The day after the American people applied a very welcome touch on the brakes to the Enlightenment juggernaut, I went for a walk with my brother, who the day before had been diagnosed with prostate cancer. Which is a crying shame because three years ago, after I had been diagnosed with prostate cancer, he had conscientiously toddled down to the doctor to have himself checked out with a PSA (Prostate-Specific Antigen) blood test, in case it ran in the family. But the doctor had thought the precaution unnecessary for a man of his comparatively young age (47) and vetoed it.
A fortnight ago he couldn’t pee and went again to the same doctor. This time the doctor agreed to a PSA blood test. When the result came back, his PSA score was 112. For most doctors, ‘normal’ is four and below. My brother’s score was off the scale, in other words.
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