Infection, I already knew, is the most common cause of a raised PSA, followed by a benign enlarged condition and a few other possible causes. My husband's father has BPH (Benign Prostate Hyperplasia), so at first, I calmed myself down with reassurances that perhaps my man was following genetic suit. But later my husband's young age and correlating tests didn't keep me in that comfort zone. Unfortunately, both he and I are in that early middle-aged period where cancer often starts making an appearance.

Anxiety over bodily symptoms is my Achilles' heel. The thought of losing this incredible man now after working through the difficulties of our early years left me frantic. Fears of being left with an empty bed where our love was so tangible to me had me waking up every day to a seeming nightmare. I was haunted by visions of peering into the hospital nursery at our future first grandchild—alone.

Why does prostate cancer strike fear into our hearts? Not only is life at risk, but life's precious gift of erections is also in jeopardy. Cancer-treatment is improving all the time, sure, and nerve-sparing surgeries can preserve much erectile function. Still, I also knew about the cases gone bad—diagnosis coming too late, where the whole prostate had to be removed and men lost most and all of their erectile functioning. I knew that a common cancer-fighting drug treatment essentially absorbed a man's testosterone, starving any rogue left-over malignant cells, but unfortunately leaving the man with little to no sexual appetite. I'd seen men stop caring about sex at all if it couldn't be like it used to be. My husband already seemed to be pulling inside himself to deal with what I assumed was his own panic. I can barely stand the angst of men I work with who are faced with losing potency; I was sick at the thought of my own husband losing his proudest moments. I started to beg him, "Don't leave me." "Don't die" and "Don't pull away" was my inner mantra.

The doctors retested - we waited. Waiting, I'm convinced, is the cruelest part of any medical ordeal. Six months before his annual physical, my husband starts to squirm in anxiety about his digital prostate exam. (Heretofore, I've had little sympathy given what we women go through.) By the time his retest was in, I knew his dignity was going to be seriously challenged. The score was 30% for cancer and 70% for our team. Not the worst odds, but I wouldn't bet the ranch on chances like that. I knew he was better off than many and perhaps I should have had more faith. A biopsy proved necessary for a final ruling, given his age.

I've heard the jokes from women wishing their husbands couldn't bump them in the night with a stiff one. Some women I told rolled their eyes, in jest I hope, sighing about the relief they'd feel if their husbands would lose desire. I wasn't one of those women. Somewhere in the process, my own potential losses dawned on me. Wives of prostate-cancer survivors have told me about how little sympathy they were afforded either from girlfriends or the medical profession. Rounding the multiple doctor appointments while their men faced devastation, no doctor or professional ever looked in her direction and asked how she might be feeling about the potential sexual repercussions and changes. Was it wrong to be a bit selfish? Healthy sexual desire demands a bit of selfishness, I decided.

As a sex therapist, I knew all about work-arounds for the potential sexual problems for many kinds of cancer and its oft sexually-damaging treatments. I believed sex did not merely equal penis in vagina. But I was afraid. I was afraid of losing the closeness of intercourse. I was afraid of diminished physical joy and what it might do to our love. I was afraid of the shadow of death.

Not wanting to worry our children unduly, we snuck away to a hotel to have the freedom to huddle, cry and make love before we heard the final results on Monday. Fear and tension didn't make the best aphrodisiacs for hot sex, but the poignancy of possibly losing one another led us at least to tenderness. We'd been told to expect a little blood in his ejaculate post-biopsy. Dark red, thick, blood coming from his penis startled us, and we feared it portended grave illness. Afterwards, I couldn't sleep and wished for my own bed.

When we arrived at the doctor's office Monday morning, neither the nurse nor the doctor looked us in the eyes when we were showed to our room. My heart sunk as I imagined that my great ability to read people's body language was showing the worst. Incredibly, our young urologist came through the door proclaiming, "The biopsy was benign!"

We sank into each other to absorb some of the best news of our life. I know we're lucky. I know many of you have not been so lucky. I don't have plucky answers for you. Prostate cancer is hell. In fact, I learned that at times like these, comments like "hang in there" and "don't worry" and "I'm sure you'll be okay" feel more infuriating than comforting. I wanted friends to just come and sit with us, maybe bring wine and chocolate, maybe put their arms around us.

Maybe later, when I feel steady again, we'll talk about those work-arounds.

For more information about Laurie Watson or sex therapy, visit Sex Therapy Raleigh or Marriage Counseling Raleigh