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.

Suspicion

Finally I went to the GP. Not as soon as I was back in the UK, as you might imagine. It took me awhile. Was I in denial? I couldn’t tell you. From my perspective I just didn’t think about it. Of course it occurred to me whenever I reached down absent-mindedly, but I was easily distracted from thoughts about it. Other things were more important: getting work, reconnecting with my friends and family, some of whom I’d not seen for the three years I was elsewhere, finding somewhere to live.

But it wasn’t going away. By the time I made the doctor’s appointment it seemed to be slightly bigger than my other testicle. The bouts of grumpiness were still very occasional – it was only a handful of times I complained to Mark about it aching a bit. But it was hard. I couldn’t get away from the fact it was now almost entirely hard and lacked the spongy feeling of the other one.

Yet still I didn’t entertain (or didn’t allow myself to entertain) thoughts of cancer. I was reasonably sure it would turn out to be something else. At one point I did say to myself, well what if it’s cancer? But I didn’t know where to go with that thought. What do you do with it? It was best just to wait and find out.

The GP confirmed my way of thinking. He’s a batty old man, scatty as. One of those, “Now, where’s my glasses?” Around your neck. “Oh, yes, jolly good. Now, where’s my pen?” He had a look at me and decided it was probably scar tissue developing because I’d knocked it, maybe doing kickboxing. A recent development from the old operations I’d had. With hindsight, it doesn’t sound very plausible; I had those operations some 20 years ago. Why would nothing have occurred from them until now?

He started filling out a form for me to take to St Thomas’s Hospital and make an appointment for an ultrasound scan. Then he said something that shook me. “I’m going to put suspicion of cancer,” he said, and paused. A really long pause. Far too long. “But I don’t think that’s the case. I’m just putting that to get it hurried along a bit. If I leave that out they might not look at it for awhile.” I nodded. I was still hearing the words ‘suspicion of cancer’.

He jolted me out of my thoughts by slamming his pen down. “I can’t do this,” he said. “They’ll think I’m inept if I say that and it’s obviously not cancer. Sorry.” I shrugged, not really sure what was going on. He went off to get another form.

Speaking to Mark later we wondered if he’d been caught being inept before and was a bit paranoid about it. Either way he needn’t have worried. They looked at me pretty quick on seeing what the problem was.

After work I went to St Thomas’s to book the appointment. I got to the Ultrasound Department late and it had just shut. For the first time I felt the urgency of getting this sorted. It was Friday and they weren’t open at the weekend. I could see the receptionist but couldn’t get his attention. I stood there like a lemon, wondering what on earth to do. Then luck struck. A nurse left the clinic and I was able to sneak in. The receptionist looked at me with some annoyance but I immediately launched in with the apologies and didn’t let him get a word in before I handed him the doctor’s note. He immediately softened upon reading it and set about arranging an appointment.

But there was a problem. The earliest appointment was Monday, the next one after that was a week after. The problem with Monday was, my boss was on holiday and my colleague was on a lieu day. I was going to be holding the fort on my own with an inexperienced freelancer my only help.

I decided to risk it. I could just pop out for a couple hours and be back to work the rest of the day. Better that than wait a week for this to get looked at. The appointment was booked. I went home feeling a little better.

Bollocks

It all started what turned out to be a silly amount of time ago in a land far, far away. I was in my bedroom in Melbourne, lying on my bed. Absent-mindedly I reached down to my balls, had a feel. It’s what we do. Men, I mean. It’s what men do.

But I gradually became aware of what I was doing. Suddenly it gained importance. Suddenly it required my full attention. Something was different. The left one felt different. Or was I imagining it? I paid closer attention. It felt the right shape, and there was the tube coming off it. Yes, that seems okay. I’m imagining it.

It had always been the ‘weird’ one. I was born prematurely and with an undescended testicle. I had two operations before I was 10 to rectify this state of affairs and so I was always aware that this one wasn’t quite the same as the other one. Really, it was only a bit smaller and later discreet (and not so discreet) investigation of other men revealed this to be the usual.

But it continued to change. It changed so gradually that it was, for a long time, hard to tell if I wasn’t imagining it. The clues began to fall into place, however, increasingly hard to ignore. There was an occasional ache in that ball, something I initially put down to not having ejaculated for a few days. I wasn’t comfortable with my boyfriend touching my balls, something I put down to my general ‘sensitivity’ at being touched. But it soon became that particular ball. We started calling it the grumpy one.

Soon it was the same size as the other one, but nothing like the same shape. And it was getting hard. Occasionally the word cancer would fleetingly float through my brain and just as quickly drift off. It seemed like a ridiculous concept in relation to me. At that point I didn’t know how common testicular cancer was amongst men born with an undescended testicle. My father’s experience with testicular cancer some two, three years ago didn’t come into the equation either. He was an old man compared to me. I wasn’t due anything like this for a long time. Or so I thought.

I wasn’t really in a position to do anything about it either, really. When I first noticed it I was in Australia, and while they give reciprocal health care to British citizens I didn’t take the changes in my testicle seriously enough at that time. By the time it was starting to clamour for my attention and getting a bit ‘grumpy’ I was in Thailand, a country where medical attention for foreigners is costly and, worse, unpredictable in quality.

A female friend of mine had the unfortunate experience of having to have an abortion in a Thai hospital. They did it under local anaesthetic and she could feel the doctor going in and the … pain … was unbearable. With this in mind the idea of getting my bits checked out in that country held little appeal. But it quickly became clear that I wasn’t going to be in Thailand for any length of time and so it went on the list of things to do when I got home.

WeekendNotes - Hall's Gap

With its dizzying views and prehistoric-looking landscape, the Grampians National Park is one of Victoria's most impressive natural features. Its sandstone mountain range is one of the most striking in Australia and offers hikers and casual walkers something a little bit different to the average stroll through the bush.

At three hours drive from Melbourne it's probably not an ideal day trip, but the hub town of Hall's Gap provides an excellent base for those wanting to explore this beautiful area. Hotels and B&Bs are in abundance there for those who like their creature comforts but it's the campsites that people flock to for that true outdoorsy feel. Your fellow campers aren't your only companions either - you're never too far from a grass-munching kangaroo.

The distinctive and diverse landscape you can explore here at the Grampians (or Gariwerd to give it its Aboriginal name) is the perfect foil for an adventurous spirit. While designated walkways make it safe and keep you from getting lost, they are rough and rocky enough for you to get some impression of what it must have been like for those first European explorers travelling across this vast and peculiar landscape.

A highlight is the hike up to The Pinnacle - a sturdy outcrop of rock pointing out over a vast valley and crisp blue lake. It's a humbling view preceded by a walk (and occasional clamber) past picturesque creeks and through corridors of the curiously ruffled rock. Nearby is a test for those with a head for heights - a tightrope walk along a free-standing wall of sandstone that has a not insignificant drop each side.

There are many lookouts around the Park and each one provides a skyscraper-free view of untouched landscape that stretches right to the horizon. But you can get more intimate experiences of nature as well - not least at the handful of elegant waterfalls you can visit. A highlight is MacKenzie Falls which, although best seen at certain times of year, is both striking and peaceful whenever you sit by the inviting rock pool.

There is a silly distraction to be had in the area as well. We broke up the long drive with a quick hello to The Giant Koala. One of Australia's growing collection of 'Big Things', it makes for a good photo and a quick comment of, "It's really quite big, eh?" before you get a cup of tea. Don't bother going inside though, it looks a bit like someone's neglected attic.

Why? You'll find no other landscape like it in Australia.

WeekendNotes - Everybody needs good Neighbours

When you stand on Pin Oak Court in Melbourne’s eastern suburb of Vermont South, you could be in any stretch of Melburnian suburbia. It’s unremarkable but naggingly familiar.

Aim your camera at the houses and that familiarity becomes recognisability when viewed through a screen. Pin Oak Court is better known to the world as Ramsay Street, and is the longest serving cast member of perennial soap Neighbours.

You could visit the street on your own steam of course, though the real neighbours ask that you respect their privacy. But even if you’re a Neighbours die-hard it’s still just another suburban street. More fun is to be had on the Neighbours Tour, which not only guides you around Ramsay Street, but takes you even further into Erinsborough.

Whether you watched Neighbours years ago or are an avid fan today, you’ll get a thrilling sensation of stepping into your television on this tour. It is for Neighbours lovers past and present only though.

You’re shown a classic episode on the not-so-subtle bus during the half hour journey out to Pin Oak Court. (We had Daphne’s (sob) death.) Then you pull up outside Erinsborough High and enter a world only understood from viewing it on screen.

You’re not allowed in the school itself - like Ramsay Street it has a real life as well. Nor are you allowed in the Neighbours’ houses, of course. But you do get given a Ramsay Street sign to hold up and have your photograph with, so that’s all right.

Further exploration of sets such as Lou’s garage and the infamous Lassiter’s Complex provide further Neighbours geek heaven. It’s the meeting of a cast member though that’s the icing on the cake. But don’t expect Scott or Charlene. You should be so lucky. We got Janelle. No, I didn’t know her either.

Why? Turn off the TV and go out and do something more interesting instead.

WHEN: Saturday & Sunday 8.30am
WHERE: Neighbours Centre, 570 Flinders Street
COST: $65
MAP: click here