My jaw dropped when I found out I walked into the prostate cancer clinic and immediately noticed I stood out like a sore thumb. Among a sea of bald old men, there I was – dressed as a woman, complete with makeup and a wig. I sat down in the waiting room and my mind drifted to the conversation I had with my GP just days before.
All my blood tests were always perfect too, so I didn’t think I needed it. By the time I reached my late 60s, the urgency became impossible to control, so I went to another GP in our excellent practice. The original GP who sent me packing had left in the intervening seven years. I had a biopsy and three scans to find all the cancer. Then it was confirmed I was T4 – the final stage of advanced cancer. Receiving the diagnosis shook up my existence.