Diagnosis

I went into work as normal. I had no idea of what the day held for me. None at all. The morning went smoothly – the freelancer was a chilled out chick who had worked there before and kinda knew the ropes. I warned her I’d be off for a couple hours around lunchtime and not to worry, I’d be back before she knew it. She was watching YouTube at the time; she didn’t seem too fussed.

With my mind at rest that everything at work that could be done had been done, I set off for my scan. I wasn’t even worried. Not at first, anyway. The wait dragged me down a bit. I started to get worried about getting back to work. Eventually they called out a batch of names, mine included. A group of us, all men, went to sit in a corridor. For another really long period of time. I decided to give up on worrying about work. Instead my mind was leaning towards thinking about what the problem could be. Still I only got so far with considering cancer. I still didn’t know what to do with the thought once I’d had it: “So what if it’s cancer?” “Um…”

The doctor was a lady. Does this bother me, I thought? No, I decided, and shimmied my trousers down. A tube of cold gel, the thought that this was a bit weird, and a magic machine that can see through things later and the lady doctor and I are looking at my bollocks on a TV screen. It’s all a bit awkward because I’m sat forward looking back at the screen to my side, with my pants down, and her hand on my groin. She tells me I have a tumour. This makes things more awkward, mostly because I don’t really understand what she’s saying. Is she saying cancer? She’s not said cancer. But is she being polite? Easing me into the idea? No, she’s a doctor, she’d just say. But does she mean cancer? What does she mean, a tumour?

My first question: “What caused it?” That’s the one question they can’t answer. Another lady doctor came in to have a look, a second opinion if you will. Yes, definitely a tumour. But what does that mean, I kept thinking. The first lady doctor started talking about Lance Armstrong. So it is cancer then, I thought. But still I didn’t say it out loud. It never occurred to me to actually ask.

Then the big news: I was going to need an operation. “When?” I asked. “Today,” was the reply. “But I have to get back to work,” I said. “I’m afraid you’re not going back to work today,” was the reply.

Instead I was sent to another hospital, one with a urology department that could have a look at my tumour and decide what it was; instead I was going to be admitted to that hospital for an operation to have the tumour, whatever kind it was, taken out; instead I was going to have to call my scary boss and tell him I wasn’t coming back in that day.

Waiting for the shuttle bus to take me to the other hospital, I call people. My friend Steve who I work with is stunned. He says he’s happy to cover for me. My boyfriend is not so stunned – he’s been the only one to have any warning that this was coming. My sister is stunned. My Dad is reasonable and stoically tells me to get it out, quick smart. My scary boss is immediately supportive and tells me not to worry about work, just go and get myself sorted. Incredible. That’s enough for now. There are only so many times you can have that conversation in one go.

But still it wasn’t cancer. It was a ‘tumour’, and would remain so until I was told otherwise. The nice, though very green, Japanese doctor at the urology clinic told me otherwise. It was testicular cancer. I texted Mark afterwards: “I literally have testicular cancer. Brilliant.” I’m glad I wasn’t the one receiving that text.

I was sat there once again with my trousers round my ankles, my dick in my hand and a stranger rubbing cold gel into my balls with a magic machine that can see through things. “Do you want to have a look?” asked the Japanese doctor. Of course. He told me most people don’t want to, which struck me as strange. Why wouldn’t you? We compared bollocks – each of mine, I mean, not mine with his. One looked like a textbook drawing of a testicle. The other one looked like, well, Canada. He pointed out the tiny bit of testicle that remained amongst the tumour – kind of where Hudson Bay is – and told me it wasn’t worth saving. What a ridiculous thought – that someone could be so insecure in their manhood that they would want that tiny bit of testicle saved in order to claim in some way that they still had two testicles. Silly.

There was an awkward moment where I’m cleaning the gel off my balls. I could have spent hours doing it, it’s clingy stuff. We sat down. He looked at me expectantly. I got that a lot over the next few days, that expectant look. That searching for a reaction. What was I supposed to do? Cry? Get angry? Go into denial? All of the above? I didn’t feel like any of that was necessary or justified.

Things happened very quickly after this. I was admitted and found myself in one of those backless gowns, though mine was more of a wraparound affair. There was a nice moment with the ward nurse where I stupidly asked if it was okay to wear my pants underneath. “Are they nice cotton ones?” she frowned. I nodded, dumbly, wondering what her standard of ‘nice’ was. “Okay then,” she said.

It was this moment that made me feel like I was being looked after, that my figurative Mum was in attendance to this situation. It was going to be dealt with in a no-nonsense but caring fashion. I was going to be all right.

I met a plethora of hospital staff that afternoon – nurses, urologists, oncologists, anaesthetists. Even my very own pharmacist in the form of my boyfriend Mark, who left work early and popped in on his way to go and get me some stuff from home. I also met the x-ray staff while I had an x-ray to see if the cancer had spread to my chest. But there’s only one visitor that really sticks in my memory – the evil, dastardly registrar.

Surgeons have a reputation for being full of themselves. It’s well-known they’re supposed to be ego-maniacs because of this magic power to cut and fix that they have. But I always find it so inherently depressing when a person lives up to their cliché.

The man who was about to operate on me came in and immediately put me off kilter with his incredulity that I didn’t get this checked out for so long. “I was out of the country for a long time,” I said, lamely. “But even with your Dad having had cancer?” he exclaimed, looking at me with a ‘what a moron’ look on his face. “I didn’t think it was cancer,” I replied, feeling even lamer.

He started talking about children, do I have any? No. Do I want any? I don’t know. Do I have a girlfriend? I have a boyfriend. “So you’re…” he whispered it, “homosexual?” I laughed. I can’t help myself, what a prick. Why whisper that after bleating to the whole fucking ward about my testicular cancer? Yes, I said, and, obviously a little perturbed, he started banging on about sperm-banking. I wasn’t really listening. Was this necessary right now? I was about to have a testicle lopped off for fuck sake. One thing at a time, please.

He asked me to drop my pants. As had become de riguer for this process now, I held my dick out of the way. It had almost become a comfort thing while I exposed myself to all and sundry. But he knocked my hand away. “Just let it lie there,” he said. I was still of the opinion that he was the doctor and me the patient and did as I was told, despite him being an overwhelming prick. He poked and prodded uncomfortably at my tumour-ridden testicle. I let it ride. Then HE PICKED UP MY DICK OPENED THE URETHRA AND LOOKED DOWN IT. I knocked his hand away. “What are you doing?” I exclaimed. He said nothing. I was literally just a piece of meat to him. I was disgusted. To add to the humiliation I was then drawn on – a big black arrow on my right thigh pointing to the correct testicle to be removed. I was saying nothing now and the surgeon made his exit. “We’ll just get it out then,” he said as he went. Damn right you fucker, do your fucking job.

After he was gone the Japanese doctor came in with a student doctor. He asked politely if the student could have a look at my tumour. Any other time I would have been fine but I was brimming with anger and humiliation. I couldn’t take any more poking and prodding and exposing myself to strangers. I tearfully declined and the doctors retreated quickly.

My mood darkened rapidly after this experience. The gravity of the whole situation started to hit and I realised three awful but unavoidable things. Firstly, I had cancer. Secondly, I was going to have a hugely invasive operation to remove that cancer. Thirdly, this will leave me with just one testicle.

This was all starkly contrasted with the fact that I just didn’t feel sick. I felt just as healthy and normal as I had that morning when I woke up. There was nothing obviously wrong with me, so how could there be something so wrong with me? I was surrounded by old men - old, obviously sick men. What was I doing there??

By the time I was being wheeled down to the operating theatre - a mere seven hours after I’d left work – my mood was as black as night. I wouldn’t – couldn’t – speak to anyone. I stubbornly refused to lie down on the bed – I wasn’t sick or tired, why would I lie down? So I just sat there as they took me into the depths of the hospital.

The two anaesthetists were charming but they did nothing to lighten my mood. They needed my verbal permission to go ahead with the operation. “Are you happy to go ahead with this operation?” one of them asked. “Not really,” I replied. “Are you as happy as you’ll ever be to go ahead with this operation?” he countered. “Yes,” I sighed.

One of them injected me with “something to chill me out”. “Is that working?” he asked. “It’s definitely doing its job, yes,” I said, a little happier. They wheeled me into the theatre. It was remarkably old fashioned, like something from the 70s. I started banging on about how we were in an episode of Life On Mars. I was getting quite chatty now. One of the anaesthetists came towards me with an oxygen mask. “Now this is just a bit of oxygen for you,” he said. He was lying. I was gone before I knew it.