Part 2: I married my Booty Call

It was July 14, 2016. At around 8 a.m., I woke up to find my husband laying next to me, wide awake, staring at me.  

I half-expected him to say, "It's coffee time, get up, let's go!" I had been out of town all week for work and I assumed he wanted to take a trip to our favorite coffee shop. 

He did not. 

"Babe, the doctor called. It's cancer." 

His words swirled in the air, spawning a torrential storm of tears from my eyes as I thought about us, the kids, our future plans. Everything. You think about everything in that moment. And then you wonder how many moments you have left. 

He was only 43. How is this possible? 

I remember screaming in his face, "Noooooooooo!" I remember beating on his chest with my fists, screaming, crying. I spent 45 minutes in the shower, crying on my knees. 

My heart, screaming internally, "But we finally found each other. We finally found happiness." 

We had both been married before and survived horrible divorces when we met in 2012. My husband always tells me that we had to go through the bad to get to the good.

How did we get to the good? Oh, that's right, he was my booty call. But then we fell in love, got married and created this beautiful, blended family that was now being invaded by this bitch named "cancer."

You can thank the Yankees

How does a 43 year old man even suspect he has prostate cancer? You can thank the Yankees. And he HATES the Yankees. 

One Sunday afternoon in June, as he was watching a Yankees game, they cut to the broadcast booth as they chatted away about Prostate Cancer Awareness Month. 

Why my husband was watching a Yankees game in the first place still escapes me, but as the broadcasters ran down the list of symptoms, he realized he had one of them. It wasn't bad and it wasn't painful, but it was on "the list." 

The following week, he made an appointment to see a urologist.  

"Take the fucking thing out" 

We live in the mecca of specialized medical practice -- South Florida. And thank goodness! There's literally a specialist of [insert your ailment here] on every other corner. 

Dr. S, the urologist who found the cancer, laid out all the options. Radiation. laparoscopic, radical prostatectomy, ablasion therapy, the list goes one. 

As if it was even possible, Dr. S got even more serious. He wheeled his chair closer to my husband, locked eyes and said, "You're young and you're strong. Don't fuck around. Take the fucking thing out." 

And with that, my husband decided on the most invasive (but best shot at nerve-preserving) surgery (radical prostatectomy), which scared the hell out of me. Honestly, it all scared the hell out of me. 

He took "the fucking thing out"

On Oct. 18, 2016, my husband, at the age of 43, took "the fucking thing out." Although he would need a blood transfusion, the nearly five-hour surgery was successful.  

He spent four days in the hospital and three months on the couch, recovering from the radical prostatectomy. We took a hit financially since he's self employed. If he doesn't work, he doesn't get paid. 

But I gave zero fucks. The love of my life had been given a potential death sentence. Yet here he was on the couch, alive and breathing. 

His recovery was not easy. He was in excruciating pain for weeks from the incision that went from just below his belly button to his groin. But little by little, day-by-day, he got better. 

Most importantly, he was cancer free. 

* * * 

For more information about prostate cancer, visit the Prostate Cancer Foundation website.

Read Part 1: I married my Booty Call