My feet sometimes tingle, but otherwise I feel completely normal. When I wake up, it’s the same old me that slides out of bed.

Two weeks into my cancer treatment, so far so good.

The plan of attack has three phases. It starts with something that sounds innocuous enough, “hormone therapy,” then escalates in intensity.

Two months of hormone therapy will be followed by five weeks of external radiation, culminating in a 24-hour stay at the University of California, San Francisco, Medical Center, where high-intensity radioactive seeds will be inserted briefly, but with devastating effect, into the heart of the beast.

As I envision it, the evil cancer cells will end up more fried than your favorite fast food meal.

But first, the hormones.

I initially thought I would be getting an injection of extra hormones to battle the cancer. It doesn’t work that way. The goal is fewer hormones, not more.

Prostate cancer cells, it seems, thrive on male hormones. Specifically, testosterone.

Some of you may recall high school biology. You ask, Isn’t testosterone one of the hormones that makes males males? Do you really want to mess with testosterone?

My thought, exactly.

But when you have a cancer diagnosis, you have to look at the big picture. Survival is the name of the game.

When the doctors first mentioned hormone therapy, I glossed right over it. The next step, radiation, had my attention.

Big, bad radiation. A burning ray. Caged lightning. In my estimation, hormone therapy was but a fly swatter compared to radiation, the ultimate zapper.

Doctors did speak of hormone therapy having side effects. I could expect hot flashes, for example.

Hot flashes? Like a menopausal woman?

Exactly.

I didn’t know what to make of a prognostication like that. It didn’t make any sense. That would be my world turned upside down.

But if hot flashes were a part of therapy, so be it. I will endure it like a soldier. Hopefully, a male soldier.

On the appointed day, I went to my doctor’s office and took a shot in the gut. I received a three-month supply of a testosterone-suppressing drug.

I asked for the manufacturer’s small-print leaflet that would explain more. I would become an informed consumer, after the fact.

While eating lunch, I began reading the fine print. A few paragraphs in, I came upon a chilling description of how this drug worked. In short order, my testosterone would drop to “castrate” levels.

Castrate as in castration? I wave of revulsion swept over me. If I was interpreting this brochure correctly, I’d been chemically castrated.

When Cheryl got home, I shared the news. Castrate levels, I said. Me. Your husband.

A truly unfortunate choice of words, she said, but hadn’t we already processed the possible side effect? Like breast development. Emotionality. Loss of libido?

But no one ever said castration. No one ever said I’d be transformed from Dr. Jekyll into Mrs. Hyde.

As for those potential side effects, yes, we had mentioned them, but we hadn’t “processed” them. Processed means got a handle on it. Processed means no problem, I can handle that. I hadn’t processed anything.

I felt like the star of a werewolf movie. With the rising moon, my hair would erupt and fangs would sprout and suddenly I wouldn’t be me anymore.

Damn you, cancer.

It feels good writing that. Now perhaps I can move on.

I am alive. It behooves me to be a compliant patient if I want to stay that way.

Submitting to medical treatment often means enduring indignities, large and small. The self feels violated. Yet what’s the choice? Compromises must be made.

Cheryl says not to worry. She’s there for me. We will cuddle in the night.