Huh? Why should I care? I wasn’t drinking a beer with the guy. Partly, my friend said, a likable surgeon would respond if something went wrong; an arrogant one might not admit a mistake. And partly, well, my friend really couldn’t articulate it, but he felt certain.
“Likable” and “surgeon” don’t ordinarily cohabit a sentence, but when my wife and I met with the robotics surgeon, we loved him. Patient, personable and the furthest thing from arrogant, he told us how his technique had improved from his first 200 operations to his second 200. (I was No. 431.) Only twice, he said, in Nos. 4 and 17, had the robotics failed and he had proceeded to the more intrusive surgery. His percentage of complications, he added, was as low as at Hopkins. I canceled my appointment in Baltimore.
The surgery wasn’t bad at all, and my recovery was startlingly swift. Eight days afterward, I returned to have the catheter removed — none too early — and to learn if the cancer had spread. When I asked the surgeon if the pathology report was “positive” — meaning good news — he winced.
The news was good: The cancer had not spread beyond the prostate. But 35 percent of my prostate had turned out to be cancerous, considerably more than a dusting. I had dodged a bullet; the numbers had lied again.
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