Life has its little ironies.

I picked up the guitar when I was in college. I learned a few chords, mainly G, C and D, and strummed along with a few John Denver tunes (remember “Annie’s Song”?). But then life got busy, with a growing family and graduate school. I put down the guitar, but vowed to pick it up again when my life circumstances permitted.

The circumstances seemed permissive about eight years ago when I purchased a high-quality guitar and set out in earnest to learn to play. I was making great progress, and was beginning to develop my own finger-style method of playing when my hands started to give me pain. Not just a little pain, but a lot. Enough to give me trouble with my newly developed talent. I was becoming not a little bitter about the irony of it.

I went to my doctor about the hand pain. He suspected arthritis, and called for some blood work to confirm it. He added, “And while we’re at it, let’s do everything: cholesterol, liver function, PSA, the works.”

The lab results came back negative for arthritis (I’ve since learned that I have a different form of arthritis that is not detected in this way), but there was something unexpected: my PSA was unusually high for a man of my age at 47.

I had it checked again: still high. Again, a few weeks later: even higher. A few trips to the urologist, that culminated in my surrendering to a biopsy, led to some of the worst news imaginable: I was positive for prostate cancer.

Current wisdom is that all men should begin annual screenings for prostate cancer at age 50, and that those of higher risk (African Americans, men with a family history) should begin at 40.

Had I been a more health-conscious person than I am, perhaps I would have gone in for screening at 50. That would be in the year 2007. More likely, I would have put it off, as I hate going to the doctor.

I related all of this yesterday to a urologist with whom I had a consultation for cancer treatment. He told me that, given the current stage of the cancer, had I waited another two years, it would likely be beyond any curative treatment.

He said, “You should probably send your primary care physician a box of chocolates, because he may have saved your life by being so on the ball.” He’s probably right about this. Do you like the kind with caramel on the inside, Dr. Bergstrom?

Meanwhile, whenever I pick up the guitar and play, say, Duane Allman’s “Little Martha” with hands that ache, I thank God for the pain that might also have been instrumental in saving me.

For without it, I would surely continue to be blissfully ignorant of a silent but growing cancer that today is treatable but tomorrow may not be.

Ironic, isn’t it?

Name withheld by request

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