[So, I promised to keep everyone up to date with my cancer diagnosis. As of this writing (January 20, ’26), I don’t have any new info; I’ll go see the radiation oncologist on the 26th, and then get my PET scan on the 11th of next month. At that point, we’ll know more about where everything stands. Until then, if you don’t know what’s going on, here’s an update from my annual Christmas letter to bring you up to speed:]
After a fairly uneventful summer and autumn, events in the holiday season have recently given our lives a turn for the interesting. For my combined Christmas and birthday (12/31) gift, the cosmos has decided to give me prostate cancer. Which just goes to show what happens when you fail to keep your Amazon wishlist up to date.
A couple months ago, a routine lab series revealed my PSA (prostate score) to be almost exactly equal to the number of points per game given up by the Washington Commanders this season, which is to say that the two of them — my prostate and the Commanders defense — were about equally effective against outside threats. Which is to say, yikes.
After having a biopsy last week — which was precisely as enjoyable as you might imagine having a needle jabbed repeatedly into your interior nether regions would be — this morning I got the confirmation from my urologist.
Since we were already expecting the outcome, the news didn’t come as a particular surprise, though I did learn a few new facts. For instance, did you know cancer cells are graded on a scale of aggressiveness from one to five? The fives are the go-getter types that sit up front in class, take notes, and do all the optional reading. Ones, on the other hand, hang out in back, stinking of cheap weed and shooting spitballs at the nerds.
Based on my biopsy, it turns out my cancer cells are twos and threes. They’re the ones that sit in the middle of the class, pass gossipy notes, and show up to all the reunions. They are not particularly aggressive, but they can get cheeky if you let them out without a hall pass.
Some time in the next week or so, I should be getting an appointment with a radiation oncologist and a PET scan. I was kind of hoping the latter might involve being aggressively sniffed over by a friendly golden retriever, but apparently it’s nothing quite so entertaining. Still, it should give us some idea of whether and how far any of those underachieving cancer cells may have wandered. At this point, my urologist is betting that radiation and hormone therapy will be our best options for restoring some semblance of order to the establishment.
Meantime, I hope everybody has a great 2026. God bless us, every one. No exceptions.
Ronald Crittenden 