Today I found out that a long-time family friend has had a jump in their PSA level. They’ve already been through a tough time with prostate cancer, and recently things had seemed to be going OK. Then one result brought back the possibility that the cancer could have returned.
We don’t know that it has. That’s important. But there’s a difference between knowing something isn’t confirmed and being able to stop yourself worrying about it.
The news isn’t about me. I’m not the person waiting for answers or potentially facing more treatment. But it’s somebody who has been part of our family’s life for years, and the thought of them having to go through more is difficult to shake.
And, like so many dads, there’s another part to it. However much is going on in your head, family life doesn’t stop. Work is still there. The children still need you. All the ordinary things you were dealing with before the news still need dealing with afterwards.
How do you make room for your own fears, support someone you care about, and still show up at home? I don’t have a perfect answer. Today I’m trying to work that out.
When things have been OK, you start to breathe again
Cancer has a way of making even good news feel cautious. You want to be hopeful, but you don’t want to tempt fate. When someone you care about has had a difficult time, a stretch where things appear more settled can mean a lot.
You begin to think about them doing ordinary things rather than having to think about tests and treatment. You hope they can make plans without cancer being part of every conversation. You hope the people around them can relax a little too.
Then a result changes, and all those worries you thought had moved into the background come rushing forward. Not because the result tells us everything, but because we’ve seen how much they’ve already had to deal with.
It’s hard watching somebody you know face something you can’t fix. It’s harder still when you thought they might finally be getting a bit of breathing space.
The awful space between a result and an answer
PSA stands for prostate-specific antigen. It’s measured with a blood test, and after prostate cancer treatment it can help specialists monitor whether treatment has worked and whether further investigation is needed.
A rising PSA can be a sign that prostate cancer has returned, but a single rise does not automatically confirm that. Doctors look at the pattern of results, the treatment someone has had and other clinical information. For example, some people who have had radiotherapy experience a temporary rise known as a PSA bounce.
That’s the medical reality. Prostate Cancer UK explains what PSA monitoring can and cannot show after treatment, and Macmillan explains how clinicians interpret changes over time.
But when you’re emotionally involved, you don’t hear ‘we need to look at the trend’ and suddenly feel completely reassured. You hear that there is a possibility you desperately don’t want to be true.
I don’t know what the next results will show. It would be unfair to my friend to turn a worrying blood test into a confirmed diagnosis, just as it would be unfair to promise that everything will turn out fine. For now, there is uncertainty. And uncertainty is exhausting.
Being a good friend when you can’t make it better
I think one of the hardest parts of hearing news like this is wanting to be useful. You want something you can say or do that will make the situation easier. You want to take away a little of the fear. Yet you can’t change a PSA result, make an appointment arrive sooner or guarantee what the doctors will say.
What you can offer is far less dramatic and probably far more valuable: your time, your attention and a willingness to listen without trying to solve everything.
It might be a message that doesn’t demand a reply. An offer of a lift if they need one. A cup of tea, a chat, or simply carrying on with the everyday conversations that make somebody feel like a person rather than a patient.
I want to avoid saying ‘I’m sure it will be fine’ just to make an uncomfortable conversation easier. I’d rather say something honest: ‘I’m thinking of you. If you want to talk, I’m here. And if you don’t, that’s OK too.’
There’s no reason they should have to manage my reaction on top of everything they’re facing. If they want to share more, I’ll listen. If they want some normality, that matters as well.
Then you have to be Dad again
Here’s the bit that can feel strange. Something serious is happening to someone you care about, but your own day doesn’t suddenly clear itself.
There are still children needing attention, family plans, work, bills, meals and a hundred small responsibilities that don’t pause because you’re worried. They aren’t unimportant things, either. They’re the people and routines you’re responsible for.
You can be thinking about somebody’s health and, moments later, thinking about what’s for dinner. You can find yourself laughing with your children while knowing that someone else is facing an awful wait. None of that means you care less.
Sometimes I wonder whether we’re expected to put our own worries neatly to one side, particularly as dads. Keep working, keep things running, stay calm, be dependable. I understand that instinct. I also know you can keep functioning while something weighs on you.
The challenge isn’t choosing between being a friend and being a father. It’s acknowledging that you are both. I can give my family my attention without pretending I’m unaffected. I can worry about my friend without feeling that every ordinary family moment is somehow disrespectful.
I don’t want fear to take away the good moments happening in front of me. Equally, I don’t want to act as though nothing is happening. There has to be room for both.
It makes you think about your own family, too
When serious illness touches somebody you’ve known a long time, it can bring up questions you normally manage not to dwell on. What would happen if it were me? Or someone in my immediate family? How would the children cope? Would I know what to do?
Those questions don’t mean you’re taking somebody else’s illness and making it about yourself. They mean you’re a person who loves people, has responsibilities and knows how quickly life can change.
The important thing is where those fears go. My friend shouldn’t have to reassure me about hypothetical things while they wait for answers about something real. I can talk to someone else I trust, make space to process what I’m feeling and, if I have genuine concerns about my own health, raise them with my GP rather than trying to diagnose myself through somebody else’s experience.
We spend a lot of time talking about dads being strong. I think there’s strength in being able to say, without drama, ‘I’m worried about someone and it’s getting to me.’ You don’t have to be the patient for those feelings to be real.
What happens after the first message matters
When somebody gets difficult news, lots of people understandably reach out. Then life moves on for everyone else, while the person dealing with cancer may still have appointments, tests and uncertainty ahead.
I’d like to be the friend who remembers that. Not somebody who makes a big declaration today and disappears when things become less immediate. A quiet check-in later, an offer I can actually follow through on, or simply continuing to include them in normal life may mean more than trying to find a grand gesture.
Their privacy matters as well. The exact result, their treatment history and what they choose to tell others belong to them. I’m leaving those details out here. Even an anonymous story can be recognised by people close to it, which is why this reflection should only be shared publicly with their comfort and privacy in mind.
I can’t control what the next appointment brings. I can control whether I turn up, whether I listen and whether I keep making room for the friendship alongside my responsibilities at home.
For now, I’m hoping
That’s where I am with it today. There isn’t a tidy lesson or an uplifting ending I can honestly give you. Somebody I care about has had worrying news, and I’m hoping the next conversation brings something better.
In the meantime, life carries on. I’ll still be a dad, still deal with everything that comes with family life and still have moments when my mind drifts back to what my friend might be facing.
Perhaps that’s what being there for people really looks like. Not having the right words. Not fixing something you can’t fix. Just refusing to let them feel forgotten, while remembering that you’re allowed to feel the weight of it too.
If someone close to you is going through prostate cancer
Prostate Cancer UK’s Specialist Nurses can support friends and family as well as people living with prostate cancer. The free number is 0800 074 8383, Monday to Friday 9am to 5pm, from 10am on Wednesdays.
Macmillan’s advice for supporting someone with cancer covers listening, offering practical help and managing your own feelings. Its free support line is 0808 808 00 00, seven days a week, 8am to 8pm.
If you’re finding the worry difficult to carry, our Andy’s Man Club guide and UK support directory offer further places to start.
This is a personal reflection, not a medical assessment. A PSA increase does not by itself confirm that cancer has returned. Only the person’s treating team can interpret the results in context.
Over to other dads
Have you supported a friend or relative through serious illness while trying to keep family life going? How did you find room for your own worries without adding to theirs? If you’re comfortable sharing, I’d value hearing from you. Please keep other people’s medical details private.
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