If I’m honest, this whole journey very nearly didn’t start when it should have.

In 2024, a charity called PCaSO came to Cosham Masonic Hall to run a prostate cancer testing day. One of those sensible opportunities that you know you should take. I even booked myself in. Then, as the day got closer, I started overthinking something completely trivial, traffic. Getting in, getting out, the usual nonsense. So I cancelled.

I wish I hadn’t.

The following year they were back again, same place, same setup. This time I booked in and made a quiet decision that I wasn’t going to talk myself out of it again. When the day came, it turned out I’d been worrying about absolutely nothing. It was organised with military precision, in and out with no fuss at all. The only delay was me being a poor pin cushion, it took two nurses five attempts to get blood out of me, so I left looking like I’d been in a minor skirmish.

Then came the waiting.

About ten days later, a letter dropped through the door. It had red writing on it, which is never a great sign. Inside was a number: 9.5. For context, that’s roughly three times higher than it ought to be. That was the moment things started to feel a bit more real.

I rang the GP straight away. They were calm, almost dismissive at first, saying these things can happen and are often nothing to worry about. Sensible enough, but they booked me in for a repeat blood test and a DRE just to be sure. The DRE, which most men spend far too much time worrying about, turned out to be quick, professional, and over before you’ve really had time to think about it.

Another blood test followed, and more waiting. This time only five days.

The call came back with a second result: 9.6.

That got their attention.

The tone changed, and I was referred to Urology on the two-week pathway. And just like that, what had started as a simple check turned into something a bit more serious.