Manhoodwinked

I thought it was the coffee. Or the long drives. Or, in a pinch, ageing — that convenient culprit, vague enough to blame without consequence. The stream had weakened, yes. I found myself waking more often — 2:43 a.m., 4:11 a.m. Numbers glowing like quiet sirens. Still, nothing that screamed cancer.

The urologist didn’t soften it. Didn’t dramatise it either. Just said it as if reading the weather: Adenocarcinoma of the prostate. Localised, for now. Gleason 7.

Seven. Not a death sentence, not a pardon. Just a hinge between maybes. I nodded, left, sat in the car, the air conditioner humming against the heat. The world outside went on — unbothered, ordinary. I envied it.

That was three weeks ago. Since then, I’ve been unlearning denial one small admission at a time.

There were signs. Of course there were. It wasn’t the coffee. It wasn’t the drives. It was something older, quieter — written in bloodlines. My father had this. My uncle too. But no one talked about it. They just said, he left it too long. Said it like weather. Like fate.

Maybe I knew a year ago. When the fatigue turned strange. Not heavy — hollow. When sleep stopped fixing anything. When a kind of grey took root under my ribs. I didn’t act. Because I could still move, work, laugh. Because no one looked worried. Because it didn’t look like illness — just middle age doing its slow work.

That’s how men are trained: if you’re still functional, you’re fine. Still earning, still performing, still pretending — fine. Even when your body starts whispering otherwise.

The betrayal isn’t the cancer. It’s the silence that let it grow. The quiet complicity of waiting for pain to prove something’s wrong.

Sub-health doesn’t explode. It seeps. It’s a long erosion, the kind that turns neglect into normal.

Now, the options. Surgery. Radiation. Watchful waiting. Words that sound like verdicts disguised as choices. Each comes with its own price: control traded for potency, time bartered for peace. There’s no victory here — only stewardship.

And still, the word manhood lingers, absurd and fragile. I don’t know what it means anymore. The gland? The silence? The refusal to be seen as vulnerable? Maybe it’s all of it. Maybe it’s the myth that kills us first.

I’ve decided to speak plainly. To name what my father couldn’t. It’s not courage. It’s course correction — a late act of honesty owed to the body that kept score even when I didn’t.

If you’re waking at 2:43 a.m., counting the seconds between urge and release — don’t wait. Illness rarely arrives with noise. Sometimes, it’s the whisper you’ve been rehearsing for years.

–––

These stories aren’t rare.
They’re just rarely told early enough.
Most decline begins in silence —
a skipped check-up, a cough you dismiss, a breath you pretend is fine.

He didn’t need saving.
Just a warning sooner.

––– Pause Here –––

If this feels familiar, you’re not alone.
Most illness doesn’t start with a bang.
It starts when silence becomes habit.

Lingzhi isn’t a miracle.
It’s a habit.
A quiet, daily way to care for the body —
before silence becomes suffering.

Lingzhi is a traditional food taken to support general well-being. It is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease. For personalised advice, please consult a qualified healthcare practitioner.

#SubHealthStories #HealthIsAHabit #HappyHealthyLingzhi