At one point during the two year period when my life was plagued by fairly intense prostate pain, none other than Dr. Moehler offered a ray of hope. Rather than writing a prescription for the medication which would later put this plague to an end, he decided to resort to a little PR. He told me that Roswell had what he referred to as a “pain clinic” which somehow manipulated people's nerve endings or some such thing in a way that alleviated pain.

He called what his organization's “pain clinic” did “pretty neat” and wondered if I was interested in checking out their services...Interested?...Of course I was interested! Actually, it took all of my self discipline to stop myself from pointedly asking him why the ___ he hadn't told me about this “pretty neat pain clinic” before?

Anyway, I was dismayed to find out that I couldn't get an appointment with this miraculous unit for about six weeks. But, I decided that I would count the days until my deliverance from prostate pain was at hand.

When the big day finally came, it started out bad and only got worse. There wasn't a moment of that day that I would describe as “neat.” I was put in an examination room where I waited one hour, two hours, three hours, going on three and three quarter hours. Finally, I got mad and attracted the attention of a passing nurse or aide to ask what the heck was going on. After a certain period of consternation, someone showed up in my room, but it wasn't a pain doctor or nerve manipulator. Instead it appeared to be a young physician's assistant or intern. He was chewing gum rather avidly and carried at pen and what looked to me like the back of an envelope.

“Now what exactly is wrong with you,” the young man asked me, poised to feverishly scribble on the back of his envelope.
“What's wrong with me?...Don't you have my medical records, my x-rays, my diagnosis,” I indignantly asked.

“Well, I need to get the information from you,” he defensively replied.

After a while, the so-called pain doctor showed up but he didn't turn out to be any better informed about my case. As it turned out, Dr. Pain hadn't studied my x-rays or medical records either. His only purpose for showing up in my presence was to tell me about narcotics he could prescribe for me that would ease my discomfort while also sending me into orbit. Nerve manipulation to relieve pain? He had never heard of such a thing! It wasn't the first lie Dr. X would tell me and it wouldn't be the last.

Not long after that, I suffered an attack of prostate pain that was so bad, I drove myself to the nearest ER one bright Monday morning. However, it never got that bad again.

I put myself on a totally organic diet on the theory that since many of these cancers are caused by air borne and food borne pollutants, ceasing the ingestion of such pollutants in fruits, vegetables, and meats might be a good idea. It seemed to help.

Still, I could hardly have predicted that the most important improvement in my condition and prognosis was coming up just beyond the horizon, the result not of any treatment research on my part, but instead the fruits of watching a run of the mill TV commercial.