"Sorry, but this is probably a sentence no Doctor wants to hear. I think there is something wrong with one of my testicles".
With this jovial utterance my typical testicular cancer (TC) story begins.
I entered the doctor's room already convinced I had TC, though he kindly explained that there were many reasons for lumps and bumps on testicles; but his reassuring words were less forthcoming after the physical examination itself. Off to hospital I would go. An emergency urology appointment was booked for within two weeks.
A few months earlier I had become aware that something wasn't quite right in one of my testicles. No pain as such and no real lump, it just seemed to be a bit harder than the other one.
I left it alone, as - much like a heavily laden credit card - it was easier to ignore than to confront.
A holiday at the end of July became my personal Rubicon, preceded as it was by a few tentative explorations of 'hard testicle' on the internet, the results of which were less than encouraging (although to be fair, searching for any physical ailment symptoms online usually indicate imminent death). I told myself that if little lefty hadn't magically returned to normal by the time I returned to Blighty then I would, quite literally, gird my loins and head down to the doctors.
It hadn't and I did.
The hospital appointment came around quickly. I wasn't fearful, but neither could I quite envisage myself skipping out of the urology department a free man with a pack of penicillin and some comedy stories to share with my fellow twin testicled friends. I was right. The Ultrasound confirmed it was a tumour.
The rest of the day was a mix of blood tests, chats and appointment letters. When a two week wait for an orchiectomy was floated my ashen expression led to a kind nurse seeing if anything sooner was available. It was; the next day.
Within the space of a couple of hours I had transferred mentally from hoping my testicle was just innocently playing up to desperate to get rid of the betraying appendage.
I drove home in a blur of tears with only numerous and ominous appointment letters for company. What followed was the hardest part - telling family, friends and work. By the end of the day I was exhausted enough to get at least a little sleep before the operation the following day.
I was last on a list of three patients to be seen that Friday afternoon and had been Nil by mouth since 7am. I wasn't eventually wheeled into the operating theatre until gone 5pm. Weirdly, hunger and boredom were more prominent emotions than fear. As I lay on the gurney in the no-man’s land between the operating theatre and hospital ward, my eyes glanced from the felt tip arrow on my left arm (high tech symbol indicating the side of my body the iffy testicle was to be removed) to the clock on the wall. It read 5:15 pm. The quarterly company meeting would have just finished. I should be on my first Guinness; not lying here facing a new and very uncertain future. If I hadn't been anaesthetised I may have got angry, or maudlin or a confused combination of both.
The recovery night in hospital was by far and away the worst of my life. As I lay there in slight pain, with the unfamiliar, impersonal noise of a hospital ward surrounding me, it hit home hard I had cancer, and worse I didn't yet know which type of TC or how far it had spread.
The next day arrived and I could not wait to leave. A first glimpse at my depleted nether regions wasn't as horrific as I had imagined. The doctor eventually did her rounds at 10am and after a quick inspection I was free to head off.
The next two weeks were a flurry of blood tests and CT scans. I felt fine but had convinced myself that the TC had spread everywhere and that I had some weird variant of it; slightly melodramatic looking back, but at the time a very unpleasant time of dark thoughts.
A hospital appointment arrived by 2nd class post. It was at the Princess Royal, which was odd as they had told me I would be passed over to Guys and St Thomas for follow up. I assumed therefore it was just a post operation surgery check-up. I waited impatiently. Eventually I was led in to an unfamiliar doctor who told me "Pure Seminoma, stage 1, no markers in blood and no sign of metastasis on CT scan". He didn't say much else, but I had read enough to know this was about as good as I could get. I went out for my first few pints in over two weeks and experienced the first bit of normality since my opening line to the GP.
I met with the consultant at Guys a couple of weeks later. He confirmed what I had briefly been told and explained everything fully. Surveillance and a 20% chance of relapse (which to my fractured mind seemed a certainty) and a 95% survival rate if it did return or one hit of Carboplatin chemotherapy and a 5% chance of relapse. Chemo it was.
After more blood tests, some truly personal banking and a kidney test it was time to get "chemo'd" (although trying to create a verb out of the process of chemotherapy would be misleading as it is the least 'doing' thing I have ever done). The actual infusion of the liquid was easy enough and by the next day still nothing untoward had happened. I thought I may get away scott-free. Unfortunately the next three days were as if all joy had been sucked from me. The myriad films and TV series I downloaded remained unwatched as I didn't have the energy or enthusiasm to concentrate on anything more taxing than counting my toes. I knew things were going awry when my normal ten cups of tea a day were whittled down to zero and the ‘Homes under the hammer’ playlist wasn’t raising a smile. At the end of day five though I suddenly started dreaming of curry, and almost miraculously I was back to normal - well a very hungry version of my normal self.
If I were to offer any advice it would be get down to the GP a lot earlier than I did. I have probably got lucky (relatively in cancer terms, although not lucky as in being in full health and winning the lottery) but if I had had a more aggressive form then there could have been trouble. Now, after the number of people in my lifetime to gaze upon my genitals has increased fourfold, it seems ridiculous that I was worried/embarrassed about having a health professional examine me.
And that is where I am at. I have now started a 10 year surveillance program and am generally feeling more optimistic about things. Not having to go to the hospital every few days helps; out of sight out of mind. In a strange way life has become more enjoyable. I worry about very little now and am conscious of how enjoyable life is. I hope to enjoy it for a lot longer.
