It's June 20th, the first day of summer in I'm knocked out on an operating table and a robot is removing my prostate gland. In April I learned I had stage II prostate cancer, and after questioning experts and survivors, I've decided surgery is the way to go.
Let's git 'er done. My mom died of cancer, but not me. No way. Now, almost 2 years later, I'm not going to say, "Thank god they caught it in time I'm so blessed, each new morning is a miracle Blah blah blah blah.
Your prostate gland labors in obscurity. The size of a golf ball, it's tucked away under your bladder, biding its time until you and your reproductive system decide to emit the sacred seed.
Then the semen assembly line kicks in: The sperm swim up from your testicles to the seminal vesicles, and there they are mixed in a happy bath of fructose, vitamin C, and prostaglandins. This brew then proceeds to your prostate, which tops it off with enzymes, citric acid, and zinc before your man milk is propelled out of your body and into hers with rather pleasant smooth-muscle contractions.
This long bomb triumphantly delivers your DNA into the end zone. Ah, glory days. But around the time in your life when you start to think more about your k than foreplay, your prostate starts to misfire. It swells in size, and the swelling clamps your urethra in a vise grip. If the cause of the swelling is benign, you're lucky. That's what those running-to-the-men's-room commercials for Flomax are all about.
