The sense of tumescence lingers without the equivalency of action. A haunting thought or reminiscence that would have previously aroused me is no longer a precursor but now, a reminder of what once was. I have had a radical prostatectomy.

The disassociation I feel is multilayered. I was not unwell—or, at least, I didn’t think I was. My GP’s suggestion to see a specialist after finding that my prostate specific antigens (PSA) had risen was a little bewildering. The reading wasn’t particularly alarming as the PSA is not a reliable indicator, though it can suggest the presence of cancer. In answer to his questions about whether I had to relieve myself in the middle of the night or had difficulty emptying my bladder, I was able to confidently answer ‘no.’ And the disquieting finger poke to check the condition of my prostate suggested nothing was awry. He couldn’t feel anything untoward. All the same, he sent me to a specialist.