Colin Price

Editor’s Note: This piece was submitted by a contributing writer and does not represent the views of CURE Media Group.

About six weeks later, I went to the oncology department at Belfast City Hospital where I met my hero and savior, Dr. Seamus McAleer. He explained the process of postoperative treatment and follow-up. We would become good friends over the following years.

One day he examined me, checked both the CT results and his notes and gave the bad news. The tumor was malignant and the cancer had indeed spread to my lymph nodes. As before, my heart sank, I went numb and cold, but this time I didn’t lose it.

The lymph nodes in my back were 1.2 centimeters (.48 inches), but they should be only be 1centimeter (.39 inches). This meant that I would have to have chemotherapy, probably just one shot, but I would need another CT scan for more info. They said they would call me back in January.

I tried to make the most of Christmas. We spoiled the kids rotten, but the whole time the phrase “death sentence” was rattling around inside my head. It was really tough, mentally. Towards the end of January, I went back to the City Hospital for a more detailed CT scan. I changed into a hospital gown and was then given a special sugar drink that the cancer cells would go daft for. I had to lie still for 20 minutes to stop too rapid an absorption. They put a Venflon needle into the back of my hand. When I went into the scanner, they injected a dye to show these rotten little cells. I felt a warm flush around my groin, but was not to reach down to see if I wet myself. All went well and for the next 40 minutes as I lay there listening to the Eagles, until the cd stuck for the last five minutes.

I went back approximately four weeks later for the results. They had worked out from the blood analysis and scans what evil chemicals were going to work on me. After another chat with Dr. McAleer, I learned that without the chemotherapy, I would only have between 18 months and two years to live. I chose the treatment.

He advised me to take up to three months off work. I laughed-- three months for just one shot? Yeah right.

When it was time for treatment, I headed down to the treatment area had the worst experience imaginable. I had IV steroids! The best description I can give is to imagine you are wearing a vest, underpants, gloves and socks made from thistles. Then you sit in a bath full of nettles. That lovely feeling lasted about 10 minutes. As a consequence of the steroid treatment I had to carry an “I’ve had Steroids” card for a year.

The chemotherapy was given by IV drip over an hour. It came in a brown paper bag. At least I hope it was the chemo because I felt nothing. No nausea or sickness. I wondered what all the shouting was about.

After, I pottered about the house for week, almost bored. I picked up mentally. But I also ate like a horse, one of the side effects of the steroids.

Then the chemo struck with a vengeance. I was not unfit. At work I would lug goods on and off my truck by hand. But now, I was left that I couldn’t climb stairs, or walk 20 feet in one go. I could just about take a shower, and drying off was a different matter, so I had to use the air to dry myself. I was barely able to do anything for myself, never mind do anything to help around house. I was so exhausted that I rang my doctor in case there was something else wrong. She arranged an urgent blood test to check my white cell count because sometimes chemo can kill off your white blood cells. I got a phone call from her later, my cell count was fine, it was just hitting me hard.

For next week or two, I felt like this. I felt useless and helpless and a burden on my family, especially on my wife.

Depression started to set in. I heard that 80 percent of chemo patients suffer from depression. My physical strength slowly returned, but I still suffered mentally. I tried to rush back to work and do things to stop being such a burden. It was a real struggle, but I needed to get out of the house. I needed to work. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t fit enough. I just needed to.

In April I went back to the City Hospital for checkup number one, where I was told that all was clear. The chemotherapy had done its job. My spirits lifted slightly, but I was still depressed and tired. I would come home from work, sit down and fall asleep. I was too tired to socialize or visit. It was a real struggle to go out. To be honest, I didn’t want to go out.

This went on for over a year. I couldn’t shake it off. But then on May 2, I woke up alive! Not feeling happy, not feeling good, but alive! Take the day you met your soulmate, the day you got married, the day you became a parent and multiply by 10 and you’re coming close to how I felt.

The words of one of my favorite songs from one of my favorite groups ran through my head. “I’m alive again on a May morning, Gonna wipe the slate clean, follow my dream.”

I danced into the shower, went down for breakfast. Then my phone rang, it was work telling me I have the day off due to production issues, so I booked the Friday off and went to the Coast album launch in Inverness feeling alive. As I was feeling good, I decided to try and lose some weight. Steroids and sitting about had put the odd pound or two on. I went on a supervised diet aiming to lose two or three pounds per week. I thought that this should be realistic, since I was walking on average eight to 12 miles per week.

So for the next four weeks, there was no booze or fries or red meat. I lost just two pounds.

Then depression hit again for a couple of weeks. It was a struggle to go out of the house, talk to people and to go to work. Then, at the beginning of September, I had an upset tummy. It took me six weeks to recover my strength. Depression once again reared its ugly head. It seemed that it was two steps forward, one step back, another two forward and several back. I just couldn’t see a winning line.

I went back to the doctor and had another blood test. I was lacking in certain vitamins, so I was given some advice on vitamins and told to eat some red meat to boost immune system.

I just had a checkup. It was a small one, just a blood test and physical. The physical went OK, but you have to wait for a week for blood test result. They only phone you if there’s a problem, so if there’s no call, all is fine.

Exactly one week later, I got a call from private number. With heart in mouth I answered it.

“Would you like to buy car insurance?” I politely declined, very relived.  

Physically I’m doing fine and mentally, the depression is slowly lifting, but it’s a nasty condition that can rear its ugly head very quickly.

Articles

The narrative recounts a patient's journey through cancer diagnosis, treatment, and recovery, highlighting the emotional and physical challenges faced. After being diagnosed with malignant cancer that spread to the lymph nodes, the patient undergoes chemotherapy, experiencing severe side effects and depression. Despite the treatment's success in clearing the cancer, the patient struggles with ongoing fatigue and mental health issues. Over time, there are moments of improvement and setbacks, with depression being a persistent challenge. The story underscores the complex interplay between physical recovery and mental health in cancer treatment.

Testicular Cancer: It's Worse in the Head (Part 2)

 It began around August 2009 when I felt something different in the trouser department. I found that I kept having to adjust myself. When I was driving the truck for work, I kept wriggling and squirming to make myself comfortable.

One morning, I was standing in the shower and as I examined myself, I noticed something different. I wasn’t sure if one had shrunk or one had got bigger, but there was definitely something off. I could not feel any pain or a lump, so I was not unduly concerned. A few days or so later, I was sitting at home watching television and I winced when I crossed my legs. It wasn’t painful, just uncomfortable. My wife noticed and raised the subject. She had noticed the change, but wasn’t sure how to say anything without upsetting or alarming me.

The next morning, I called into my doctors to arrange an appointment. As usual, since I didn’t have a death sentence, it would be several days before I could see the doctor. 

At 11:30 a.m. a few days later, I saw the doctor. He examined me, asked about pain, how long I’d noticed this and he reckoned that it may be orchitis, but it needed a urologist’s opinion for confirmation. He told me that he would send it as a “red flag email” so that the urologist would see me quicker.

On Friday I took a call from the urologist’s secretary, asking me to attend an appointment after his clinic on Wednesday at Causeway Hospital, Coleraine.

On Wednesday at 5:30 p.m., I saw the urologist. He asked me questions about the length of time I’d noticed this and if there was any pain, had there ever been any. He said that before he could comment, that he wanted an ultrasound. He made an appointment for Friday, telling me that the ultrasound would be done by then.

Then I went back to Causeway for my ultrasound. The radiologist told me that there was no easy way to say this, but he could see a lump. He wasn’t sure if it was malignant or benign. I didn’t know the difference and I didn’t care. All I heard was the word "lump". To say that my heart sank was an understatement. I went cold and numb. Tears welled in my eyes. The word "lump" was bouncing round inside my head taunting me.

I remember babbling while the radiologist tried to explain what would happen. He asked me when I was due back to see the urologist, which was Friday morning. He told me that he would see the urologist later that day during a normal weekly meeting and he would pass the results over then.

Looking back, I feel for the poor radiologist for having to put up with me. I left the X-ray department and stumbled my way out to my car, tears streaming down my face and when I got there, I lost it. I broke down completely. I don’t know how long I sat in the car. Tears flowed and I was angry, very angry-- why me? I lost my faith in life, humanity and God all in one go.

Eventually I recovered enough to drive back to my hometown and went to my wife’s work. I walked into the shop and luckily there were no customers. She knew by look on my face that it was bad. I lost it again. She held me and said we’d get through it together, no matter what. I don’t know how long we stood there, but eventually I went home and I got very angry again.

I was too young to die. My wife was too young to be a widow, my kids were too young to be without their dad. My granddaughters needed a granddad. My daughter was pregnant with her third child, a boy. Would I live to see my grandson due in March?

The only thing in my head was cancer. Cancer kills. 5 out of 6 people I knew who had cancer died. Now I had it. Survival rates and other statistics meant nothing.

When my wife came home we had long chat. I was still in such a mess, so she told the kids. I didn’t sleep much that night. I went to work the next day and told my boss that I would need operation. We both reckoned that it would be two or three weeks before I would get the call to go in. He told me that there were no problems, take whatever time I needed.

On Friday Sept. 9, I saw my urologist. He told me that I would come into hospital on Monday and the operation would take place on Tuesday. The tumor would be sent away to determine whether it was malignant or benign. I would then be referred to the oncology department at Belfast City Hospital. I was a bit shocked at the rapidity of the operation, but looking back, I’m glad it was quick, with little time to wonder and worry and fret. I went home and looked up malignant and benign and prayed that it would be benign.

When I came in for the surgery, my urologist examined me again and marked the side that was to be operated on. I then had to have a shower and as I had washed off some of the marker I re-marked my side to make sure that there would be no doubting. I was taken to theater at approximately 1:30 p.m. The operation, called an Inguinal Orchiectomy, took about 20 minutes. An incision is made in the groin, in the same place that a hernia operation would take place, and then tumor is removed. My tumor was approximately 5 centimeters (1.9 inches) by 2 centimeters (.79 inches).

I was back in the ward around 4 p.m. About an hour later my urologist came round to see how I was doing. I felt fine, so he offered me a tea, pie or the option to go home. I was home by 7 p.m. I was in such a rush, I forgot some of my belongings and my postoperative medications. Fortunately, a friend was able to collect them.

It had only been 20 days from the time I first saw my doctor to my operation. I spent the next two weeks recovering from the operation and the effects of the anesthetic. I was also trying to come to terms with having had cancer. I was still very angry at life. It is not like having a cold, the flu or measles. When you’re told you have cancer, it feels like being handed a death sentence.

The operation was over and naively I thought the worst was past. On Sept. 29, I went back to Causeway for a checkup and had the first of many CT scans to see if cancer had spread. I had never thought about it spreading. Dark thoughts once again reared in my head.

A personal account details the journey from initial symptoms to diagnosis and treatment of a testicular tumor. The narrative highlights the emotional turmoil and rapid progression from noticing discomfort to undergoing an inguinal orchiectomy. Despite the initial shock and fear associated with the diagnosis, the swift medical response provided some relief. The story underscores the psychological impact of a cancer diagnosis, the importance of timely medical intervention, and the ongoing concern about potential metastasis, as evidenced by subsequent CT scans to monitor for cancer spread.

The first piece in Colin's journey with testicular cancer. 

Colin Price

Testicular Cancer: It's Worse in the Head (Part 2)

Testicular Cancer: It's Worse in the Head (Part 1)

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