I don't usually talk about this. Most men don't. That's part of the
problem, so here goes.
1988
In the spring of 1988 I was 35, married to Karen for nine years, working
for the state highway department, and riding my bike to work most days. One
morning in the shower I noticed a small, hard lump that hadn't been there
before. It didn't hurt. I told myself it was nothing.
I waited three weeks before I said a word to anyone. I was embarrassed, and I
was scared, and it was easier not to think about it. Those were three weeks I
should not have wasted. When I finally told Karen, she had me in the doctor's
office within two days, and I'll always be grateful she didn't let me put it off
any longer.
My family doctor sent me to a specialist, and after some tests the answer came
back: testicular cancer. I had surgery that month. The tests afterward showed
the cancer had started to spread, so I went up to Indianapolis for chemotherapy,
three rounds over that summer. Karen drove me up and down State Road 37 more
times than either of us can count.
I won't pretend it was easy. I lost my hair, I lost weight, and there were
weeks when walking to the mailbox felt like a mountain stage. But I was in
the hands of doctors who had treated hundreds of men like me, and who said, early
and often, that this was a cancer they knew how to beat. I held on to that.
AFTER
By that fall my scans were clear. The checkups came often at first, then less
often, and every one of them has been clear for eleven years now. My hair came
back. (Karen says it came back grayer. Karen is correct.)
In October of 1990, two years after my scans first came back clear, I rode my
first century: a hundred miles through the hills south of town with our bike
club. It took me most of the day and I finished near the back. Marvin rode the
last twenty miles beside me so I wouldn't quit. I've ridden one every fall since,
and I'll ride this year's in a couple of weeks. For the first time, I'll be
wearing a yellow jersey. I bought it in July.
For a few years I went to a support group in Indianapolis for men who'd had
this cancer. I don't go much anymore, but I still get calls now and then from
somebody's husband or brother who's just been told, and I tell him what I'm
telling you: it is frightening, it is hard, and most men come through it. I
did. Lance Armstrong did, from a much worse place than I was in. You can too.
| A WORD TO MEN |
|
This is the part I most want you to read. I'm an engineer, not a doctor, so
take this to your own doctor, but these are the plain facts as they were given
to me:
- Testicular cancer is the most common cancer in young men, roughly
from the age of 15 to 35, though older men get it too. I was 35. Lance was 25.
- It is also one of the most curable cancers there is, especially when
it's found early.
- Learn the monthly self-exam. Once a month, after a warm shower or bath,
gently roll each testicle between your thumb and fingers. You are feeling for any
hard lump, any swelling, or any change in size, shape or firmness. It is normal
for one side to be a little larger than the other, and the soft cord at the back
is supposed to be there. What you're learning is what's normal for you, so that
you'll notice if something changes. It takes about a minute.
- If you find anything, see a doctor right away. A lump, swelling, a
feeling of heaviness, or a dull ache in the lower belly or groin that won't go
away. Most of the time it turns out to be something harmless, but only a doctor
can tell you that, and if it is cancer, every week counts.
- Don't wait because you're embarrassed. I did, for three weeks. Your
doctor has seen it all before. He or she will not think twice about it, and you
may be glad for the rest of your life that you went.
- Ask your doctor to check at your regular physical, and if you're the
father of a teenage son, make sure he knows about this too. Nobody ever
mentioned it to me when I was young. I've made sure my nephews
know.
That's it. A minute a month. If this page gets one man to do that, it was
worth every hour I spent learning to make it.
|
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