It’s the most confronting part of prostate cancer recovery men don’t talk about. After trying everything, HAYDN REID bravely reveals how he reclaimed what he thought he’d lost

I was in my office, going through paperwork like any normal day, when the text came through.

It was short, clinical.

‘Your PSA result is elevated and shows signs of low-grade prostate cancer.’

Just like that. No warning, no phone call. No real human connection to go with the news that I had cancer.

It floored me. I sat there in silence, trying to process it. I left work and I drove straight to my parents’ place. I walked in the door, saw my mother and just broke down. My father has Alzheimer’s and wouldn’t have understood, but my mum held it together like she always does. That text hit like a truck.

Life before the diagnosis was what you’d call a good, honest country life. I worked at the racetrack, mucked around with the cattle, and was raising my two sons.

Weekends were spent at the footy or cricket oval – either playing or supporting my boys. I was active, outdoors most of the time, and I felt fine. Fit, even.

Because of our family history – my dad and his brother both had prostate cancer, and his sisters had breast cancer – my old doctor told me to start getting PSA, or prostate-specific antigen, tests early. So I started tracking it from 35.

Haydn (pictured with girlfriend Debra) was 39 when he got the text that changed everything

By 39, the numbers had started to creep up. Nothing dramatic, just enough to warrant a closer look. I was seeing Adelaide urologist Dr Nick Brook regularly.

When the latest PSA came back elevated, I got the text that changed everything.

At my follow-up appointment with Dr Brook, he explained the three options: repeat the blood test in three months, have another MRI, or go straight to a biopsy. I figured if we were going to do all three over six months anyway, we may as well skip ahead and get the biopsy done.

After the biopsy confirmed low-grade prostate cancer, we talked about the next steps. Radiation was ruled out because of my age. Active surveillance was an option, but I didn’t like the idea of living with cancer in me. That was never going to sit right.

When my dad was diagnosed 15 years earlier, I told him to get it out. So I took my own advice. I told Dr Brook I wanted surgery before Christmas. I wanted it gone. He booked me in for September 20.

Leading into surgery, I had two big fears: Would I leak all the time? And would I still be able to have sex?

They don’t really know until they’re in there. Every bloke is different. Nerves can be spared, or not. Recovery can be quick, or not. It’s all a wait-and-see game.

I still remember being dropped off at the hospital by my brother. I was nervous. It’s a strange thing, handing over your body and just hoping for the best.

Prior to his diagnosis, Haydn was living a ‘good, honest country life’ raising his two sons

Post-surgery, I was home with a catheter for over a week, on painkillers and pacing slow laps around the house. Recovery was cautious. Measured. I tracked everything – weighed my pads, measured leakage, looked for signs that I was improving.

By Christmas, I was back playing cricket – nervously wearing a pad in case of accidents. A few months later, I was running around the footy field again. Physically, I bounced back better than I expected.

The harder road: sex after cancer.

I was clear with my doctor that intimacy mattered to me. I was done having children, so I didn’t store sperm, but I wanted to keep that part of my life. He put me on a low-dose Cialis daily to help with blood flow. We tried bigger doses, then Viagra.

When things didn’t improve much, I tried penis pumps – something I had never imagined doing in my 30s. I even went down the path of injections straight into the penis. That was confronting – and painful. One time, the injection worked too well and I ended up in emergency. That was enough of that.

It was a lonely time. My marriage ended 12 months after the surgery, so on top of everything I was going through physically, I was in the depths of divorce.

My brother was a huge support, and so was my mum. A few mates kept checking in. One of them was going through liver failure and would later have a transplant. We talked a lot – really talked. That helped.

Eventually, things started working again. Not the same, but close. Dry orgasms, but still the sensation. I’d say I’m 95 per cent back to normal. I know how lucky that makes me.

Five months after separating, I got talked into Tinder. That’s how I met Debra.

She went to school with my brother, so we had mutual friends. She’s a nurse, and once I told her what I’d been through, she did her own research. That helped me feel comfortable.

‘I was already in love with Haydn before we were physically intimate, so I feel that took a huge amount of pressure off us both,’ Debra says 

We didn’t rush into anything physical. We both came from rough divorces, so we built something slowly. There were no expectations; that made a big difference.

‘Because both of us had been through horrible, hurtful divorces, our relationship was first built on care, trust and friendship,’ Debra says.

‘The physical intimacy came very naturally and respectfully when we both were comfortable.’

She knew about my surgery before we were intimate.

‘I was already in love with Haydn before we were physically intimate, so I feel that took a huge amount of pressure off us both,’ Debra adds.

What helped most, she says, was ‘just knowing that I genuinely loved and cared for him, and that regardless of how things were in the physical intimacy department, that wouldn’t change anything at all between us.’

That kind of support? It’s everything.

Looking back, I think what surprised me most was how mentally tough I turned out to be. I didn’t let it stop me being there for my boys. I didn’t give up sport. I just kept moving forward.

That doesn’t mean it’s all smooth sailing. Every three months, I do a PSA test. And every time, I have a few days where I go quiet, a little on edge, until those results come back.

But overall? I’m good. I feel like myself. I’m here, I’m healthy, and I’m living.

Prostate cancer is the most commonly diagnosed cancer in Australian men. While it’s most often picked up in men over 60, about 1 in 8 cases are found in men under 60 like me. The good news? When caught early, the five-year survival rate is over 96 per cent. That’s why getting checked matters.

Why am I telling you this? When I was first diagnosed, I didn’t know where to turn. There weren’t many blokes my age who’d been through it. I felt alone.

But slowly, people started reaching out who had shared this experience. A mate from the track. A friend of a friend. That made all the difference.

So if me talking about this – the awkward bits, the emotional bits, the very real human bits – helps just one man or one partner, then I’ve done my job.

If you’re a bloke reading this, please get checked. Don’t wait. It’s just a blood test.

And if you’ve been diagnosed, know this: you’re not alone. You can get through it. Things might change, but life doesn’t end.

You might even find yourself on the other side of it all, like I did, back on the footy field, still a dad, still a partner, still… you.

• As told to Rebel Wylie  

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