Getting Through Cancer

Just two hours earlier, I was begrudgingly headed to an ultrasound appointment at the firm request of my partner. The debilitating back pains that once concerned me had subsided, and working in a fast-paced environment, spending part of my work day in a hospital waiting room felt needless.

And now, I was seated on a hospital chair, shell-shocked as a nurse gently gripped my hands, and told me that my right testicle would need to be surgically removed. She said that more tests would need to be run, but it was likely that I had testicular cancer.

The next few hours were a deeply emotional, anxious blur. A rushed CT scan and late night phone call soon followed, only to confirm the fear I was fixated on — the cancer was stage 2c, meaning that it had spread to the lymph nodes in my abdomen.

I haven’t shared the full story publicly before, but I feel compelled to write about my experience with cancer. It has undoubtedly been the most difficult, frustrating, and impactful event of my life, and I hope that sharing it helps anyone who finds themselves in a similar situation.

How did this happen?

However sudden the diagnosis may have felt, the build up toward it was anything but. In fact, I can’t really remember when I first felt something was wrong with me. I vaguely remember experiencing some dull groin pains as far back as 2017, but the thought that I could be dealing with something as serious as cancer never entered my mind.

But when I first moved to London for graduate school, I started experiencing a recurring, debilitating lower back pain. For days at a time, my energy levels would nosedive and I would spend hours lying in bed, waiting for it to disappear. Feeling as though my time and focus were already stretched too thin, I simply ignored it, and coping with the pain gradually became part of my weekly routine.

This continued until August 2019 when the back pain persisted, but was now paired with frequent, painful swelling in my right testicle. After deciding that I could no longer ignore it, I rushed to Urgent Care, and armed with an entire Google search worth of information, I explicitly asked the doctor if it could be testicular cancer. This was highly unlikely, I was swiftly told — it was presumably an infection of some sort. Some antibiotics were prescribed and I left the hospital feeling a genuine sense of comfort, suspecting that everything was fine.

The pain and swelling continued to come and go over the following year. And it was only at the insistent request of my partner, that I even attended another appointment to once again examine what was ailing me. Without that push, I would likely be in a far worse, increasingly life-threatening situation, with a treatment regimen worse than what I was set to endure.

Treatment

Straight up, chemo sucked. I always tell people that it wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be, but in all honesty, my expectations were pretty low. It’s really hard.

The treatment started almost immediately. The call with the initial CT results happened on a Friday, and the discussions about chemotherapy began the following Monday. I was set up with three cycles of BEP chemotherapy, intended to shrink the tumours in my abdomen. Each of the three cycles was three weeks long, beginning with an inaugural week of five consecutive days, all containing six to seven hours of treatment. The following two weeks of the cycle were easier, with just one day of treatment each Monday, lasting about two hours.

All in all, I was faced with 27 days of treatment across nine weeks. 117 hours, not including the commute, various CT scans, oncology appointments, blood & urine tests, and surgery preparation appointments. This was just 117 hours of being stabbed with a cannula, hooked up to a machine, and listening to it hum along as medicine was pushed through my body.

And unfortunately, each session wasn’t quite as easy as sitting back and waiting for it to be over. A diuretic, ensuring the functionality of my kidneys, also ensured that any rest I hoped to get during a session was nearly impossible. Bathroom trips in which I was accompanied by my still humming, eternally-pumping infusion machine happened every ten to thirty minutes. Each session was exhausting.

Even once the session was over, treatment wasn’t. To boost my declining immune system, I was required to routinely stick myself with a set of white blood cell stimulating injections. And at the end of the first week of each cycle, I needed to take steroid pills that completely eliminated my ability to sleep. As a result of both, as well as nausea, digestive issues, dehydration, poor circulation, and loss of appetite, I existed in a permanent state of extreme physical fatigue.

These side effects I experienced were thankfully, on the lesser end in terms of severity and amount, relative to what could be experienced. I remember sitting with the oncologist and clinical nurse, reviewing each possible effect one by one and thinking that the printed, comprehensive list looked like a short novel. Nerve damage, loss of taste, tinnitus, lung scarring, even death… the list went on and on. I feel incredibly fortunate to have had no lasting side effects.

The mental grind

What if the cancer, isn’t actually testicular cancer?

Believe it or not, this was actually a major concern throughout the first three weeks of treatment. Based on my age group, sex, and symptoms, there was a significant chance the condition was correctly diagnosed as testicular cancer, but with these high odds, an invasive biopsy was forgone — meaning that it couldn’t be completely confirmed. If it was correct, the tumours in my abdomen would respond to the BEP chemo, a testicular cancer specific treatment, and if not, I’d have got through three weeks of chemo for nothing. Despite the odds being in my favour and eventually, receiving the post-scan news that it was, in fact, testicular cancer, the mental burden of “what if?” was terrifying.

I never thought I’d feel relieved to know that I only had testicular cancer, but here I was, three weeks into chemo, actually celebrating it.

What if the treatment isn’t effective enough?

The brief moment of celebration was short lived. Obviously, I still had cancer and now, the goal posts had shifted. I needed to know that the treatment would work as expected, shrinking the tumours and preventing any further spread. Of course, this was impossible to know in the short term, and with limited patience and a surplus of anxiety, I became a high-strung, manic mess with fleeting thoughts between scans. I understood the importance of remaining positive, but I desperately needed certainty in an uncertain time. I couldn’t bear the thought of overstating positive results, or discovering that something wasn’t going to plan.

This anxiety was the most defining aspect of my experience with cancer. It’s hard to explain how overwhelming it has been, and how deeply rooted it was in my every thought, action and feeling I had post-diagnosis. Every phone call I received from the hospital, text to confirm an appointment, or update from a doctor triggered a feeling of sheer, uncontrollable terror and stress. I couldn’t think or see beyond what I was gritting my teeth through, day-to-day, and I struggled to maintain a meaningful focus on other important aspects of my personal and professional life. What should have been minuscule issues, frustrations, and problems became overwhelming stressors, amplified by my constant baseline state of rampant anxiety.

The mental toil of never feeling truly comfortable or safe was hands down, the most difficult part of treatment, and it took a considerable toll on my well-being.

Working through treatment

It’s commonly understood that for those going through drip-based chemo, most people will need time off work, and as previously emphasised, it’s a physically draining, time-consuming process.

But in all honesty, this isn’t an option for everyone. Not only do bills need to be paid, the financial and career upheaval that result from cancer can take years to recover from. I was extremely fortunate in that I was able to benefit from a flexible contractor schedule in order to continue working throughout therapy, and at times, I felt that work even helped me, serving as a useful distraction and coping mechanism.

However, I’d be lying if I said that this was an easy ride. My anxious thoughts and low energy made it far more difficult to perform as I wanted to. Recruitment calls with potential candidates were exhausting. Mental fog made analytical work take twice as long to complete without errors. Running weekly team bonding activities with a smile, felt like a performance I needed to prepare for and rehearse.

I would like to firmly state however, that I was lucky to have a supportive team and workplace around me. I’d often post health updates in Slack about my journey and milestones, and would frequently receive incredibly kind messages of support. A few people even reached out privately to share their own experiences and offer additional words of advice.

Yet I struggled with being unable to convey just how hard and trying my experience was, especially as I was trying my hardest to work hard and just be normal. There are natural limits to one’s empathy, and as most people will not have gone through a similar experience, it can be impossible for them to relate to it. This might sound obvious, but it’s something that took me a while to genuinely realise and come to terms with.

Accepting this reality meant that the validation and support I needed could only come from professional help. The NHS has fantastic mental health support services for cancer patients, and having regular sessions with their psychology team, as well as frequent calls with the Guy’s Hospital youth team and CLIC Sargent made a world of difference in supporting me as I continued to work.

What’s next

I’m still coming to terms with the fact that there’s a long journey ahead that won’t end, even once the cancer is completely gone. I’ve completed a surgery following chemotherapy and might need another one, in the event that the tumours on my lymph nodes have not been eradicated by the treatment. Some upcoming results will confirm these next steps. Either way, I’ll also need to have regular checkups for the next few years, to make sure that if anything comes back, it’s treated quickly.

I feel different having gone through this. The future (or possibly current, fingers crossed) cancer-free me will not be quite like the old, pre-cancer me. Physically and mentally, I feel like a different person, for better or for worse.

If you’ve read this far, check out this resource on how to identify testicular cancer — it could very well save your life or that of someone you love. ❤️