One of the things many people worry about as they undergo treatment for testicular cancer is how will this affect them afterwards? Well, I finally received my answer.
One thing I was worried about was testosterone levels. One of my nurse friends said it would be good to have lower testosterone levels because it would decrease my future cancer risks. However, commercials are constantly pointing out how my becoming a fat, lazy slob as I get older has nothing to do with me being a fat lazy slob, but low testosterone (that they would be able to fix). Feeling like I was in a "damned if I do..." position I asked my urologist about it. I was told that high testosterone doesn't increase the chance of prostate cancer, but it makes it grow faster if you do get it. And low testosterone may make you more inclined to be a fat, lazy slob, but it doesn't really cause any health problems on its own (being a fat, lazy slob does though). Worried that my levels would be half, he told me how most duplicated organs aren't working 100% all the time anyway. That is why people with one lung or kidney can still function, because the remaining one turns it up a little. After going through a bunch more explanation in doctor talk which I kinda blanked out on, we decided to test my testosterone and the results came back that I was at normal levels. So, I have to blame being a fat, lazy slob on something else...like the lack of global warming in my area making it too cold to go outside.
Recently, my wife went to her "female doctor" and somehow came home with an appointment for me! I get enough doctors' appointments scheduled on my own without having to do someone else's homework too. Anyway, I was told to go back to the Jerkatorium (official doctor lingo for a sperm bank) and see what my levels were, just in case we ever want to have another kid, which I am told we aren't having, but do this just in case we change our minds one day, which isn't up to me anyway, and it is always a woman's prerogative to change her mind so I should just keep my mouth shut...or something like that. I will spare you the details of the inner workings of the Jerkatorium, because I have previously written about that. But what I did find disturbing this time was the addition to the "library" of DVD "aids". While carefully pushing them around trying my best not to actually touch anything in there, (because after all I know what people do in that room because I was about to do it) I noticed most of the DVD cases were empty. I wish I could immediately decontaminate everything I am wearing as soon as I leave that room, so it certainly would never cross my mind that I should grab a integral part of the functioning of this room and bring it home with me. Ewww! Anyway, we will just fast forward to the results. That came back saying I was normal too! Not normal for a testicular cancer survivor, but normal for a normal person...assuming normal people go into a room, look at dirty magazines, leave their business on the counter, and occasionally steal DVDs.
So the moral of the story is, don't steal from the Jerkatorium because you DO know where that stuff has been....NOOO, that's not the moral of the story! The moral is, not only is testicular cancer a very survivable cancer, but you can regain your normal life back. You won't be half a man. You can still have normal levels of testosterone and swimmers, and even if your tests results don't come back normal, you can easily fix the testosterone levels, and if you froze your swimmers like I did before surgery, you can still have children or use it for disgusting pranks to put on YouTube and none of your friends will ever eat or drink anything at your house again.
And there are even some positives of being part of the One Nut Club! I will close with this Top 10 List:
Top 10 Benefits of Only Having One Testicle
10 You only have to manscape half as much (if you are a manscaper).
9 When you test your levels, you health insurance company is actually paying for you to look at porn!
8 You have more room in your underwear.
7 Not as much to get sweaty down there.
6 People are afraid to use the phrase "Don't go off half cocked" around you.
5 When it is really cold out you can say "I am freezing my ball off!"
4 When your toddler is flailing around like a twerking jellyfish, your chances of getting hit in the nuts just dropped by 50% (anecdotal evidence).
3 Your self exams are done in half the time. Don't forget to do them!
2 You can make the comment "I would give my right (or left) nut for ______" then you could offer to go get it from the surgeon.
1 When you wear Speedos you only have to worry about stuff slipping out on one side.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
When Are You Done With Cancer?
As I write this I am about two and a half years out of my cancer diagnosis and treatment. Aside from a little skin cancer scare (which turned out was nothing) one could say I have been done with cancer. However, that is not exactly how it works in the cancer game.
There are so many questions as to when you are officially no longer a cancer patient. Was it the surgery? The chemo? When you quit going to an oncologist? Or when you finally pay off all your medical bills? (In which case I will never be done.) In many ways I no longer feel like a cancer patient, but at the same time, at the beginning of every month I look at my calendar and see what doctors appointments I have this round. It is hard to feel "well" or "cured" when you are sitting in a waiting room all of the time. I mean who needs a People magazine subscription when you can read it for free every month while you wait for the nurse to call your name? The good news is the frequency of the appointments slowly grows further and further apart. I think I am down to CT scans once a year now (so I only have to drink a half gallon of nasty tasting water a year).
The funny thing is, because of the doctors' good reports you feel like your not well. Because of the type of work I do, I tend to run into people that I haven't seen for months or even a year and they always ask how I am doing With the frequency of doctors appointments my answer is usually,"Well, I was just at the doctor and they said I was fine." That is the Catch 22 of being in monitoring, you have to see an "ist" each month (oncologist, urologist, gastroenterologist, etc.) but at least they say you are doing good each time. You don't feel like you can say "Oh, the cancer thing is over." because you are still seeing an oncologist, but at the same time you don't feel like a real cancer patient because you are not having to go through any treatment.
On one hand, it is nice to have the peace of mind every month that you are safe for four more weeks. On the other hand things get so routine, you wonder why you are paying more and more for something you could probably do yourself at this point. Heck, I am in and out of my urologist's office so fast, I could probably just drive by his office slowly with my scrotum hanging out the car window and toss out my co-pay.
I think the biggest part of not feeling "over" cancer is the mental aspect of it. Every bump, twitch, even feeling tired when you don't think you should makes you wonder if just maybe it's something bigger. And not even your thoughts are safe. My one-year-old had been going through a phase where he wants me to hug me, or have me hold him, or just lean against me. Most people would just understand it is the clingy phase that all toddlers go through, but my mind wondered if he wasn't sensing something, that maybe I wouldn't be around much longer and he needed to get his quality time in while I was still alive.
Even happy dreams aren't safe. I know two people that have flatlined on operating tables and come back to life. They both tell of people that have died greeting them at the end of the tunnel and telling them that it's not their time yet to go back to earth. I have had some friends die and some family members die, but only one person in my life has died that I saw everyday, and would spend an hour just talking to everyday about whatever. Well, that person was in my dream the other night. He welcomed me into Heaven, showed me around, and we picked up on conversations we started before he died. I woke up feeling so good knowing that if I died, this person would be the one that brought me through the tunnel and took me to see my other friends and family that have already passed. But that good feeling quickly turned to dread, as I wondered why I was dreaming about dying and does my body know something that it hasn't shared with my brain yet. Maybe part of my brain does know and it is just not sharing the information with the rest of my brain the same way it does when I ask it where I put the car keys.
The biggest joy I have in life is watching my son play, which we weren't even sure we were going to be able to have when all this started. Even while sitting there just watching him run around like a drunk kamikaze gymnast, I worry about recurrence and not being around to watch him grow up. Or not being around and maybe his only memory of me will be me yelling at him to quit splashing in the dogs' water dish (which to be fair is something I do approximately 1500 times everyday).
So am I done with cancer? The doctors say "yes" but then tell me to schedule an appointment to come back and make sure it's still "yes". Physically, outside of underwear not fitting quite the way it used to, I feel like I am done with cancer. Mentally, the chemo fog has cleared up, but there is always that cancer cloud hanging over me, just like a summertime meteorologist's permanent "30% chance of storms". The ironic thing is the more my son shines the more I worried I get about that cancer cloud. But until then I will enjoy every second I get to spend with my son, even the hours on end I spend pulling him out of the dog dish, and hopefully live long enough to teach him how to check for testicular cancer on himself one day.
There are so many questions as to when you are officially no longer a cancer patient. Was it the surgery? The chemo? When you quit going to an oncologist? Or when you finally pay off all your medical bills? (In which case I will never be done.) In many ways I no longer feel like a cancer patient, but at the same time, at the beginning of every month I look at my calendar and see what doctors appointments I have this round. It is hard to feel "well" or "cured" when you are sitting in a waiting room all of the time. I mean who needs a People magazine subscription when you can read it for free every month while you wait for the nurse to call your name? The good news is the frequency of the appointments slowly grows further and further apart. I think I am down to CT scans once a year now (so I only have to drink a half gallon of nasty tasting water a year).
The funny thing is, because of the doctors' good reports you feel like your not well. Because of the type of work I do, I tend to run into people that I haven't seen for months or even a year and they always ask how I am doing With the frequency of doctors appointments my answer is usually,"Well, I was just at the doctor and they said I was fine." That is the Catch 22 of being in monitoring, you have to see an "ist" each month (oncologist, urologist, gastroenterologist, etc.) but at least they say you are doing good each time. You don't feel like you can say "Oh, the cancer thing is over." because you are still seeing an oncologist, but at the same time you don't feel like a real cancer patient because you are not having to go through any treatment.
On one hand, it is nice to have the peace of mind every month that you are safe for four more weeks. On the other hand things get so routine, you wonder why you are paying more and more for something you could probably do yourself at this point. Heck, I am in and out of my urologist's office so fast, I could probably just drive by his office slowly with my scrotum hanging out the car window and toss out my co-pay.
I think the biggest part of not feeling "over" cancer is the mental aspect of it. Every bump, twitch, even feeling tired when you don't think you should makes you wonder if just maybe it's something bigger. And not even your thoughts are safe. My one-year-old had been going through a phase where he wants me to hug me, or have me hold him, or just lean against me. Most people would just understand it is the clingy phase that all toddlers go through, but my mind wondered if he wasn't sensing something, that maybe I wouldn't be around much longer and he needed to get his quality time in while I was still alive.
Even happy dreams aren't safe. I know two people that have flatlined on operating tables and come back to life. They both tell of people that have died greeting them at the end of the tunnel and telling them that it's not their time yet to go back to earth. I have had some friends die and some family members die, but only one person in my life has died that I saw everyday, and would spend an hour just talking to everyday about whatever. Well, that person was in my dream the other night. He welcomed me into Heaven, showed me around, and we picked up on conversations we started before he died. I woke up feeling so good knowing that if I died, this person would be the one that brought me through the tunnel and took me to see my other friends and family that have already passed. But that good feeling quickly turned to dread, as I wondered why I was dreaming about dying and does my body know something that it hasn't shared with my brain yet. Maybe part of my brain does know and it is just not sharing the information with the rest of my brain the same way it does when I ask it where I put the car keys.
The biggest joy I have in life is watching my son play, which we weren't even sure we were going to be able to have when all this started. Even while sitting there just watching him run around like a drunk kamikaze gymnast, I worry about recurrence and not being around to watch him grow up. Or not being around and maybe his only memory of me will be me yelling at him to quit splashing in the dogs' water dish (which to be fair is something I do approximately 1500 times everyday).
So am I done with cancer? The doctors say "yes" but then tell me to schedule an appointment to come back and make sure it's still "yes". Physically, outside of underwear not fitting quite the way it used to, I feel like I am done with cancer. Mentally, the chemo fog has cleared up, but there is always that cancer cloud hanging over me, just like a summertime meteorologist's permanent "30% chance of storms". The ironic thing is the more my son shines the more I worried I get about that cancer cloud. But until then I will enjoy every second I get to spend with my son, even the hours on end I spend pulling him out of the dog dish, and hopefully live long enough to teach him how to check for testicular cancer on himself one day.
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