The Cancer

I really thought I should get this one out of the way, so that after that we can concentrate on more fun stuff...

The first thing I would say is that cancer is such a wide and varied condition. What cancer means to one person can be completely different to what it means to another. Take me for example, what I experienced is nothing compared to the like of Geoff Thomas, or Lance Armstrong for that matter. I am definitely at the lower end of the spectrum.

Having said that I still think there is value in telling the tale and I know that I will personally get something out of putting it down in print. So, to the beginning...

The Diagnosis - As with so many cases of cancer, and in particular testicular cancer, the initial signs were obvious to no one but me. I am not sure when I first noticed that there was something wrong (I have already confessed in earlier posts to my awful memory and it is a recurring theme!). What I do remember is that I didn't do specific "self examination". I do not remember standing one day and thinking "I'm going to look at my balls now to check they are alright!" It just kind of happened. Having said that, I would wholeheartedly recommend that all men do carry out self examination. There is a good article on how to do it here:

http://www.icr.ac.uk/everyman/testicular/self-examination.html

I was lucky, others might not be so lucky. So get on and give them a feel! I noticed that my left testicle was smaller than the right - by quite a bit. I also noticed that it had taken on a hard, solid feeling. I didn't think this was normal. My next step seemed the most logical to me. I ignored it! I let it fester at the back of my mind for a couple of weeks and then (after a prompt from my wife, at the time my girlfriend) I made an appointment with my GP.

The Consultation - I knew my GP pretty well. In my line of work (I am an Optometrist) you meet various doctors and I had dealt with my GP at various times other than just in his consulting room. I was comfortable going to see him, even about an issue as delicate as this one. Imagine my horror then when I turned up and my GP was off sick and I would be seeing a man I had never met before! and to make matters worse, he had a junior doctor sitting in with him. The only saving grace was that neither of them were female and neither blonde.

The next bit wouldn't have looked out of place in a "Carry On" film. I went throught a list of ailments covering just about every inch of my body...except my balls. "Well doctor, it's my shoulder, back, hip, cough..." It was literally only as I had my hand on the door to leave that I finally mentioned the changed testicle.

Here, my luck seemed to change. The doctor (Dr Esler, thank you wherever you are) was very sympathetic and he listened to my symptoms and examined the offending item. As I said, my luck was in and it turned out the "junior" had just finished a six month training post at a gentleman's well being clinic, so as far as ball feeling was concerned, he was Olympic standard! There was a bit of umming and aahing between them and they decided a referral was a good idea, just to be on the safe side. I left pretty happy and re-assurred. I was sure it was nothing...

The Hopital (Part 1) - Practically the next day, there was a letter. A letter with my name on it. A letter with my name on it from the hospital. The next day! The NHS is so slow you would ordinarily wait six months for an appointment even if you were dying, and here was my appointment letter already. Wow. That raised the stakes a little.

Inside the letter asked me to please go and see a Mr Con at the Victoria Infirmary later that week (as it transpired Mr Con was on holiday and I saw a different, nameless consultant). By the time of the appointment I was seriously apprehensive and along with it a little delicate. You know the idea, short temper, not able to deal with very much, a bit pre-occupied. My good lady looked after me very well though and guided me through it all. I shall be eternally grateful for her support.

What followed was a similar consultation and examination to the one I had had with the GP. Mr Con's substitute then decided I should have an ultrasound - my first ever. Little did I know it would become the first of many over the next few years. I never really have got used to the feeling of cold jelly being squirted on my balls - not in a hospital setting anyway ;-)

Now this next bit I remember very well. I was incredibly scared and really did not know what was going on. Here I was fit and healthy (in actual fact as fit and healthy as I have ever been as I was playing National League hockey at the time) but someone could be about to tell me that I was in fact really ill. I just hoped it would go well. I hoped it would be quick. I hoped I didn't have cancer. I hoped...

We (Marnie and I) waited for what seemed like an eternity (in actual fact probably a few minutes?) I was asked to strip and put on a surgical gown. I was then taken through to the ultrasound suite and asked to lie on a bed. I was to be seen by a smartly dressed young (30ish?) man, who would carry out my examination. Like I have said, I was petrified and wishing for compassion and good news. I got neither. He (I unfortunately never knew his name, fortunately for him) was an absolute bastard. He was cold, clinical and down right rude. He sniggered at me when I mentioned my thoughts of cancer. I made a comment (at much to ease my own fears as anything else) that my GP had said I was young for testicular cancer. He cut me down and said right to my face that he didn't know about that, he thought I was just the right age for cancer! By now I was in tears (I don't see myself as someone who cries easily). I felt totally helpless. With hindsight I cannot believe I didn't shout and complain but you just can't in that situation, your emotions are all over the place.

I went back to the waiting room and Marnie patched me up. I got dressed and we arranged to see Mr Con again. I don't remember whether it was the same day, just that when I did see him it was confirmed that it was cancer and I would need surgery. Only after surgery and a biopsy would they know the prognosis. A date was agreed. That was it, I had cancer. I didn't know what to think. I was in pieces.

An interesting part of my experience was that almost instantly my left testicle ceased to feel like part of me. It felt "bad". Wherever I went, no matter how I walked or sat or lay, I was aware of it. I didn't like it.

The Surgery - this will be quick, I don't remember a thing - I was asleep. I remember waking up and demanding chocolate - Dairy Milk - and lots of it. I also remember drinking copious amounts of tea during my convalescence and then not being able to pee in the bed pan. Turns out I was trying to pee lying down, which is almost physically impossible! Once I had swung my legs over the bed it came out like a waterfall. The bedpan was nearly over flowing! I was in the ward a few days, then I went home.

The Ping-Pong Ball - one decision I mulled over for a long time, right up to the morning of the surgery (I was actually sat on my bed in the ward prior to the surgery when I finally decided) was the decision of whether to have a prosthesis fitted or not. To put you in the picture, when a guy has a testicle removed he can decide to be left with just the one, or he can have a prosthetic testicle fitted. This is supposed to match the weight and appearance of the original (in fact I was hoping it would be significantly better than the small, shrivelled up conker I was getting rid of). I think it is made of silicone.

I finally decided to have one fitted. Best decision I have made in a long time. It looks (who does look at your balls? you? your wife? Not a great bunch of folk) and feels awesome. Much better than my remaining natural one. Bizarrely, (this is really just for guys that are going through the same thing!) it feels better during sexual endeavours than the real one! There are risks with the implant. I forget what now, perhaps to do with the silicone, but I don't regret the decision.

The Hospital (Part 2) - Once discharged it was all a little odd. No one really knew what to do or what to expect. My folks were trying to be really, really helpful, which was hard work for everyone! I was tired and grumpy. No use to anyone. However, we managed and after a little time at home to convalesce (eventually just me, Marnie and some really great "trip-tastic" painkillers) I was summoned to the Beatson Oncology Centre in Glasgow's West End. This was the first time I had come across the word "Oncology", which I now know to be synonymous with cancer.

Here, I met my consultant Oncologist. A great guy by the name of Dr Dodds. He was a young guy and he was currently treating Celtic footballer Alan Stubbs for testicular cancer. I figured I was in good hands. As we sat in the waiting room a great debate broke out as to who would accompany me into the exam room. I was not able to think straight. Eventually my Dad (who hates hospitals, doctors, blood, and who could throw up at the mere thought of an operation) came with me. Who decided that I will never know. Anyway...

I remember very clearly that first consultation at the Beatson. Dr Dodds had a very laid back manner and a relaxed, slow way of delivering his sentences. I remember him saying "well...it looks from the x-rays that everything is well....it looks like all of the tumour was removed....and that there was no spread....which is good news........."

That was all the inivitation I needed. "Great, thanks" was my reply and I was off my seat and heading for the door. "Wait!!!" came his call and it was then that I had to sit back down and listen to him explain the cancer treatment and what I had in store. I should have run faster for the door...;-)

Dr Dodds explained the biopsy had revealed I had a "seminoma". This is at the good end of the testicular cancer spectrum. The prognosis is good and the chances of metastasis low. I was obviously delighted with this news. He then went on to explain that he was conducting a clinical trial to see whether a single dose of chemotherapy treatment was as effective for this condition as the usual treatment - a month of radiotherapy. He offered me the choice of joining the study or not. Being a medical professional myself, I felt almost duty bound to enter. Dr Dodds literally drew straws for me. I got the radiotherapy. No one will ever know whether this was a good thing or a bad thing. Perhaps both in its own way.

The Treatment - Still, even at this late stage in proceedings, I was really stressed out. Radiotherapy was an unknown. What would it be like? Would it hurt? Would I be ok? and the eternal question, would it come back? Before my treatment could begin I had to be measured for my radiotherapy "shield". When undergoing the treatment your vital organs have to be protected from the radiotherapy to prevent damage. As I understand it (which might be totally wrong) this is done using a made to measure lead shield. It is lined up and measured against small tatoos that are placed on the skin - 3 on the front and 3 on the back - which I still have to this day. They are permanent. Once this was done and the shield was made, I was ready for session 1. This took about a week.

By the time session 1 came about I was at fever pitch. I was well back at work by now and was attending for the radiotherapy in the evenings. I was knackered. That first session did not go well. I was all geared up but when the shield was put in place, it didn't fit. Unfortunately, I was not happy with this and the poor doctor who was dealing with this very cranky Optometrist got an earful. Whoever you are, I am sorry. I realise now that you were just doing your job (and very well) but at the time I was not equipped for dealing with any deviations from the script.

Eventually, later in the week, I had session 1. It was quick, painless and not too bad. Until the journey home that is. We got half way home when the nausea that was to become my daily companion arrived. I asked Marnie to pull the car over quickly...and I vomitted copiously in the gutter.

The next day was better, I managed to get home before I was sick. The sickness was horrid. Repeated vomitting every few minutes for what seemed to last the whole night. I have never had a particularly strong constitution but this was awful. I had drugs to try and stop it but they didn't work. I tried a few over those first few days until finally (hurrah) we got one that worked. I remember you had to hold it under your gum. Tasted horrible but at least no vomit!

This was the pattern for a few weeks. Work during the day. Treatment in the evening. Trying not to be sick at night. Repeat. Then, it was done. I had finished. What a relief. All that was left then was the follow up.

Due to being in the clinical trial this was more stringent that might normally have been the case. I attended pretty frequently at first and had various scans, x-rays, blood test and examinations. No real hardship but it meant the cancer was never far from your mind (even one with a poor memory like me). Eventually the appointments spread out. A few months at a time and then just once per year. Dr Dodds told me five years post op and then he would discharge me.

Eventually, five years came around and I practically bounced into the exam room for my check up but...hold on...you're not Dr Dodds? Where is Dr Dodds? My consultant had changed. Welcome Dr Alhasso (another good guy) and wouldn't you know it, he liked to follow up his patients for ten years...aargh...hence the reason I only got discharged last week. Hey ho. Better safe than sorry.