JERRY J. DAVIS

I remember the first time I ever heard the word “prostate” I was watching Who Framed Roger Rabbit, and Roger had confused the word “prostate” with “probate” (it was also the first time I’d heard of probate — I had to have both terms explained to me before I got the joke).

Since then, sadly, I’ve had to experience what a “probate” is, but only recently have I had to contemplate the fact that I have a “prostate.” Even now I still occasionally get it mixed up with the word “prostrate.”

As I get older, my doctor has been keeping an eye on my “PSA” levels (which I’d always joked was in relation to how loud I talk — the louder my voice, the more I’m like a “Public Service Announcement”).

Once it passed a certain level (or volume, as I continued to joke) my doctor started talking about a “biopsy.” Learning what that entailed, I wanted to avoid that at all costs, so I grabbed and held onto the fact that PSA levels often rose “in volume” as a man grows older. Also, after consulting Dr. Google, I learned there are certain foods known to help bring PSA levels down. Tomatoes, for one. And that is not a problem, because I love tomatoes.

Several months of tomatoes being part of all three daily meals did the trick. On my next blood test my PSA “volume” had gone down.

Huzzah! No horrid prostate biopsy for me. Back to life as normal.

The next year, however, it did not go down. It didn’t stay even, either.

It jumped.

My doctor referred me to a urologist. Fingers went up my butt. Yes, the prostate was enlarged, but the trained professional medical fingers did not feel signs of suspicious lumps or bumps.

Once again, a reprieve. No biopsy for me.

Yet.

But they were going to “keep an eye on it.” Now instead of checking my PSA levels once a year, it was going to be twice a year. And so they did, and my levels continued to rise. While the levels were not in the danger zone, nor even in the alarming zone, they unfortunately did land directly in the highly suspicious zone.

It was time for a biopsy.

I balked. I bargained. They’d described what this biopsy entailed and — forgive me, but — I wanted no part of it. So, they reluctantly agreed.

Okay, they said, we’ll check it again in three months.

Three months later, the PSA levels went up again. Reluctantly I agreed to the biopsy, convinced it was a waste of time. I’m a big guy. I have a big prostate. It goes to reason I’d have a big PSA level.

I’ll skip the details of the biopsy. Suffice to say it sounds like something that purportedly happens during a UFO abduction. It involves needles in places needles should never go.

The follow-up meeting with the urologist was set for two weeks later. I went into it fully confident that he’d tell me that the results were negative. That I was fine, it’s just an enlarged prostate, that at least we’d ruled out cancer as the culprit of the rising PSA levels.

Unfortunately, that is not the news I received. What I learned instead is that I have “favorable intermediate risk prostate cancer.”

So this biopsy was not a waste of time and money, and I probably should have gotten it done much sooner. Years sooner.

I was given three options for treatment:

1. Active surveillance, where we just continue watching it. (He does not recommend this at all.)

2. External beam radiation therapy. The advantages of this choice is that it avoids surgery, but the problem is that it damages a lot of internal organs, and will ultimately lead to complications and problems years later.

3. Surgery. Remove the entire prostate. It would be done by a robot, and would take care of the problem all at once. No prostate, no prostate cancer. There are downsides to this, too, not the least of which is that its surgery, but the picture he painted made it sound much better than radiation.

I’ve been given some time to think about it and to do my own research before I make a decision. And believe me, I’ve been thinking about it. And doing research.

Since then I’ve learned of some other options. There’s hormone therapy, and a drug called Provenge, and super targeted radiation.

Provenge is the option I immediately glommed onto. No radiation and no surgery? Sign me up! I had the feeling, though, it would be something my insurance wouldn’t cover. But in further research I learned the company that makes it has gone bankrupt. Supposedly you might still be able to get it, so I’ll be asking about it regardless.

Another treatment has to do with freezing the cancer, but that sounds so complicated that I might as well get surgery. I’ll ask him about that too.

I need to give my urologist an answer soon, and at this point I’m leaning toward surgery. It sounds like the most straightforward path that’s also the most proven. But then again, I have loved ones telling me to get a second opinion.

Stay tuned. I’ll keep you updated.

As we celebrate Earth Day, it’s important to recognize the clever manipulation by big corporations who’ve shifted the burden of reducing carbon footprints onto individuals, while they continue to produce the majority of emissions. It’s time for us to fight back and hold them accountable.

Despite the noble intent behind planting a tree on Earth Day, we must realize that the real power to protect our planet lies in taking action against the root of the problem: corporate greed and politicians who accept money from oil companies.

Oil companies and other large corporations are notorious for fueling the climate crisis. They’ve invested heavily in public relations campaigns that push the narrative of individual responsibility, driving consumers to change their habits. While personal choices are essential, focusing solely on our carbon footprints can be a distraction from the bigger picture.

So, this Earth Day, let’s stand together and demand change. Don’t just plant a tree — vote out every politician who takes money from oil companies. As citizens, we have the power to shape policies that prioritize our environment and demand that corporations take responsibility for the damage they cause.

It’s time to recognize the deception and demand real action. This Earth Day, let’s focus on voting for leaders who truly care about our planet and hold corporations accountable. We have the power to make a difference, and we must use it to protect the Earth for future generations.

Grackles. It always came back to the grackles.

Harold saw an opening in the crowd and made a break for it, hoping to slip past the overhead eyes that kept track of day-to-day humanity. They could see inside people, but it was hard, he knew, for them to see through people. The best place to hide was in a crowd.

From the grackles.

They were silly-looking black birds with long tails and yellow eyes — yellow X-ray eyes, as it turned out — and were armed with long, razor-sharp beaks. For four miserable years now they ruled as malevolent dictators, acting like some Hitchcockian nightmare when a human got out of line. The punishment was swift, sudden, and final.

Thou shalt not break the laws of the grackle.

No one had paid much attention as they migrated, spread, multiplied. An invasive species is all they were. Our own fault since we’d cut down their rainforest homes. They had to go somewhere, right?

To them, you see, we were the invasive species.

Even Harold had known, dimly, that they could talk — like a parrot could talk. He’d read about it somewhere. But no one, not even animal behaviorists on the extreme edge, had any idea the shiny black birds were plotting. Scheming. Positioning themselves for a strategic win.

Don’t dare call it “Bird Day.” Don’t refer to it, out loud, as “Avian Armageddon.” Refer to it by the proper name, the name they decreed we refer to it as: “Grackle Win Big, Mankind Stupid Day.” Make sure to pronounce it with the proper respectful inflection as well, or risk a beak hole in your cranium.

Harold had made it from the doorway and into the crowd. He kept his head down, his hands in his trench coat pockets. He heard the sound of fluttering wings pass overhead, and just as he feared, there came the piercing shriek of an alarm.

The noise they made. The noise. It would put a Moog synthesizer to shame. But it wasn’t just noise — it was their language. And not just their language, but also the language of other birds, other animals. The grackles were consummate masters of cross-species communication.

“Eggs stolen!” they began announcing in English. “Eggs stolen!”

“Egg thief! Egg thief!”

The words were punctuated with organ chords, bells, sirens, cell phone rings … a cacophony of alarms from a huge random library of sound bites. This was combined with more and more flapping of wings as the alarm spread and the grackles took to the air. Harold kept his head down and like everyone around him, just kept walking — pretending none of this was happening. The man next to him muttered the f-word under his breath. The woman in front of him, young with curly dark blonde hair and smelling of flowery perfume, echoed the sentiment.

One of the grackles swooped down from its perch on a streetlight and landed on her head. She made an “Eeek!” sound and froze, trembling. The bird however only used her as a perch — its yellow X-ray eyes were staring at Harold. First one eye, then after a turn of the head, the other.

“Human!” it said. “You smell of fear!”

“I’m afraid of beautiful women,” Harold told it.

“What is beautiful women?” it crawed at him.

“You’re sitting on one. She frightens me.”

“This woman is not beautiful!” The bird’s voice cracked and hit pitches so high that it hurt Harold’s ears. “She smells of bad flower chemical butt smell!”

“This is why I fear her.”

“Stupid human!” The bird bounded into the air, iridescent black wings flapping, yanking a few of the young lady’s hairs out as it flew off.

The young woman turned to look at Harold. Before he could say a word or mutter some sort of apology, she slapped his face. Hard. Then without further comment, she turned again and resumed walking, as did the others in the crowd around them.

The shock of the pain and the stinging of the skin on his face didn’t bother him. The truth was women did scare him. That’s why the bird flew away — it didn’t detect a lie. Harold shook it off and deliberately put one foot in front of the other, falling back into the flow of the crowd, his head down as before. The cacophony and flapping wings continued above.

Harold made it out of the area, crossing a bridge over murky water, and then entered his apartment building without further confrontation. Once behind locked doors and closed curtains, Harold gently extracted a handkerchief from deep within his trench coat pocket and, holding it before him, gingerly unwrapped five tiny eggs. They were light blue with dark lines and spots as if someone had spilled ink on them. He held them, taking shaking breaths, his hands trembling.

These five delicate objects would fetch a fortune on the black market. It was the ultimate defiance. The eggs of the enemy. But Harold had no intention of selling them. They might be tiny, you see, but they were delicious.

It all came back to the grackles.

Harold craved an omelet.

Darwin sat wearily on the back deck of the steamer, gazing out at the islands and bidding them farewell.

A large lizard swam behind the boat, calling to him. “Darwin! Darwin, please… Don’t leave me!”

“I’m sorry,” he said to the lizard. “It would have never worked.”

“I’ll change for you,” the lizard called out. “I swear I will!”

He shook his head, knowing she could never change. Her children perhaps, but not her.