nor funded by the province’s public medicare system.

My annual income is $25,000. I would require more than one MRI. Paying privately for an MRI was simply out of the question.

I thought to myself, as a long time supporter of the NDP, “If David Eby or Adrian Dix were diagnosed with prostate cancer, would they have to wait a year for an MRI?” Not likely, I thought. Neither did I believe that either of these two gentlemen would avail themselves of a private MRI, given the optics of the situation.

As such, my coverage of last autumn’s provincial election took on a distinctively — and utterly out of character — harsh tone on VanRamblings.

Note should be made that prostate cancer is the most common form of cancer for men, with a five year survival rate of 90% for most forms of prostate cancer, and 37-50% for Stage 4 cancer. I kept thinking to myself, “What if I have Stage 4 cancer —which proved to be the case — if I have to wait a year for an MRI, and longer than that for a prostate biopsy, what are the chances I would even be around for an MRI appointment a year from the date of my original diagnosis?”

I spoke with the constituency staff in David Eby’s office — he’s my MLA, I’ve worked on all of his campaigns — who shrugged when I told them of my dilemma, telling me there was nothing they could do for me, I’d just have to wait.

I will note that the response of David’s constituency staff on this occasion was completely out of character for any of his past, or present, constituency staff, a one time aberration for an overworked constituency staff, too often subject to concerning — often fear inducing — protests outside of his constituency office.

My friend Kelly Ryan — a one-time host of CBC’s As It Happens — was none-too-pleased with the response of David Eby’s constituency staff. Neither was she overly pleased with the level of Dr. Fritz’s advocacy — who I believe and know to be the best, most caring, most skilled and most competent doctor in the city, who has always been an advocate of the first order for me, dating back to 1983.

As the weeks went by, Kelly (“Men! They just don’t know how to take care of themselves. They require a strong woman to advocate for them”) insisted I make a follow up appointment with Dr. Fritz, which occurred on December 5th, an appointment to which she accompanied me, none-too-happy about the circumstance, nor Dr. Fritz. I had a PSA test conducted at the LifeLabs clinic across the street from Dr. Fritz’s office, the week before my December 5th appointment.

Sitting in Dr. Fritz’s office, he expressed alarm. The results of my PSA test was off the charts, requiring immediate emergency action on his part. Right then and there, he contacted VGH and attempted to make an emergency MRI appointment for me. Fortunately, there was a cancellation in the prostate clinic biopsy clinic at VGH the next morning at 3:35am, which I was more than happy to attend.

The three MRI technicians who performed the MRI were outstanding. Dr. Fritz received the results of the MRI later that week, and made an early January appointment with uro-oncologist Dr. Miles Mannas (“Raymond, he’s the best. That’s why I’m referring you to him. If, as I believe will prove to be the case, you require surgery to remove your prostate, he’s the most skilled surgeon, and will provide you with the very best care. You’ll be in good hands with Dr. Mannas”).

Dr. Fritz made an appointment for me with Dr. Mannas for early January of this year. Dr. Mannas, in turn, made an appointment for me for a bone scan at VGH, to determine if the prostate cancer had spread. Even before my appointment with him, and the biopsy he would conduct, Dr. Mannas believed that I had prostate cancer. The only question was, how severe was the prostate cancer?

The good news. The bone scan indicated the prostate cancer had not spread into my bones, unlike poor Joe Biden (who, given the results of his bone scan, indicating spread, has 5 – 7 years to live). The not-so-good news: my Gleason score was 9, as bad a score as is possible (no one has a Gleason score of 10). The prostate cancer was so severe that neither radiation nor chemotherapy would be offered. The only route: surgery, preceded by months of hormone therapy. Surgery to remove my prostate is schedule for mid-November.

One of my concerns about the surgery — my second surgery ever, my first surgery the removal of my tonsils at age 4 — was the loss of my sexuality, long an important part of my life. That concern was soon put to rest. With the 4 apalutimide tablets I take each morning, along with 4 Zytiga tablets — each of the tablets is huge, and hard to swallow — as well as the prednisone tablet Dr. Mannas has prescribed that I take each morning, all of the testosterone in my body has been knocked out, my sexuality gone, obliterated. And you know what: it’s no big deal, I had nothing to fear or be concerned about. In fact, it’s kind of a relief. I have been very, very lucky in my love life to have been loved by strong, beautiful women of accomplishment and great intelligence, and consider myself to have been very, very fortunate in my romantic and sexual life.

The other salutary result of the medication I’m on: my latest PSA test indicated a negligible result, perfect for my upcoming prostate surgery.

The down side to all the medication I’m on (more on that tomorrow) is that I am constantly fatigued, have a difficult time getting out of bed in the morning, and conducting the affairs of my life. To some great extent, I have become incompetent in the conduct of my life, when for many years I considered myself to be “a man’s man,” able to take on any chore, with a ready approach to any challenge.

No more.

Fortunately, in addition to acting as the best possible advocate for me lo these many months, my friend (and saviour) Kelly Ryan has afforded me the opportunity to “co-parent” Teague the dog, only the friendliest, most loving waggly tail dog in the whole world, a loyal companion who I take for several walks a day most days, when I might otherwise remain prone on my bed fatigued and lifeless all day long, my iPad by my side, who resides with me on occasion — as he did for most of July and early August, and for much of this past week.

Writing on VanRamblings, keeping up with daily posting has become all but impossible. The only things that keeps me active on VanRamblings are the prospect of Kareem Allam becoming Vancouver’s next Mayor — a man I believe to be brilliant, skilled, humane and well-schooled, the most sophisticated political operative I have met in the 60+ years I have covered politics, a charismatic political figure — who believes in and practices the politics of joy — who fills me with hope for our world, who I believe will emerge as a transformational Mayor for our city next year, as well as our nation and perhaps beyond in the years to come, our best Mayor since Philip Owen, or going back to the 70s, Art Phillips.

And for the next six weeks, writing about the Vancouver International Film Festival, long our window on the world, and most cherished arts festival.

In the past, whether covering municipal, provincial or federal politics, or my most beloved VIFF, it was not unusual for me to dedicate 20 hours a day attending political events or festival screenings, arriving home to write about each until 5am, creating videos, or transcribing interviews. No more.

I am all but bereft of energy.

I have 8 weeks remaining on my daily regimen of apalutimade, Zytiga and prednisone — which Dr. Mannas tells me is at the seat of my daily fatigue / lack of energy — in the lead up to my mid-November prostate surgery. Post surgery, it will probably be another 6 to 8 months before any semblance of energy returns.

How do I feel? I feel lucky. I feel fortunate to have a roof over my head within a housing co-op I have called home for 41 years this year. I feel fortunate to be surrounded by my Co-op neighbours, the finest people it has ever been my good fortune to work and enjoy life with, who couldn’t be more supportive and caring. I feel gratitude to VanRamblings’ many readers who hang in with me despite all.

Now, Dan Fumano — PostMedia’s first rate civic affairs reporter — will be disappointed with me (as will Charlie Smith, the once upon a time superb editor of The Georgia Straight) for writing at too great a length today. “Raymond, keep your columns at 750 words. Any longer than that and you’ll lose readers.” I proffer an apology to Dan, to Charlie and to you.

Sadly, my prostate cancer is the least of my health woes. More tomorrow.