Low life | 9 July 2015

After hitting me with the cancer diagnosis, the urologist offered me the choice of a longer life in exchange for my testosterone production. After some soul-searching, I agreed. I’ve been on testosterone-suppressing injections and tablets for exactly two years. The urologist has fulfilled his side of our Faustian pact. I’m still here. And everyone seems to agree that that’s the main thing.

At the same time as I was diagnosed, then agreed to have my testosterone reduced to castrate levels, I asked whether there would be any side effects apart from the obvious. And I’m almost certain that someone, perhaps a nurse, said that I might find crossword puzzles more difficult. In other words, the outer reaches of my vocabulary could become less accessible. This potential shrinkage worried me as much as the reduction of my crown jewels. Just how far would it go? Would my language faculty at some stage be reduced to ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘quite nice’, ‘large one, landlord’ and ‘I’ve come to pick up my prescription’? I’ve worried about this but not researched it.