by Chris Geiger
The last two years have been a hard journey, but now I can look ahead. I have regular check-ups at the hospital, which will continue for the next eight or so years. But none of that matters because I’m still here today.
I’m now studying Psychology at Swansea University and left home last year to share a house with my university friends.
I fulfilled a lifelong ambition, too, by spending a long weekend in New York, which Lowri and I promised each other we’d do once I’d fully recovered. I also went on holiday with the girls to Ibiza to relax and enjoy the sunshine; thankfully, the alcohol doesn’t make me sick now!!
No more sunbeds for me… ‘They give you cancer, mind!!’
My Story by Jason Edgar
My Journey
Membership: # 5
I was sitting opposite a doctor in a small hospital consulting room surrounded by medical equipment, trying desperately to comprehend the words ‘testicular cancer’. These two simple words continually spun around in my head like an annoying tune. To be honest, five years since joining the cancer survivors club, I can still hear those words echoing round the room as if it was yesterday.
The 3rd of April is a date I’ll never forget. It’s the day I shocked my family and friends when I told them my news. ‘Nope, I’m not joking… honestly’ was a phrase I repeated a number of times.
Cancer was something other people got, not me. However, I’m now privileged to be able to provide an insight into my journey, how I survived and what it’s like to proudly call myself a cancer survivor.
My story began five years ago when doctors told me I had a cancerous tumour, which had probably been growing inside me for several months, prior to its being discovered. In addition to the stress of my being diagnosed with cancer, my wife had recently decided to end our marriage. We were still living in the same house with our young daughter, but in separate rooms. So the atmosphere, as you’d expect, could at best be described as tense.
As I’m sure you can imagine, this wasn’t a good time in my life. Not that there’s ever a good time to be diagnosed with cancer. Sadly, I was feeling especially isolated and very lonely at the time and struggled more than most. I knew instantly I was facing the biggest challenge of my life; a challenge I had no choice but to accept.
During the weeks that followed the separation from my wife, I’d been experiencing some sharp pains in my left testicle. Initially, I put this down to stress, caused by both the breakdown of my marriage and overwork. My left testicle had always been larger than my right one, which I’m told is normal. When I was younger, my right testicle was un-descended, so I’d had a procedure to correct this. Sorry if you’re eating while reading this!
While taking a bath one night, I noticed my left testicle felt really hard, like a stone, not soft like the other one. When I examined it further, I got a sharp shooting pain, which made me physically sick. Over the next few weeks, the pain continued to get worse, so reluctantly I went to see my doctor. I was obviously embarrassed at the thought of him seeing and examining my privates; however, in hindsight, it was really nothing to worry about.
After I’d explained my symptoms, he took a look at me. I sensed immediately that he had concerns with what he’d found. He immediately referred me to a consultant urologist; this obviously increased my anxiety further.
According to a leading cancer charity, there are only around 2,300 cases of testicular cancer diagnosed in the UK each year. So many doctors never even see one case, this may have been his first. I obviously didn’t know these statistics at the time.
My referral appointment with the consultant urologist was several weeks away and I was worried that the cancer would spread to the rest of my body. I was having so many irrational thoughts, even though an actual diagnosis hadn’t even been made yet; instinct maybe? I was stupidly convincing myself I was going to die. A friend at work said my outlook, or, as doctors called it, prognosis, if it was testicular cancer, was actually very good. ‘It’s one of the most treatable cancers,’ he kept saying. I repeatedly reminded him he wasn’t a doctor.
While I was waiting for my appointment to see the urologist, the pain continued to increase. Soon anything physical, like just leaning over my desk or sitting on my daughter’s bed reading to her, caused immense pain. Eventually, I couldn’t handle it any more, so visited the Accident & Emergency Department at my local hospital. After a short and scary wait, I was led into a small cubicle by a young doctor, who was about my age. He examined me and carried out an ultrasound. I could see the screen, which clearly showed a mass in my left testicle; it looked so different to my right one. I was sweating profusely, yet felt cold and my heart was bouncing around my chest, caused by sheer panic I guess. While I was getting dressed, I noticed the doctor talking to one of his colleagues. Their body language suggested there was a problem. Then I overheard one of them saying, ‘It’s a wake-up call, he must be about our age.’ That’s when I knew I wasn’t being a hypochondriac.
Minutes later, while still in the curtained cubicle, I heard those unforgettable words: ‘Testicular cancer.’ He said he was ninety-nine percent sure. I asked a number of questions, and his response was very kind and reassuring. I really appreciated his comforting manner and concern. The doctor went on to say it was highly likely the cancerous testicle would need to be removed as soon as possible. He left the room for a few minutes, giving me time to collect my thoughts. As I sat still on the examination couch, it felt like my heart was going to explode, it was beating so fast. I still felt ice cold and in some sort of suspended animation.
On his return, he suggested I have a chest x-ray. I obviously asked why I needed this when the problem was down below. He explained it was important to check the cancer hadn’t spread to my lungs. He reassured me it was standard practice for newly diagnosed testicular cancer patients.
Yet again it was excruciating waiting for the results by myself; I felt so alone. I knew even when I did eventually get home there’d be nobody to talk with, hug or tell me I’d be OK; it was very upsetting.
The same helpful doctor gave me the x-ray results in what felt like the longest thirty minutes of my life. Thankfully, my lungs were clear; there was no sign of any secondary tumours. I could have hugged him but didn’t want to add a black eye to my list of problems! He explained that my cancer was the most curable type and the prognosis was very good; everything my work colleague had kept saying. Despite what he’d said and seeing the x-ray as evidence, I still continued to worry. I was oddly convincing myself they’d made a mistake and my body was riddled with the disease. Obviously, now I can see it was probably just shock, causing me not to listen or believe what I was being told. These thoughts evoked so much unnecessary stress and worry.
It was hard to believe that little me had cancer; until this moment I’d been a healthy thirty-one year old. Naively, I always thought it was older people who got cancer; I never once dreamt I’d get it. Soon my thoughts turned to how I was going to tell people. I wondered what my parents would think and how my brother would react. I was unsure what my ex-wife would say or how to tell my adorable daughter. My emotions were all over the place and I didn’t know what was going to happen next. I felt totally empty and isolated from everyone.
I rang Nic, my best friend, and told him my news. I asked if he could tell both my boss and ex-wife. Nic had also agreed to talk to my parents as I was too upset to tell them myself at the time. When I got off the phone, I broke down and began crying again, for what felt like most of that evening. Nic visited me in hospital later the next day, as I’d now been admitted. My parents also visited, which was a very emotional moment for us all.
After a number of other tests and discussions with various doctors, it was decided they’d operate as soon as possible; until then I could go home. I didn’t want to stay in hospital any longer than needed and thankfully there was a shortage of beds anyway. They’d also said that after the operation I’d need some chemotherapy, which was equally terrifying.
&n
bsp; Foolishly, I spent the time waiting for my operation by going out every night and getting blind drunk. I thought this would help me forget I was ill. Yet all it really achieved was to worsen both the pain and my now fragile mental state. The result was I’d spend long days in bed just sleeping off my hangover. My parents were amazing though; they kept an eye on me and visited daily. Seeing Mum and Dad was much nicer than just having my phone, laptop and headaches to keep me company. Whenever I was on my own, I’d have really dark worrying thoughts. Not only was the operation worrying me, but I was also getting paranoid the cancer might be spreading.
I’d been allocated a specialist cancer nurse called Julia. She was brilliant; I’d call her for advice and whenever I needed to talk. Within just a few minutes of putting the phone down, I’d start worrying again. I couldn’t kick the negative thoughts out of my head.
While surfing the internet one day, I came across a guy called Philly Morris. He was the founder of the Checkemlads.com website. I also discovered a guy called Nick O’Hara Smith from the Testosterone Deficiency Centre. Both Philly and Nick were so kind on receiving my first email. They helped me understand my irrational thoughts and explained how my symptoms were normal. I started to appreciate I wasn’t unusual or a freak. I found chatting online to fellow cancer patients who had survived this gave me so much hope and motivation.
My cancer journey continued. I had my left testicle removed and a biopsy was taken from my right side. This was the scariest time of my life. Thankfully, my mum and her friend kept me company and provided great support. I then had a CT scan to check the cancer wasn’t spreading, which as the x-ray had already shown it wasn’t. Naturally, the surgery scared me enormously, but at the same time the thought of being cancer free gave me enormous strength. After my operation, I experienced a lot of pain in my remaining testicle, so I visited the oncology team again. They arranged an ultrasound to put my mind at rest and more importantly check the pain was nothing sinister.
I soon met with the urologist to discuss the outcome of my operation. While there, I gave a sperm sample to check if any of my sperm were viable to freeze. I needed to do this prior to starting the chemotherapy treatment, as I’d been told one of the side effects was it could possibly cause infertility, although not in all cases. I gave a series of three samples over a period of a few weeks. The results unfortunately showed that I was no longer able to father a child; this for me was a hard blow and difficult to accept. Yet this news was obviously overshadowed by the fact I was still dealing with cancer.
I didn’t like the idea of chemotherapy, but was told it was necessary just in case any of the cancerous cells were still lurking after the operation. Once this stage of my treatment was over, I began to feel concerned about my appearance cosmetically, so I had another procedure to have a prosthetic left testicle implanted.
Thankfully, I’m pleased to say I am now cancer free. I continue to have routine check-ups and my last scan showed I was still clear of cancer. I’m still officially a cancer survivor. From being diagnosed to the end of my treatment took just over three months, yet it felt like three years. These were the toughest days of my life.
Once my treatment was complete, I attended cancer-related counselling, which is something that I really recommend; but I appreciate it’s not for everyone.
Strange as it may sound, in hindsight, having cancer was one of the best things to happen to me. Although my journey at times was difficult, I actually never once lost hope and always had the strength to fight and become a survivor. I view my life and the world around me with different eyes now. I’m a proud dad and have met a new partner, Sarah, who I’m determined to have a long happy life with. I feel like I’ve been given a second chance and the ability to support, advise and most of all help those with cancer. It’s my opportunity to do things that really make a difference.
I’m now heavily involved in creating as much cancer awareness as possible. I’ve appeared on radio stations highlighting the importance of both men and women examining themselves. In addition, I’ve helped organize various fundraising events, such as a swimathon and a 250-mile cycle tour. I also became a voluntary Livestrong leader and an ambassador for Above & Beyond. I also attend patient support groups, giving talks and supporting patients.
Most of all, surviving cancer has shown me that, with determination, we can survive; I’m living proof. I love my life now and I’ll never take it for granted again or be so disbelieving of what people tell me.
I hope reading my story helps. Always stay strong, and remember there are other people out there willing to listen, help and share their experiences. Never give up, and always keep hope in your heart.
Thank you to everyone for their care, love and support. I owe my life to every one of you.
Newspaper Column by Chris Geiger
Cough Please
Membership: # 1
I apologize in advance if you’re reading this while eating your cornflakes; however, I could just be about to save your life.
I was standing naked from the waist down earlier this week, having a conversation with a nurse about Dennis Hopper’s recent passing. I must admit I was struggling to act in a relaxed manner, conscious that, if I looked like I was concealing something, she’d be extra observant while examining me; a little like a customs officer studying people’s body language at an airport.
I tried to act relaxed as she explained how ‘thanks to the Jade Goody effect’ people had been visiting their doctor to have every conceivable lump or bump examined. I found it difficult to concentrate on what she was saying, while standing with my wedding tackle on display, willing her to get on with the procedure so I could get my boxer shorts back on.
‘I’m hoping Dennis Hopper dying will do for men what Jade did for woman,’ she said, clearly not bothered in the slightest that I was ‘ready’ for her. ‘Everyone’s as nervous as hell, like the residents in New York after the 9/11 attacks,’ she continued.
Now, I normally prefer the lights out and at minimum to be on first-name terms with someone before getting intimate with them. I therefore thought she’d understand why I was being so abrupt and lacking in conversation. Eventually, the nurse, whose name I’d forgotten the moment she’d introduced herself, issued a volley of instructions, like a sergeant major addressing people from the Royal Association for the Deaf.
Before I knew it, I found myself bent over a couch, while she dug around as if looking for gold or unblocking her bathroom sink. My initial worry was she’d lose her wedding ring, until I remembered seeing her putting gloves on earlier. Then, before I had time to admire the view of the various medical books in front of me, she announced, ‘Everything appears fine.’
I rapidly got dressed, pleased it was over and now aware how a chicken being stuffed must feel, not to mention relieved it hadn’t hurt.
‘If only more men got checked out, so many more lives could be saved,’ my new best friend told me, as she washed her hands.
I don’t normally do stuff like this on my first date I wanted to joke, but knew she wouldn’t laugh.
I was happy to listen now I was dressed. ‘If you have trouble starting to pee or need a pee more often than normal, come and see me again.’
I gave a weary smile; ‘dead’ and ‘body’ sprung to mind.
As I slowly stepped backwards towards the door, doing a good impression of John Wayne, she continued telling me that ‘Prostate cancers grow slowly, but if detected early can be treated.’
I grinned and nodded, embarrassed now at the thought of what she’d just been doing to me.
As I picked my coat and car keys up, she enquired, ‘Do you examine yourself regularly below?’, looking between my legs as if making sure I understood what she was asking. That was it; I turned on my heels and sprinted out of the room.
So I’m urging all you men, once you’ve finished your cornflakes, go and book yourself an appointment; it might be embarrassing but it may just save your life.
I received m
any responses to ‘Cough Please’, my first published newspaper column about cancer. The two below were my favourites:
‘Good on you! Good to put this point across to all the men out there. Men are so bad at going to the doctor yet, as Chris’ new best friend told him, prostate cancers grow slowly – so getting checked out CAN and WILL save your life. Go on, what are you waiting for…?’
‘Poor Mr Geiger… the secret to enduring a prostate examination or any other intimate examination is to act as if it makes no difference to you that your wobbly bits are on display and to act as if you could walk down the high street dressed as you are and not give a damn. It works for me.’
My Story by Kate Beynon
Animal Therapy
Membership: # 6
My story starts on New Year’s Eve. I felt so unwell. I had really bad flu-like symptoms that lasted well into early March; however, I somehow managed to struggle on. The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong and thought I was simply stressed. I wish!
Two months later, in May, I’d finally been sent to hospital for what I thought was a routine chest x-ray. The radiographer asked after taking the x-ray if I had time for a CT scan also. This didn’t shock me or set any alarm bells ringing; I simply assumed it was standard practice or perhaps he was being ultra-thorough. What did startle me later was the news they’d found a lump the size of a grapefruit buried in my chest; understatement of my life! Naturally, I was traumatized by the news, but the doctor sounded so confident and explained he wanted to investigate further; his positive attitude had an instant calming effect on me. I remember flippantly making a stupid joke about having a tumour, which I later regretted when he said I had cancer, ‘The Big C’. The rest of that day was a blur, more x-rays and various other blood tests. I somehow drove myself home in a state of total shock. That evening, I phoned my family and friends to update them with my news. Spending the evening talking about my situation really helped me cope.