My 1994 medical report was about to change everything. I had just turned 65, and my doctor decided to measure my PSA level. The result was 8.2—twice the so-called “normal” concentration. After a digital rectal exam, a urologist detected “the presence of a nodule,” and a biopsy confirmed the diagnosis of prostate cancer.

“Since I have cancer,” I thought, “let’s gather information and make a plan.” I was told it would take 10 to 12 years for the cancer to kill me, even if I did nothing to treat it. I didn’t want to worry my family.

After watching a PBS television program, reading extensively on the subject, and consulting two urologists who were not at all encouraging, I ended up at the Montreal General Hospital. On May 25, 1995, after three months of hormone therapy, I underwent a radical prostatectomy.

For three years, everything went well: I traveled to Atlanta as planned, had no symptoms, and my PSA stayed below 0.1. I had almost complete control over my bladder and frequently played golf and curling. However, I had become impotent, which did not preclude tenderness between my wife and me. Since we had grown children and our first grandchildren, we accepted it.

By late 1998, however, my PSA level started rising again, and I had to undergo a bone scan. The exam revealed a shadow above the sternum that the radiologist described as “possibly related to bone metastases.” I was given hormone therapy to starve the escaped cancer cells. My PSA dropped below 0.1 and stabilized until September 2001. Then, it started rising exponentially again. Despite this, I was in great shape, very active, and preparing to guide a delegation of 24 friends on a month-long trip to New Zealand and Australia. We were part of a group called The Friendship Force, which organizes visits to facilitate international exchanges. The shadow on my sternum was forgotten.

In December, a lump the size of a walnut appeared at the exact spot where the shadow had been detected three years earlier. My medication had to be changed twice, but the mass continued to grow, and my PSA kept rising. By mid-April 2002, the tumor had grown to the size of a small lemon, and an aspiration biopsy revealed it was malignant. I was then referred to a radiation oncologist to address the tumor and an oncologist to start chemotherapy. It had been eight years since my cancer was detected, and except for the surgery, my life had gone almost normally. We completed our South Pacific trip without incident. Our social life was increasingly active. Through the Friendship Force group, we had dozens of new friends. I had not yet experienced any pain.

My experience with chemotherapy (Taxotere) was a whole different adventure. Not that the pain was excruciating, but the treatment was exhausting. During the two weeks following each treatment, I lived like a zombie. On three occasions, I had to be hospitalized for two days to boost my white blood cell count. Additionally, my PSA had dropped dramatically to 0.3, and the bone metastases that had begun to appear in my rib cage remained relatively stable. At Christmas, we were able to host our three children, their spouses, and our four grandchildren at home.

Chemotherapy is not a curative treatment. In 2003, my PSA began to rise again, the bone metastases spread slowly, and I started experiencing the infamous bone pain that is so often discussed.

In my case, this did not prevent me from having an almost normal lifestyle. Every three or four weeks, sharp pains would settle in my ribs, sternum, or coccyx. However, with the help of painkillers, sometimes taken in high doses, I managed to overcome the ordeal, and the pain would completely disappear within 36 hours.

I don’t deceive myself. I know where this path will lead me—unless a miracle or a “magic pill” is discovered. But we are all heading in the same direction. I would like to make these moments easier for my family and friends. I feel that this situation worries them more than it worries me.