Testicular cancer. Just the thought of it causes fear and apprehension. But thanks to the wonders of modern medicine, even patients with later stages of the condition have promising cure rates. Paul, 42 years old, holds an advanced degree in chemistry. Cofounder of a New England research company, he's been married for 15 years and has three daughters. Before he was diagnosed with testicular cancer in March of 1997, he had no major health problems. Here, Paul describes that diagnosis, his successful treatment, and how it has affected his life.
In late February of 1997, I became aware of a ridge on the outside edge of my right testicle that seemed new, which was noticeable as I held my penis while urinating. After waiting about a week, I made an appointment with my internist, because I was afraid that it could possibly be a tumor.
He had me give a urine sample and told me it was probably only an infection, but strongly suggested a follow-up with a urologist 'just in case.' He asked if I had a regular urologist. I didn't, so he personally scheduled an appointment for me with a urologist at a local hospital for the next day. Needless to say, his urgency in making the appointment, although he acted like everything was fine, was very unsettling.
He told me that I had no infection, and that he wanted to rule out some possibilities with an ultrasound. When I came back into his office, he immediately without any preliminaries stated that I had a malignant tumor. In retrospect, I realized that both he and the internist were 99% sure of my diagnosis immediately upon examination. One of the hallmarks of testicular cancer is a marked disparity in testicle size. The afflicted one is usually much smaller, which was the case with me. I remember being surprised when the urologist asked me if my testicles were always so different in size.
It was as if I, and everything around me, was suddenly moving at 1000 miles per hour. I was very concerned with possible outcomes and particularly with statistical cure rates which vary widely for the different possible tumor types. I also wanted to know if a biopsy would be done to confirm the diagnosis. The urologist said that no biopsy would be done because based on the ultrasound he was almost 100% certain that the tumor was malignant, and that a biopsy might spread the cancer. I felt an enormous, pervasive fear, as well as an incredible focusing and narrowing of perspective.
The urologist said that he did not advise waiting to do surgery owing to the possible speed of metastasis (spreading of the cancer). Testicular cancer grows fast, and some tumor types grow very fast.
He said he wanted to perform an
surgery to remove the testicle the following Tuesday, which was four days later. I agreed to that. I spoke to a friend's brother over the weekend who is a radiation oncologist and he confirmed that immediate treatment was indicated. The urologist also wanted to schedule x-rays, blood work, and a CT scan for Monday to assess the extent, if any, of possible metastasis. I agreed to that as well.
After surgery, I had a
an x-ray visualization of the lymph nodes
to assess the possible spread of the tumor. This showed minor lymph node involvement, and radiation therapy was scheduled.
I went to the appointment desk at the hospital to schedule preop and diagnostic procedures for the day before the surgery. Then I called my wife. After I told her, I went back to work and made the necessary plans to handle my absence from work in the coming week. Then I went home and had dinner with my wife and two close friends.
She was outwardly very calm, as she normally is in emergencies. I am sure she also was very scared, for her and for me, but she didn't show it.
Yes, right away. They were worried, but I don't think unduly so. They were, I think, more worried on the day of the surgery, when my wife and I were away all day from early morning until about 8:00 PM.
Yes. I told all my close friends. I also told my partners right away. And I decided to be completely open with the rest of my coworkers. It's a small and 'family-like' company, and it would be painful for me if people didn't know immediately, or got fragmentary information. Besides, I knew I would miss time from work and feel somewhat debilitated, so to make up a story and keep the details straight would have been very difficult for me.
Before surgery, other then speaking to my friend's brother, no. But after the lymphangiogram, I got a second opinion with a leading expert in the field before the onset of radiation therapy. I ended up switching radiation oncologists within the same hospital after my consultations. The result was that I had basically the same type of radiation treatment as originally suggested by my first oncologist, just in a slightly different area of the abdomen.
Yes, extensively, using all of them. I found that current medical texts were most helpful. Online information was also useful, but less detailed. The National Cancer Institute has a good database of cancer information.
Radiation debilitated me for the whole course of treatment, and for several weeks beyond. I vomited uncontrollably after each radiation treatment until I discovered—largely on my own initiative—that a then-new drug called Zofran [...] controlled the vomiting completely. I still felt constantly nauseous, had very little appetite for the entire time of treatment (four weeks), and lost about 15 pounds. It was as if I was constantly seasick.
Yes, although there is a slight chance of recurrence via metastasis to abdominal or chest lymph glands—less than 1%-2% at this point.
No follow-up treatment. Checkups at first were every three months, now every six months. I have another year to go and then the doctor says he doesn't need to see me anymore—the chance of recurrence by then is extremely slight.
Only initially due to discomfort from the surgery. Orchiectomy is similar to a
operation, although with an orchiectomy there is more pain in the testicle region, I think. The loss of one testicle still leaves
levels at 90%-95% of normal, and I have noticed no effects on my libido.
Not really, except that I only regained about half of the weight I lost during radiation therapy.
During the weekend before surgery I worried about the upcoming events. Monday passed in a blur of diagnostic procedures and preoperative evaluations. Tuesday's surgery, although delayed five hours, went off without a hitch. I had a variety of thoughts. I felt very fortunate that the medical system, at least to that point, had worked for me as it should.
I was grateful to the internist who suspected the worst but did not want to needlessly frighten me, and to the urologist who had time enough for answers to all of my questions. My internist even called on Monday to apologize for not being more explicit about his initial concerns. Not to worry, I said, the message had come through clearly. And I also wondered what would have happened if the doctor or I had been less suspicious, or if my insurance coverage didn't pay for the confirmatory follow-up tests that I underwent the very next day. I might be getting the bad news only now (21 months later), or I might be still undiagnosed and unaware.
Yes, a significant one. I have always considered myself to be a planner and one who can defer pleasure until the 'right' time. I have not become a hedonist by anyone's measure, but I feel a definite shift in myself. I am much more likely not to put off a vacation, major purchase, etc. for the 'right' time.
During my treatment, I was focused on my recovery and felt selfish to an extent not seen either before or since. I feel I have more empathy with the troubles of those close to me since my diagnosis. I try to, and sometimes succeed at, simply sitting back and 'smelling the flowers'. I now know from a vivid personal experience that anyone, self, spouse, child, or close friend can be hit with devastating health news at any time. I don't live my life in fear of such news, but I try to live in and appreciate the moment as much as I can, because of that reality.
Unless you are a cancer survivor yourself, this may sound trite, but at this point I truly can look at the positive from having had cancer. It is not that my life was seriously out of kilter, but it has nudged me in a very good direction.
Men can improve their chance of finding a tumor by performing a simple procedure called testicular self-examination (TSE)
once a month.
TSE should be performed after a warm bath or shower. The heat relaxes the scrotum, making it easier to find anything unusual.
The procedure itself is simple and takes only a few minutes:
- Stand in front of the mirror. Look for any swelling on the skin of the scrotum.
- Examine each testicle with both hands. The index and middle fingers should be placed under the testicle while the thumbs are placed on the top. Gently roll the testicle between the thumbs and fingers. It's normal for one testicle to be larger than the other.
- Find the epididymis (the soft, tube-like structure at the back of the testicle that collects and carries the sperm). Do not mistake the epididymis for an abnormal lump.
- If you find a lump, contact your doctor right away. Most lumps are found on the sides of the testicle, but some appear on the front. Remember that testicular cancer is highly curable, especially when treated promptly.
Testicular self-examination performed regularly is an important health habit, but it cannot substitute for a physician's
examination. Your doctor should check your testicles when you have a physical exam. You also can ask your doctor to teach you how to do TSE.
Reprinted from the National Cancer Institute