Balls of Steel: Surviving Testicular Cancer and Embracing a Bullshit-Free Life

It's taken me some time to reach the point where I'm ready to share my cancer story.?

Why am I writing about it, you ask?

I had a delayed reaction to a childhood event in my 30s that I only got through with some counselling and brain training. Realising that suppressing experiences can build into hard-to-beat episodes later, I decided to always get things out in the open for my own therapy. Which I’m pretty certain this event will need. Mainly to shake loose my surgery and recovery, which you will read about below.

Why publish??

Because we live in a very connected, but ultimately lonely world.?

Social media trains us to bleat about success, leaving us with few places to seek help for negative things. As health is the most important thing to get right, yet often ignored, here is my attempt to put the information out there that may make people act when they should. Or at least see there is someone like me who is happy to speak openly, maybe prompting them to reach out if they need to talk. That's my thinking anyway.

Cancer evokes fear, a sense of the unknown, and a myriad of emotions. I feel pretty confident that this is a universal feeling in all of us living today. Hopefully in the future, leaps in medicine wont evoke this fear of dread as we simply pop a pill, get better and move on with little to no effect. But for now, well. It scares and affects us all, right?

My journey with testicular cancer began subtly and has been relatively, extraordinarily brief.? Yet, it has undoubtedly evolved into an experience that has reshaped my life.?

It has taken me some time to process everything and reach the point where I can share my story, but here it is…

Something was different

It started in September 2023. I noticed a subtle change—a brush of my hand across a familiar area that felt, ‘different’.?

It wasn't a lump, as I had been trained to expect, but a change in texture—a sensation that didn't feel like 'me.' This seemingly insignificant anomaly triggered a deep, instinctual realisation that something was very wrong. A guttural, dreadful feeling.?

I forced myself to go on autopilot and scheduled a doctor's appointment that morning. It took immense effort to overcome the urge to dismiss the sensation and the embarrassment of discussing such a personal issue. Every part of me wanted to dismiss it. I have a busy life and wanted to just get swallowed up in that. Bad news sucks, right? So why seek it out? But something told me bad news now would be better than bad news down the line. So I said, "Go on autopilot and ignore your urge to bury your head. Be a robot and complete the task. Get seen!"

I got booked in—a month to wait.?

Every day, I could feel the symptoms getting worse. By now, I was certain it was something fast-growing and serious, but I kept it hidden. Nobody knew I had an appointment with the doctor. A month is a long time to carry a burden. “In hindsight, tell somebody”. I got close to my appointment and finally said something—to my boss and my partner.?

I did the cliché "I'm sure it's nothing," but inside, I had already made up my mind it was serious. Sub text - Pretending to feel something you don't is emotionally and physically exhausting.

Although agonisingly embarrassing, I went through the steps.?

Get myself there.?

Sit in the waiting room.

Go into the doctor's room.?

pull down my trousers.?

let them examine me.

Getting a Diagnosis

The doctor couldn't feel anything abnormal during my initial appointment, but I insisted on further tests. That was my next big challenge. Stay the course, listen to your gut, and tell him there is something wrong. I remember saying “it must be that the nerve endings in my fingers coupled with the nerve endings in my private parts are probably why I can feel something you can't”. He agreed to put my mind at rest and send me for an ultrasound, a week later.

The ultrasound revealed shadowing, and within minutes of returning home that day, my GP's office called to schedule further tests. The speed of the response was both terrifying and reassuring. I was back with my doctor within a week. When cancer is suspected, everything has a target maximum two-week timeframe, I later learned.

After a series of tests, including blood work and an MRI, I met with a consultant on December 29th, just before the New Year. My partner was with me, and as the consultant confirmed it was cancer, I realised I was eerily calm. I had been expecting this news now for a while.? My partner, however, wasn’t. She was visibly devastated, and I felt helpless, unable to provide the comfort she needed. It didn’t help that we then got taken into that TV drama type soft furnishing box room to go through pamphlets, with lots of statistics and reassurance being thrown at us in soft voices.

The next steps were a whirlwind of appointments, tests, and preparations for surgery. I had to face the reality of breaking the news to family and friends once the new year celebrations were out the way. A father of three young boys meant the prospect of how I do that was almost impossible for a short while.

When I did, it was brutal. But lovely in a strange way.?

A real visible moment of love between my family, although since trying to explain the embrace I got from my middle son and the sobs of ‘I love you so much dad’ - I haven’t managed to achieve without getting choked up yet. Probably never will. Its a memory I will keep and use for absolute focus and dedication to my kids, at any time I’m exhausted and need a lift to go again.

Surgery and Its Aftermath

I was scheduled for surgery on January 7th

A new beginning and day of promise for all the obvious reasons, but superficially became one of the most harrowing days of my life to date.?

First, The decision was between a general anaesthetic or an epidural. The anaesthetist recommended the epidural for minimum side effects, so I went along with it.

The process of fitting the epidural was extremely painful. The brace position was painful as my body resisted bending far enough to separate the vertebrae, (thanks genetics and too many years playing football without stretching)!

After administering a local anaesthetic, they attempted to fit the tube, but the pain was searing (even though I shouldn't have been able to feel anything, apparently). They had to abandon this approach after 10 minutes and try the other side of my spine. By now, the pain and stress had changed my mood. The realisation hit me that I would be conscious throughout an entire procedure, and is likely not going to be much fun as I lay and consciously experience them cutting me open and taking the tumour out.

Once the epidural was in, the anaesthetist said they would pump in the medication, and I should slowly lose feeling in my legs, and for me to just swing myself back round and then lay down waiting for the full effects to kick in..?

In reality however...?

The moment they flooded my system, I became paralysed from the neck down. My lips went numb, I felt dizzy, drunk, and extremely sick. I started vomiting as they moved me onto the bed. I caught glimpses of their worried expressions as they rushed me to the surgery room. I could only feel my head, with my spatial orientation determined by my ear balance, but otherwise, I felt bodiless—a head floating in space, not an experience I ever want to feel again.?

They moved me to the table, making me feel sicker still. I continued to vomit uncontrollably, unable to turnmy head and be ‘tidy’ about it. They put oxygen on me and administered various medicines through my cannula. I could hear them rushing and hurriedly discussing my dangerously low vitals. They were asking me questions, which I struggled to slur answers to, amplifying their panic. And, therefore, mine.

Eventually, I started to feel less sick, and sensation began to return to my chest and upper arms. Medics visibly calmed down and explained that my vitals were back to safe levels, and the procedure would start. Apparently my blood pressure had dropped to next to nothing, but was now back up and stable.

Set up like a C-section, I could only see those around my head discussing what had just gone wrong with my vitals while I felt some tugging and heard hair clippers. Gulp!?

An hour and a half later, I was wheeled out, and realised I had given myself a set of memories I would need to process and release down the line. (hence writing this and talking to people about it).

In the recovery ward, I discovered they had double-dosed me with the epidural, and so anticipated the numbness in my lower half to take longer to wear off. Hours passed, during which I read business books and distracted myself with motivational ideas about my future. A mood lifting sense of relief knowing the cancer was now cut out of me.?

As feeling started to return, I spoke with some post-surgery patients, feeling upbeat and ready for the next chapter. However, within ten minutes, I went from comfortable to experiencing searing pain.?

Gripping the side of the bed, I thrashed as much as my numb body allowed. Something was seriously wrong. A nurse, noticing my distress, asked if I had been to the toilet yet. I hadn’t and couldn’t. She realised that the jug of water and two bags of saline I had consumed over the past hours might mean my bladder was full. She performed a bladder test and immediately looked worried. Moments later, she returned with a catheter to drain my bladder, which was dangerously close to rupturing.

The pain I felt was unlike anything I had ever experienced (until I encountered something even worse only a week later, as you will read on). But thankfully, within minutes, the pain subsided as a huge bag of urine hung by my side. In hindsight, it was a significant oversight by the hospital to assume that all this saline and water with a six-hour numb body unable to urinate was a good idea. However, considering the pressures they were under and the overall success of the surgery, I didn't much care. They are overworked, overstretched, underpaid heroes afterall.

I managed to leave 20 minutes before the overnight cutoff, around 11 p.m.

The ‘Black Hole’ Phase…

Post-surgery, I’ve faced unexpected challenges. Initially, I felt fine, but by the fourth day, pain built up drastically. Movement became nearly impossible, and I became bedridden. The isolation and helplessness were mentally taxing.

Over the next five days, I became worse, not even being able to turn to my side without pain. I was reduced to using bedpans and lying completely flat. Worry, frustration, and lack of seeing my kids compounded the mental struggle.?

The emasculating feeling of my partner waiting on me and doing all the housework, juggling work, meals, etc., while I lay still and in pain turned into a dark hole in my mind.?

No exercise meant I was never fully awake or fully tired. It was a period I hadn’t predicted and wasn’t prepared for. The mental battles, with no work to go to on the other side of recovery (as I had to abruptly put my plans on ice), the idea of imminent money worries, and what was going on inside my body spiralled.

After five days of no improvement, we managed to get me to A&E, where they prescribed very strong painkillers and said the pain was most likely nerve damage. I couldn't understand that, particularly as they also dismissed a growing swelling in my thigh as a reaction to medication, but I trusted it.

The next few days got worse. But now also compounded by feeling really sick and drugged on painkillers. The dark thoughts continued, made worse by now becoming quite unwell. I was missing my kids and knew they were worrying that something wasn't right as I hadn't let them back to see me (split family situation) since the first three days. The pain and how unwell I looked wasn't what I wanted them to see. And it would put more burden on the wider family to move the kids between houses, I’d told myself (every thought in my head at this negative point was a problem, you see).

Eleven days in, feeling really low with little sleep for days, I decided to force myself off the bed to go to the toilet properly, to feel human and independent. Nobody was in the house for a rare moment. (Keep in mind I had gotten stuck for 45 minutes in agony, half on the bed and half off, days before, trapped where every tiny movement in any direction was like a hot knife stabbing me in my spine, groin, and inner thigh).

The movement to get to the toilet had obviously caused some pressure on the surgery area. When I revealed myself to go to the toilet, I was met with a load of blood and an awful smell. It made me collapse onto my bed, holding the actively bleeding stitched wound and throwing up, mainly through worry. I struggled to get hold of my phone and ring for help. My parents were closest and with me within 15 minutes. I just laid flat, putting pressure on the bleed to stem it. It was black, gooey blood. Not great for my panic, I found!

The bleeding wouldn’t stop, so we called 999. Despite the huge pressures on the ambulance services, they managed to get to me within the hour. I was still bleeding, but by holding the pressure point, I was keeping it slow. After the panic subsided, it then dawned on me that all the excruciating pain I’d been in for days had completely gone!

Paramedics came, saw my state, and got me blue-lighted to the hospital, avoiding the 9-hour queues at A&E by getting me directly onto a urology ward.

It turns out the building pain was due to blood going septic, and my movement to go to the toilet had caused the pressure to explode out of the stitches. This may have saved my life, getting the bad blood out. Sometimes stubbornness is good for you, it seems!

The urologist cut open the remaining stitches, bled me out until it largely stopped, then dressed it. I was put on a course of antibiotics. I instantly felt better and could move about. Without the strong painkillers, I felt human again. (I will never take even small doses of codeine ever again if I can help it).

Finally, after three more weeks, the stitched area healed up.?

But my next mental struggle decided to make an entrance…

You see, I was now so worried about getting sepsis again that the seeping wound had become a bitter sweet dichotomy. At least while it was open and oozing, I knew the badness was coming out and not building up. But I hated having to dress the area as it made me very sore and immobile. Two months had passed, and trying to get dressed in normal day clothes was still impossible. So my mood had dropped again.?

When the wound finally healed weeks later (and 4 rounds of antibiotics deep) it was liberating in one way and the sore raw area could now ease, but it was met with an all consuming worry that maybe it meant infection was building again, and had nowhere to go. I spent days overthinking every slight ache, sore throat etc, waiting to drop on the spot and needing to be rushed back to hospital. Thankfully the moment never came, and my mind settled on the idea that I was finally better!?

Reflection and my longer term recover to present day (6 months and counting)

Recovery has been slow and fraught with complications, but I’m now coming out of it

To counteract mental challenges, I would typically tackle them with physical exercise—the best drug for the mind, in my opinion. However, the epidural and long time spent in bed have left lasting pain in my lower back and some nerve damage under my left foot, making each bout of exercise painful and frustrating. I’m persevering and learning to accept my new base levels to work from.

Despite the hardships, the prognosis has been hugely positive. The cancer had been caught so early that I have managed to avoid chemotherapy (and its risks) altogether!?

I have entered a 5-year surveillance program with 3-monthly tests and checks to monitor for any recurrence. I’ve only been for 2 lots so far, but already getting used to the worries that come with that. The reminder quarterly that I may not be fully out of the woods.?

Yet, this is fast becoming my superpower.?

If you ever want to feel true priority, meaning and how to live your life for the best, then you need to go get tested for life threatening symptoms every 3 months I’d say!?

Especially seeing the poor people going through so much worse every time I sit in those waiting rooms. I feel like an absolute imposter, racked with guilt and I intend to take every bit of that emotion to drive me forwards!?

The final long term challenge is now managing the hormone levels that are resetting inside of me. With my testosterone factory effectively reduced to 50% under the knife, the body compensates by flooding it with more hormones, to make the remaining factory work twice as hard. This has been quite a challenge, and giving me some unexpected and very sudden low moments. Like when Venom is taking over, or the black goo oozing over spiderman. It's inconsistent, unavoidable and all consuming. And usually accompanied by 3 day migraines.?

Every episode is becoming more familiar, however, and me and the family are finding ever better ways to manage it and get used to it. Hopefully I’m done with them. They have become further apart every time so far, and long may that continue!

Observations and Lessons Learned

As I'm a practical guy at heart, it would feel remiss if I didn't end with some bulleted tips, tricks and useful takeaways, particularly some of those I couldn't find in any of the literature:?

• Trust Your Instincts: If you feel something is wrong, push for tests. My persistence led to an early diagnosis, significantly improving my prognosis.
• Communication is Key: Openly discussing my condition with loved ones was difficult but necessary. Their support became invaluable. I wish I’d have started a little earlier in the journey.
• Mental Health Matters: The emotional toll of cancer is immense. Seeking types of help you may typically shun and staying connected with others is a must.?
• Preparation for Surgery and Recovery: Understanding what to expect post-surgery is crucial. Simple tasks like using the toilet can become daunting, and having the right support systems in place is essential.
• Survivor's Guilt and Awareness: While I didn't face the acute danger of death, I’ve developed a heightened sensitivity to others' suffering. I’m slowly learning how to use this and become comfortable and better off for it.
• Children's Understanding: Explaining the visible side effects of treatment to my children helped them cope. They needed to understand that looking worse was a part of getting better. This idea frightened me to begin with, but my god they’re more resilient than I’d have ever dared hope.
• Thoughts can be fleeting: I can be obsessed with getting super healthy one day—frustratingly so. I might think of nothing more than running a marathon, eating super healthy, and starting yoga to get super bendy and pain-free. The next day, my motivation shifts, and I just think, "All I want to do is eat junk. I know it's not good for me, but I'm sick of being 'good for me.' Look where it got me—into surgery." Those types of thoughts can be challenging to manage and I’m learning to come to terms with them. With my type of cancer, this may be the hormone imbalance and my systems resetting. Its forcing me to just ride the wave and be a little more patient with myself

Moving Forward

Coming out of this experience, I genuinely feel a little transformed. I have a renewed sense of purpose, clarity, and determination. Professional games and personal dramas no longer hold the same significance. Cancer has changed me, (even with my fleeting brush with it), and largely for the better.?

So don’t see this as a story of illness, but as a tale of new beginnings

One I’ll continue, with my nearest and dearest by my side