A Load of Bollocks!

It’s the 18th February 2016. Not a particularly notable date for most people. For me, however, it is one of some considerable significance. It is a day I celebrate, and with good reason. Today marks three years CANCER FREE (and also a bollock short, but that's neither here nor there!)

The NHS gets criticised heavily, from people within the UK, to our glorious politicians, who continually tell us everything that’s wrong with it, and then promptly do nothing to fix said issues. Similarly, it comes under considerable attack from right-wing Americans, who use it to point out all the flaws of Universal healthcare, and how much better off they are paying ten years earnings to fix their ingrowing toenail.

Well, for me, the NHS has been nothing short of bloody brilliant. I was diagnosed, referred to the hospital, and under the knife, within the space of THREE WEEKS. Alongside the self examination which detected the tumour, there is absolutely no doubt that the NHS saved me a whole barrage of treatment. No chemotherapy. No radiation. One operation (and a hell of a lot of follow ups, but who gives a shit about that!). My oncologist is one phone call away, if I have any concerns, and when, last year, I did find some swelling in the lonely testicle, swinging down below, all on it’s Todd, I had an ultrasound within around ten days.

In short, I owe my life to the NHS. For fifteen years, it was a privilege to work for them as a nurse. I have needed their care on numerous occasions; none more so than in the wake of a cancer diagnosis. And they have never let me down. Not once.

It is entirely due to the care and kindness of the surgeons, oncologists, nursing staff and doctors that I am still here, being a belligerent old fart..

I have another two years before I can declare myself “cured”. I am technically “in remission”, To me, those are just words. I pay much more attention to blood tests, and have become intimately acquainted with terms like AFP, HCG and LFP (tumour makers). And as long as they stay within the desired parameters, the cancer remains GONE.

With every passing anniversary, the likelihood of it returning lessens considerably. That said, I will still remain vigilant, keeping an eye on ol’ lonely-ball.

Alongside the incredible support from the NHS (and of course, family and friends), the support I have received from people on Twitter has been beyond measure. Extraordinary kindness from people whom I have never met. You know who you are. And I am more grateful for your support and continued friendship than you could possibly imagine.

I was bloody lucky. I had no great battle to contend with. I am equally, acutely aware of the difficulties and hardships others have faced, and continue to face on a daily basis. My cancer pales into insignificance, by comparison. And I hope, where I can, that I can offer the same support that has so kindly been afforded me.

But today. Just this one day. This one’s mine. It belongs to me. And I’m grabbing it with both hands!

Talking Bollocks

Hello Blog.. It's been a while! Regular reader will have noticed (or not!) that I haven't updated in a while. The last couple of weeks have been rather stressful, to say the least.

Today, we have a General Election vote, and whilst, of course, I did my civic duty and voted, I had far more important things to concern myself with..

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed my remaining bollock was starting to increase in size. Having had one eaten by cancer, I phoned the Doctor IMMEDIATELY. No pissing around. I secured an appointment the following day, had a barrage of blood tests, and a referral for an ultrasound. 

It took a little over a week for an appointment with the hospital, which is where I have been today. So, from the time of discovery, to the results, I've had an anxious, but exceptionally prompt 10 day wait. God, I fucking LOVE our NHS! I am proud and privileged to have worked for it as a nurse, and am extraordinarily grateful to it, and to the dedicated, loyal and woefully underpaid staff who saved my life.

The ultrasound and blood tests are conclusive. I DO NOT HAVE CANCER! It has NOT returned, thank goodness. The nut had some residual fluid, which they believe may have been as the result of a minor infection, and does seem to be slowly returning to its normal size.

I've told no-one, as I didn't want to burden parents, family and close friends with the worry. It's been quite enough worrying about myself, without worrying about them worrying about me! That's a shitload of worry going on there, and to quote Sweet Brown, "ain't nobody got time for that"!

Testicular cancer should be a concern for EVERY male, of any age. We should all be checking our tackle on a regular basis, and doing something about it when we do find irregularities. The first time, I lost a bollock, and, as regular readers know, dodged any adjuvant treatment due to the prompt discovery of the tumours, and the orchidectomy. This time, my mind is simply put to rest.

In the vast majority of testicular anomalies, post examination, swellings, lumps, bulbs and irregularities turn out to be nothing to worry about. And getting them checked out usually eliminates any worry. Occasionally, some of us are unlucky and our worst fears are realised. Prompt intervention means a near 99% chance of a full recovery, and, as with my cancer two years ago, no chemotherapy or radiotherapy.

Today has been a good day. I cast a vote, and more importantly, for me, at least, I also cast off my worries. I have a slightly swollen bollock. And that's fine. Because I DON'T HAVE BLOODY CANCER!

Make today a good day for yourself. Check your balls, or, for female readers, your breasts. A two minute fiddle, and, if necessary, a few minutes of mild embarrassment at a Doctors (not that one should be embarrassed about looking after your health). That's all it takes to put your mind at rest. 

An ordinary day?

It is the 18th February 2015. An ordinary day, for you, and thankfully, for me as well. Why, then, are you blogging about an "ordinary day" I hear you ask.

I am overjoyed, quite literally, to announce an anniversary. Today marks TWO YEARS minus one testicle, but more importantly, minus CANCER. Two years, CANCER FREE! 

Unlike many cancer victims, I didn't have an almighty battle with the 'Big C'. I'm not brave, or 'a fighter'. What I am is incredibly bloody lucky. There are so many people who struggle with cancer, people who, quite literally, fight for their lives. Sometimes, sadly, it is a battle they will lose.

As I write this, I cannot help but reflect on my dear friend, John. Simply thinking of him is making me cry. John was the same age as me. I first met him when at school, when we were 11. For 30 odd years, we remained dear friends. And, boy, were some of those years odd! He was a loveable rogue. An 'Arthur Daley type' character. As kids, we got into a fair amount of trouble! Nothing criminal, but it's safe to say we were, as my parents would call us, "a right pair". I saw him through his depression, and he, equally, supported me through mine. 

John lost his life on the 29th April 2011. Busy lives meant we didn't see each other as often as we liked, or as often as we should have. The first I learned of his death was courtesy of the obits in the local paper. He went from a strong, healthy (albeit as unfit and out of shape as me!) guy to a few lines in a newspaper within the space of THREE WEEKS. Pancreatic cancer took a good, kind, healthy young man, and decimated him, to the point of death. And I fucking miss him. Every bloody day. I never saw him in the hospice. I had no idea he was ill. I think, while I wish I could have said goodbye, and told him how much I loved him as a friend, I'm glad. I'll always remember the cheeky rogue as opposed to a husk of a man lying in a bed, unable to recognise me due to the copious amount of painkillers I understand he was receiving. I'll always remember John, my mate. My friend. 

I never, for one moment, imagined that, two years later, I would be on the receiving end of my own cancer diagnosis. Didn't fucking see that one coming! I've blogged about that extensively, here. As my previous post attests, I got, if there is such a thing, the "best form of cancer". I got an easy one. Bollock out, cancer gone. No chemo, no radiotherapy. Just intensive monitoring. Nothing more. I was in no pain, and aside from a hilariously large bollock, could barely tell I had a disease as pernicious and indiscriminate as cancer. 

I have no deities, no gods, to thank. I have a healthy dose of bloody good luck, an extraordinary health care system, the NHS, without which I wouldn't be writing this today, a loving, supportive family, who reassured me, kept me sane, aided my post-operative recuperation, and still, to this day, care about every blood test, every CT scan, every part of the small journey I am still on. My journey is, and for two years, has been, painless, straightforward, even mercifully easy. I can live with the lack of a testicle. Fuck it. I can LIVE. Period. 

Every day forward means the likelihood of my cancer returning diminishes. I am under no illusion that I'm "home free", however after two years, my odds are pretty good. The average odds of a man getting testicular cancer is around 1 in 400. My odds are, at this stage, 1 in 200. I don't play the odds. I just take each day as it comes. Life is a lottery; a game of poker in which you play the hand you are given, like it or not. There are no reshuffles, no "do overs" and dwelling on what may or may not happen in the future is futile. What I can do, however, is continue to self examine my remaining, lonely little testicle regularly. Complacency isn't an option when you've had testicular cancer. And this is the point.. It isn't an option when you HAVEN'T.  I am in a position now where I can, and do, frequently urge men to check their nuts. If you are male, go and check yours. PLEASE. It takes 30 seconds. 30 seconds which can save your life. 30 seconds which can spare you the adjuvant therapies associated with cancer. 30 seconds. Is that too long for peace of mind? It may seem to some that I never shut the fuck up about self examination. You're right. I don't. And I won't. If, one day, just ONE person  stumbles upon my tweets and has a fiddle. I've done something good. If, and I hope it never happens, anyone finds anything irregular and seeks advice, as a result of my tweets, THEY have done something amazing. They have probably just saved their own life. Or given themselves peace of mind. 

Throughout my time with cancer, and in the following two years, the support, kindness and well wishes I have received on Twitter have been extraordinary. To every single person, from the bottom of my heart, I genuinely thank you. I am fortunate. I am not in a position to say "I couldn't have made it without you", thankfully. You have, however, made the journey a hell of lot easier, and simply knowing that people care, people whom I have never met, will take the time to ask "how are you" or say "congratulations" when a milestone is reached, is an extraordinary feeling. The kindness of strangers becomes the comfort of friends.

In closing, I turn my thoughts back to John. For you, my old mucker, you incorrigible bastard (!), I'll live every fucking day striving to be a better person. You'll never read this. That particular "pleasure" has been robbed from you. I hope you knew just how bloody special you were. I'm damn sure I'll never forget you. Not a day goes by that I don't think of you. Now, I can do so with a chuckle, thinking of some of the antics we got up to! There is still sadness, but equally, there is gratitude for a friendship which lasted for decades. You have given me a better awareness of my own mortality. That is a gift as precious as your friendship. It is a gift I promise not to take for granted. I love you bro, and I miss you so fucking much. 

Lastly, and I make no apology for repeating myself. For the love of sanity, self examine! Don't do it for me. Don't do it out of a sense of obligation because some of this post is a little sad. Do it for YOU. You have one life, and, assuming you are male, one pair of bollocks. Be kind to them. They might just save your life,

Dedicated to the memory of John Forgeard

Musing on my bollocks...

You never think it'll happen to you. Horror stories, appeals for help for sick and dying children, images flooding the television screens with the effects of smoking. All of that happens to other people.. right?

I quit drinking 15 years ago, and smoking 8 years ago. I have other health issues, but a cancer diagnosis was probably the last thing I'd ever expected.

Two years ago, my right nut started to expand in size. Subtly at first, then it seemed to get quite big within the space of a week. Being a former nurse, I wasn't overly concerned. I assumed I had a hydrocele; a collection of fluid which causes swelling of the testes. There's a simple test for hydroceles.. You hold a torch behind your nuts and see if they are transparent. If they are, chances are, you have a hydrocele. My self performed flashlight test was... inconclusive.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you look on it, I've had every indignity known to man thrust upon me in the past, by way of medical examination. As a nurse, I saw pretty much everything imaginable. So I have no qualms in letting a Doctor have a fiddle with my nuts. Unless it's during an examination for my headache. I draw the line there.. It just doesn't feel right, somehow!

My GP was wonderful, did a flashlight test, which was inconclusive. To be honest, they always are. They are an indicator. Nothing more, nothing less. So if you have swollen nuts, don't stick a torch between your legs and pray. Do what I did.. Get your arse to the Doctor.

Within a week, I had an appointment with a urologist. Jolly good.. My nuts hadn't been fiddled with enough, so it was nice to let someone else have a go..

As it happened, he recognised me. My face. Not my nuts. That would have been weird. I had staffed clinic for him before when I was on the nursing bank. Slightly cheeky to get preferential treatment the same day, but he wrote up his notes and sent me off for a CT scan and an ultrasound. CT scans take time to examine, but the ultrasound.. I could see on the screen, without anyone telling me, that something was wrong. Very wrong. My nut was pregnant, with a nicely developed "something" growing inside.

At this point, you still deny in your own head that it's cancer. After all, that happens to other people. Not to me..

The next day I was back at the hospital for blood tests and another chat with the urologist, who hit me with it.. "You have a tumour. We won't know much more until we remove the testicle".

Ok.. And the results of blood... Wait, say what? You're removing my bollock? Erm. Ok. "Would you like a prosthetic one" I was asked, as the consultant brought forth a tray of silicon testicles, which, with hindsight, would make a great name for a jazz band. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the stage.. The Silicon Testicles"! I declined, as they can cause infection issues later down the line, and my age, my nuts seldom get used, so...

It's at THAT point it hits you. This could fucking kill me. Oh. Bugger!

I have a phobia. I cannot STAND vomiting. The thought of it induces severe panic attacks. So my primary concern wasn't, believe it or not, the cancer. It was the anaesthesia. "Could you possibly do it with an epidural" I asked, explaining my reasons. A lot of people have commented on the bravery of having a radical ingual orchidectomy (your nut, and the seminal tube removed) whilst wide awake.

Trust me. It had jack shit to do with bravery and everything to do with not wanting to honk my innards out, post surgery. I was told I'd be given a strong sedative, anti sickness drugs etc during the operation. I asked, for reasons best known to absolutely no-one, if I could see the extracted testicle. After all, it's not every day you get to look at your own nuts. Not outside of their comfy, wrinkled little purse.

I was told I'd probably be "too out of it" to remember.. I was spaced out during the surgery, and unbelievably comfortable under a giant, warmed airbag contraption. But I remember. I even waved it goodbye!

I was sent home the following day, sore, but reasonably ok for someone who'd just had part of their genitalia yanked out of their scrotum like giblets ripped from a turkey.

I had a follow up scheduled for a week later. Now THAT I was dreading. Part of me was still hoping they'd dissect the nut, find a benign tumour, and I could go back to worrying about less stressful things. Bearing in mind my phobia, the thought that it probably was malignant filled me with terror,mad I anticipated chemotherapy, radiation treatment and plagues of locusts.

"Stage One Classic Seminoma with a mature Teratoma". Sounds bad, right? I knew a fair bit about cancer from my nursing days, but wasn't familiar with teratomas. I always assumed they were grown in greenhouses, by dyslexic gardeners.

There are two types of teratoma. Immature (the more common, and much more aggressive), and mature (slow growing). I had dodged a bullet. BIG TIME. Two types of cancer in one nut, neither of which had metastasized.

So what fate awaited me? I had been warned that one round of chemotherapy was a possibility, so I was fully prepared for the worst. Almost fully prepared. Ok, I was shitting bricks!

"Intensive monitoring" was the oncologists verdict. Like a defendant in the dock, awaiting a life sentence, I felt like I'd just been given community service instead. Blood tests and chest X-rays every month for the first year, CT scans every six months. All a mild inconvenience and NOT BLOODY CHEMOTHERAPY!

All the time, throughout this, my intense emetophobia scared me MUCH more than the cancer. And I'd dodged it. My parents were, naturally ecstatic. I think I caused them more worry in one month than I'd achieved in my entire life. And, given I was quite the little shit (no.. surely not.. not someone as meek and mild as you, I hear you say!) was quite an achievement.

So where are we now? Yesterday marked 23 months completely cancer-free. My tests have been reduced in intensity (and my testes reduced by one!), and I'm ok. The cancer itself, beyond an amusingly large bollock caused me no pain, no illness, nothing. And why? Because I got off my arse and went to my Doctor. FAST.

And that's the key, and the point of this blog post. For the love of bollocks, don't sit on your balls and hope things will go away. Chances are, they might. And chances are, they won't. Don't gamble on it being the former. Life is too precious for gambling with, especially if the wager is a little embarrassment at having your nuts looked at.

Self examination saves lives. It's as simple as that. You don't need to be obsessive about it. Frankly, I'd advise you not to be. Some men examine themselves every day in the shower. Waste of time. In the same way you don't notice your hair growing, you're a lot less likely to pick up on any problems. Once every couple of weeks is fine. If there's a problem, go to the Doctor RIGHT AWAY (please remember to get dressed after getting out of the shower.. running into a GP surgery butt naked is likely to get you seen by a psychiatrist rather than an oncologist!). Seriously. Within a day, MAKE AN APPOINTMENT. It's five minutes out of your life, which may extend your life quite considerably.

As for me.. Yup, I still check the other one. I don't have anything to compare it to any more.. It's loving companion of 40 odd years (and some of them have been very bloody odd!) is no more. It's gone to the great bollocky heaven in the sky, where it rests on a cloud, gazing down at me. Probably.

Hopefully you've enjoyed reading this. It's quite grim in places, but hopefully the humour will lighten the burden of reading my crap! Plus, if it makes just ONE of you give your nuts a feel, then it was worth writing. And if everything's ok.. Treat yourself afterward.. To a nice, long.. WALK!

 

You can read my latest update on my experience with testicular cancer HERE and, my latest post, in which I found another swelling (thankfully, not a return of the cancer!) HERE.