Feeling a Bit Full of Myself
When Cancer Comes Calling – Book Three: Soundings #7
David R. Weiss – July 30, 2026

I’m feeling a bit full of myself these days. Which is annoying.

Wait. Did you honestly just think to yourself, “About time you noticed”?! Ouch.

Anyway, I’m not talking about my ego. I’m talking about lymphedema. In my lower left leg. It’s swollen right now. Somedays uncomfortably so. That’s why I’m feeling full of myself, thank you very much.

Lymphedema results when some portion of your lymphatic system fails to keep the lymph moving along. Now, before I go any further, I need to offer this disclaimer: I am NOT a medical doctor. (Hell, I’m not any kind of doctor. I’m just a reasonably bright guy trying to understand my journey through CancerLand.)

When this swelling in my leg first appeared at the very end of June, I had three immediate reactions. (1) Thank God this didn’t happen two weeks earlier! (2) Damn you, Abiraterone! And (3) How did my right leg escape this fate?

See, two weeks earlier I’d been in California visiting my daughter—and hiking along the coast and among the redwoods, as well as exploring Oakland, San Francisco, and Berkeley. Had this swelling appeared then, it would’ve made me nervous about doing so much walking. And it would’ve likely precipitated a visit to Urgent Care. I’m so glad my vacation was lymphedema-free.

As for the abiraterone, turns out I owe it an apology, though one offered begrudgingly. This is the medication that “offs” my testosterone. Orgovyx shuts down my testicles, eliminating 95% or more of the testosterone production in my body. At this point, abiraterone comes along and says, “Hold my beer.” It shuts down my adrenal gland, source of the other 5% or so—effectively offing my testosterone altogether.

Were I on Orgovyx alone, I’d be undergoing testosterone suppression to slow or halt the spread of my prostate cancer. Adding abiraterone to the mix means I’m in a state of testosterone annihilation; there is not even a whiff of the “man-mone” left in me.

This wouldn’t be (and wasn’t) my first choice. But my prostate cancer is so damn aggressive, that throwing abiraterone at it alongside Orgovyx and radiation (according to peer-reviewed scientific studies) just might gain me a few more years before it metastasizes … and a better quality of life once it does. Which is why I said to the cancer, “Hold my beer.”

Seems like almost everything you can do to fight cancer involves some risk of unwelcome side effects. Plant-based medicines are a notable exception here. They’re not as directly potent as modern medical interventions like surgery, radiation, pharmaceuticals, chemotherapy, etc., but they rarely make a mess of the house when you ask them in.

Thus far, the noteworthy collateral damage from the cancer-fighting interventions I’ve used (surgery, radiation, testosterone annihilation) has included: total impotence, 110% loss of libido, occasional bouts of fatigue, some minor but unpredictable episodes of incontinence, and my incredible shrinking penis. And I’ve gotten off easy so far!

So, when the swelling in my leg appeared—and knowing that edema (pooling of blood in the veins) is a well-documented side effect of abiraterone, and one more likely to surface the longer you’re on it (I’m at ten months and counting)—I was quick to hurl a curse word its way.

Turns out I was wrong. I’ll own that. But I’ve still got a few things that abiraterone is at least partially implicated in (see list above), so I’m not putting the “Damn” far away.

My unswollen right leg proved to be the missing piece. When I reached out to my oncology pharmacist and my medical oncologist, they both swiftly dismissed abiraterone from the list of suspects. Were abiraterone to blame, the swelling would be “bilateral”—that is, in both my lower legs. Absent that, abiraterone was not to blame.

My medical oncologist did order a left leg ultrasound to make sure there wasn’t a blood clot causing this. The ultrasound came back clear: all my blood was moving just fine. Something other than blood was swelling my leg. His advice: follow up with my primary care physician.

I did. His first opening was a month away. But a MyChart message to his team got me an appointment is less than a week. By then I’d already bought two pair of knee-high compression socks (tan—a fashion faux pax that curdled my self-consciousness during shorts season) and mail-ordered a six-pack of white crew-height compression socks that couldn’t get here soon enough.

My symptoms were first noticed (and have remained most noticeable) in my foot and ankle. They were visibly swollen. Never painful, per se, but swollen enough that every bit of my foot (including the bottom) pressed against my shoe in a way that felt weird-awkward-uncomfortable. The first two days I found myself walking with a slight limp because my left foot just felt strange; I wasn’t sure I could trust this new version of it.

Since them the swelling has waxed and waned. Eventually it rose to my calf, where the thickest part measured an entire inch larger in circumference than my right calf. Never painful here either, but on its peak days (maybe 4-5 days over the past month) my calf has felt … taut. Like the skin is stretched to the max. An unsettling feeling because you can’t help but wonder, what happens if this gets worse. (Spoiler: it wants to.)

My foot has been swollen pretty much the entire month, though the degree of swelling changes from day to day. Okay, I’ll just say this bluntly: the two absolute worst days (coming two weeks apart) were after several hours of yard work, including an hour or more crouching or kneeling while weeding a garden bed. Now, I actually don’t mind weeding. I find it monotonously relaxing and tangibly rewarding. But, Margaret, I’m afraid from now on, I’m going to have to leave that relaxation and reward to you.

Back to the doctors’ office. I really like my primary care doctor. Not only does he really know his stuff, he can explain it in plain English, and he takes time to really listen. Anyway, he’d obviously reviewed my file in advance, because he came into the room ready with answers.

After reviewing my symptoms with me and examining my leg, he pulled up an article on the computer. “You’ve got lymphedema. It’s when your lymphatic fluids stops circulating the way it should. It happens in about one-third of men who have a radical prostatectomy (surgery) followed by radiation. In your case, you had a couple lymph nodes removed from the left side of your pelvis, followed by radiation, with extra dosing on that same left side (because that’s where the remaining cancer was). As a result, your left side pelvic lymph nodes have been damaged. They drive the circulation of lymphatic fluid. And right now, they’re not working well enough to keep it from building up in your lower leg. That’s why it’s only on the left side—because both the surgery and the radiation impacted your lymph nodes on that side the most.”

He recommended I get some knee-high compression socks (I ordered a 3-pack, white) and he gave me a referral to a physical therapist who specializes in lymphatic massage. This is a special form of massage that encourages the lymphatic system to “move along.” Because all the lymph in my lower leg needs to reach my left arm pit (or thereabouts) before starting its journey back, this massage starts by “warming up” the lymph system above the leg. I’ve done this a couple times myself following the instruction of a certified lymphatic massage therapist on YouTube.

You start with light circles on your abdomen and pelvic region. Then move up to the left arm pit and slowly work your way down to the lower leg and foot. The idea is you want to get all the lymph above the swelling gently “energized” and ready to flow. That way, when you massage the swollen areas the system above it is already awake. I’m sure when I meet with the PT, I’ll learn more.

This, apparently, is going to become my new monotonously relaxing activity. It may actually help, too, but the lymphatic system responds slowly, so I doubt it will be as tangibly rewarding as weeding. Oh well.

Here’s what else I know at this point.

Once it appears as a condition, lymphedema is incurable. All “treatment” is management of symptoms; there is no cure. This is with me for the rest of my life. (But may my years swell far more than my legs.)

It is chronic. The swelling will wax and wane—and there are steps I can take to max the wane and minimize the wax. Compression socks, lymphatic massage, hydration, exercise, elevation, low salt in my diet. All management strategies, but at least I am not helpless here.

It is complex. If the lymphatic fluid lingers too long in my foot or leg, over time the skin will thicken and the tissue beneath it will scar. Worse, because lymphedema is a weakening of my lymphatic circulation (a core part of my immune system), this leg and foot will now be highly susceptible to infection because any immune response to even minor cuts, scrapes, burns, bug bites will be slower and less robust. Cellulitis and even sepsis are possible. Whoa! I guess I’ll be washing my foot and leg with extra care—and pampering it with lotion.

I won’t lie. Taken together these three—incurable, chronic, complex—felt like a gut punch. Like a party favor from radiation that I never knew came home with me. Google images of lymphedema, and the worst-case pictures are another gut punch.

I have no regrets about radiation. My cancer is currently undetectable, after all. And so far, I’ve consistently dodged the worst outcomes and the worst side effects. Living with lymphedema is not the end of the world. And, bottom line, life is not fair. The best I (or you) can do is live with purpose and (insofar as possible) with joy. Lymphedema be damned.

Still, yard work has been a (sweaty, but still) joy of mine since my teenage years. More, walking has been a balm for me, both before and especially since my cancer diagnosis. It is a core mental health practice for me, but also the most personal expression of my cancer self-care. No, walking doesn’t cure cancer, but in a host of ways walking is a powerful accomplice in healing. It strengthens the body’s own cancer-fighting abilities, supports an array of medical treatments, and allays many of the side effects. Walking is golden. So henceforth may I learn how to care for my left leg with keen tenderness so that it carries me well for as long as possible.

That’s a particularly acute hope, because the last feature of lymphedema is that it’s progressive. With concerted effort and dumb luck, I may be able to reduce the swelling when it appears and more or less stabilize it—narrow the wax and wane. It can get (somewhat) better (though never cured). But its clear preference is to get worse. Its dream is to get much worse.

Well, my dream is to get much better. I’ve averaged 10,000/day for an entire year now. (Not bad for a guy whose vocation is to sit on my ass and type!) Hydration has been my best friend for a long time already. And while knee-high socks might not be my first choice, they’re a throwback to my high school and college days, when they were.

In fact, I first started kissing Margaret in knee-high athletic socks some 45 years ago. Maybe going back to that fashion will have me feeling twenty all over again. “C’mere here, honey, let me give you a kiss.”

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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.