Cancer Update: The Long and the Short of It. And Choosing Joy.
When Cancer Comes Calling – Book Three: Soundings #6
David R. Weiss – June 6, 2026

It’s been a while since I shared an update about my journey with prostate cancer. So, grab yourself something to drink and find a comfy place to sit. We might be a while.

TLDR: Odds are this cancer will kill me sooner or later. But I’m still placing my bets on joy.

The news right now is better than that first sentence suggests. But in Cancer Land the news almost always come with a large grain of salt.

Here’s the quickest recap of my saga. In October 2024 a standard PSA test flagged me for potential prostate cancer. Further tests confirmed that, indicating it was a very aggressive form of cancer. In March 2025 my prostate was removed, along with several pelvic lymph nodes. The nodes were clear, but the tumor analysis confirmed Gleason 9, Grade 5 cancer: very high risk. An apex predator as prostate cancers go.

To make matters worse, in June 2025 two follow-up tests showed that some of the cancer was missed in the surgery, nestled in a lymph node not taken out. This was sobering, unsettling, downright scary news. I spent months educating myself on treatment options, changing doctors and slowing things down until I felt I had established myself as an active participant in my own treatment choices.

In September 2025, in consultation with my urologist, radiation oncologist, medical oncologist, and integrative oncologist, I initiated an aggressive treatment regime. Banking on the latest research, which shows promising results for persons with early stage very high-risk prostate cancer, I started two testosterone blockers—effectively reducing my testosterone to nothing—followed by 33 sessions of radiation to my pelvic region over seven weeks in October and November.

Some of these studies suggest (in ways doctors don’t yet understand it) that this combination therapy somehow also supercharges the immune system, providing a robust multi-pronged attack on the cancer. It was an intense treatment regime. By the end of my radiation sessions (and for a month afterwards) I was knocked on my ass. Fatigue was brutal, but it lifted in time for me to turn 66 on Christmas.

In mid-January I had my first PSA test following the completion of radiation. It came back “undetectable.” I repeated the test in late April. Again, “undetectable.” My next test is in early August. And I’m hoping, of course, for a threepeat

But how am I doing, really? Let’s start with the long of it.

Even now my odds of beating this cancer remain long. As in L-O-N-G long. It is absolutely possible that I’ll reach 85 or beyond and end up dying of natural causes. That’s the dream. But it’s not likely. At all.

This is despite stacking up those two back-to-back undetectable results on PSA tests. That’s also the dream, so to speak. If I can put together an unbroken series of undetectable test results over five years, I’ll be declared “cancer free.” But this is Cancer Land and when your lymph nodes (the interstate system of the body) have been invaded by Grade 5 Gleason 9 prostate cancer, even after five years of “undetectables,” claiming to be “cancer free” is just wishful thinking.

True, these renegade cells of mine have been at least momentarily knocked on their respective asses. They are presently few enough and sufficiently far between so that they sit below the threshold of the PSA test. But they’re almost certainly still there. Hiding. Biding their time. Just waiting for an opportunity to run amok again. Thus, the long odds.

Nonetheless, these undetectable scores are cause for celebration. They tell me several things.

First, my “official” medical treatment—the combo regime of radiation  and testosterone annihilation (that’s really what some doctors call it when you use two testosterone blockers to drive testosterone all the way down to ZERO), plus my supercharged immune system—has succeeded in reducing the cancer to negligible levels. Good on them.

Second, my own “non-medical” regime has proven successful as well. Minimally, that “success” is reflected in my genuine sense of agency: a disposition with mental-emotional-spiritual aspects that is critical in facilitating healing in the body. It can’t guarantee healing (this is no “snake oil” claim), but a felt sense of agency bolsters the conditions necessary for whatever healing is possible to unfold.

Some of my personal interventions have been using vitamins and supplements backed by evidence-based research showing their legitimate capacity to help strengthen my immune system, to directly fight cancer cells themselves, or to allay the sometimes-debilitating side effects of medical treatment.

Others of my personal interventions have included disciplined commitments to time-restricted eating (consuming ALL my calories for the day in a 10-hour window at least 26-27 days each month), resistance training, and walking. Since July 1, 2025, I’ve maintained an average of 10,000-11,000 steps per day. Not that I hit 10,000 steps every day, but over the span of every single month, I’ve average 10,000 steps per day—or better.

I’m hardly an elite athlete. And Minnesota’s summer heat and winter cold hardly encourage a choice to walk each day. But I’ve done that. I’ve lost 5-7 pounds over the past year (despite the typical 10-pound weight gain when on testosterone blockers). My blood pressure is superb. And my mental well-being is steadier for all those steps.

Third, I’ve been active in educating myself, sharing openly about my journey, and welcoming the wisdom and support of others. These choices have been essential to empowering myself and to feeling the care of others.

It would be impossible to measure just how much of my current cancer suppression is the result of these non-medical interventions versus the “official” medical treatment. But I assert categorically: it is not zero. And I would argue that separating the two approaches as though they could be disentangled in their impact is wrongheaded. I have without question strengthened my body’s capacity to be a full partner in my cancer treatment. We are doing this work together.

That’s critical, because the work of the radiation is over. It’s killing energy reverberated in my body for several months after the treatments ended, but it’s done now. The testosterone annihilation will continue for another 9-18 months. That’s 15-24 months total. I want to be done after 15-18 months because the side effects multiply the longer your body is starved of testosterone. I’ve currently got 6 months under my belt—quite literally. At this point the role of this ongoing testosterone annihilation is to keep whatever cancer cells remain so starved of testosterone that my body’s own defenses—supercharged by the combo treatment and further amplified and supported by my non-medical interventions—can do their best work in battling the cancer to a draw or, better yet, to a defeat.

The human body’s—MY human body’s—capacity for self-defense is remarkable. And as I count the months until I can set aside the testosterone blockers, my goal is to maintain my own discipline of cancer-fighting strategies, so that when the day comes that it’s “just me” versus the cancer, it’s ALL of me versus the cancer—plus all the vitamins and supplements, all the disciplined eating and walking, and all the family and friends around me. It’s all of us versus the cancer.

In the meantime, I celebrate each undetectable test, but I deliberately put an asterisk next to each one, lest I be tempted to forget the larger less celebratory reality: my odds remain long. Damn long.

To say that I nevertheless bet on joy is not a denial of those odds. It’s a reiteration of my determination to zealously persist in my own choices. To insist that while my agency may not be able to rewrite the odds, it can write my response to them. And my response is to choose joy.

If you know me, you know that exuberant joy is a stretch for me. I take my joy in quieter ways. For me, it is joy to pursue justice in our world, to offer hospitality in my home, to savor my family and friends, to be a partner with Margaret in all of life, and to craft words that meet life’s messiness with meaning (or, failing that, with mercy and compassion). These are practices of joy for me. And for whatever time I have left—undetectable or otherwise—I choose them. I choose joy.

That’s the long of it.

Now, for the short of it. This is a more vulnerable and tender piece to write, but no less a part of my cancer journey, no less at stake in my choice for joy.

[Take a deep breath, David. Here we go …]

Thanks testosterone annihilation, my penis is now so short that I occasionally have to go “digging” in my pubic region to find a tiny span of shaft with which to aim my pee. Read that sentence until your heart breaks. It is among the most vulnerable sentences I have ever penned.

Loss of penis length is a common side-effect of testosterone blockers. In my case, I won the trifecta. About fifteen years ago I developed Peyronie’s disease (a condition where hardened plaque in the penis shaft make it impossible to have a full erection). I lost an inch of length to that. When my prostrate was removed, so was the bit of urethra running through it. Pulling the loose ends of the urethra together to reattach them took another inch away. And now testosterone annihilation has erased another inch. So, you can see why I’m sometimes “digging.”

Technically, I’ve only lost two inches of a flaccid penis; the Peyroine’s loss only affects my erections. But listen, it’s now been 100% flaccid—24/7 without interruption—for 275 days. If you have a penis, you know length is a bit fluid. Morning, night, heat, cold, nerves, etc. can all affect how your penis hangs on any given day. But the fact is, for me, the longer I’m in testosterone annihilation therapy, the less penis I have to hang (or hang on to when I pee). This didn’t happen overnight. But by now it’s my undeniable reality.

As you might imagine—though I doubt you can fully imagine it—this is a mightily disorientating bodily experience. Not least, because a good part of me doesn’t care. With zero testosterone, I’m not just 110% impotent (no capacity at all to even make an overture at an erection), I’m also 110% indifferent to anything sexual.

This disorientation is multi-layered. I’m disoriented in my body because my capacity for arousal has completely vanished. But also, my interest in being aroused has vanished, so I can’t even properly lament the loss. It’s not even a distant sort of ache. It’s a memory so suddenly rendered fuzzy, that I can’t even recall it as part of my past except in an oddly abstract way.

To have largely lost view of my penis in the bathroom or when bathing is strange. But stranger yet is to be so emotionally indifferent to the loss. (Other than the immediate panic and frustration that I feel when my pee sprays wide right or wide left or straight forward because I have so little left to aim with.) Part of me—somewhere far away—thinks I should be alarmed, ashamed, outraged, panic-stricken at this. But testosterone-free me simply doesn’t give a flaccid fuck anymore.

Though I know at least enough to recognize this is some sad shit.

Perhaps some healthy portion of my desire and some small fraction of my lost length will return in a year or so, after I’ve been off testosterone blockers for several months. Fingers crossed that when I beg my balls to get back in the game, my own testosterone production kicks back in. Who knows, maybe my capacity for erections will return, though, if I’m honest, that is increasingly less likely because day-by-day, week-by-week, month-by-month, the tissue in my penis is losing its very ability to engorge and stiffen. Welp.

Today I describe that possible future with disarming indifference. Maybe if my desire returns, I can at least properly lament the losses I can’t even emotionally feel right now.

There is one more dimension to “the short of it”—to the loss of length and the erasure of desire. Perhaps even trickier to name, but all the more worthy of words.

For most men (myself included) arousal can be random (an erotic dream, an unexpected “noticing” of an attractive person), chosen and solitary (masturbation), or casual. But for the past 27 years now, my arousal has been decidedly relational.

Margaret and I have had a rich, varied, fulfilling sex life. I won’t regale you with all the details (though I have put some of it into erotic poetry …). For this essay it’s sufficient to say that our lovemaking has been profound in its mutuality. Our hunger for pleasure and satisfaction has consistently been met by the other’s enthusiastic desire to pleasure and satisfy. We’ve navigated the unexpected challenge of my Peyronie’s and the changing seasons of our lives with grace.

This present navigation, however, is its own beast. Margaret’s libido has diminished a bit, but mine is altogether gone. I never “want” to touch her—a lie told to me by the chemicals coursing in my blood. A lie double-told, because I don’t even miss wanting to touch her. This is some even sadder shit!

I love her no less these days. Fair to say, I love her infinitely more. We’ve been through a bit much together these past years. But love is not lust (in its healthy hearty hunger for another). And at present there is NO bodily longing, not even the tiniest hint of arousal in that love.

We have made love several times in this new state of affairs. My penis has resolutely remained short. No surprise there. The real challenge is that my arousal—my very “interest” in the act itself—remains resolutely short as well. Lovemaking is still a holy moment for us, but now it is charged with complexity as never before.

I can still appreciate the gentle caress of her hand on my body as we make love, but that caress ignites nothing in me. I am choosing to be wholly present; meanwhile, my body is choosing to be wholly unaroused. It doesn’t mean I don’t welcome the touch. But it used to thrill me; it used to send my desire into overdrive. Now it merely “feels nice.” Worse, it doesn’t even bother me that the arousal isn’t there anymore. Arousal? What was that?

For my part, when I touch her, it is almost like an out-of-body experience. In our previous lovemaking my arousal rose with hers, my fingers and lips guided by her sighs, syncing my longing to her rising joy. Today I still bring her to satisfaction, but my body’s half of the conversation is absent. It is hard not to feel merely performative while I make love to the woman I love so entirely. My “longing” is definitely there: I want her to feel pleasure at my touch. But my longing is now completely detached from any bodily arousal. It is a willed longing, summoned moment by moment by fierce determination … into a body (mine!) that absolutely could not care less.

The words are fraught here! It is no chore to touch my beloved. But my own body is so muted in its capacity to sensually participate, that lovemaking in each and every moment requires choice after choice after choice. There is no embodied inertia. And there is no embodied reward.

Our intimacy is stronger, deeper, more mutual than ever. Our lovemaking remains a grace (at least an attempted grace!) even while this tactile terrain is so unfamiliar, unrecognizable, and uneven for both of us.

This, in all its layers, is the short of it. Here, too, I choose joy. That choosing has no power to re-lengthen my penis, restore my erection, or renew my arousal. I live with the radical (to the roots) uncertainty that any of these things will ever happen.

The choice for joy, though, reflects the gift that is my shared life with Margaret. There is much in our marriage that we chose. Just days ago, on our 25th anniversary, we re-read our marriage ceremony. We have lived out so well the promises we made to one another, the life we imagined for ourselves. We’ve raised our blended family into adulthood; welcomed grandchildren into our lives; set hospitality at the center of our household; and more. All chosen or welcomed causes for joy.

But there has also been much we did not chose. The death of Margaret’s mom just months after we married. My brother’s long struggle with alcoholism—and his sudden death too soon after finding his sobriety. My mom’s long slow descent into dementia before her death. My dad’s broken neck and the many struggles of his last year of life. The pain of a child’s divorce. The diagnosis of cancer or other serious disease in our family. Also, the ongoing plaque of deaths among black men and women at the hands of police and the scourge of gun violence in our communities. The fascism that afflicts our nation and the recent terror of the ICE surge in our state. And the coming climate fractures that will imperil much of the natural world. These are not chosen or welcomed causes for joy.

Indeed, like my present experience of sex, these are the undesired realities of our lives. The choice for joy here is not to celebrate any of these things. It is rather to say “I do, I do, I do” to Margaret again and again. It is to say with heartfelt fierceness, as we face all these messy, tragic, and unconscionable things—and strive to be a balm of mercy and a force for good—“I am still, more than ever, glad to be your beloved—short penis and all.”

Please don’t imagine I’m making light of an unfortunate situation. This is all deadly serious. It’s the latest in my cancer journey. The long and the short of it. And the disciplined choice for joy.

***

David Weiss is a theologian, writer, poet and hymnist, “writing into the whirlwind” of contemporary challenges, joys, and sorrows around climate crisis, sexuality, justice, peace, and family. Reach him at drw59mn@gmail.com. Read more at www.davidrweiss.com where he blogs under the theme, “Full Frontal Faith: Erring on the Edge of Honest.” Support him in Writing into the Whirlwind at www.patreon.com/fullfrontalfaith.