Confronting Cancer & What I Learned
On a steamy Friday afternoon last June, we listened intently to a voicemail from Garth’s doctor:
“The tumor is a seminoma.”
The message confirmed our deepest fear — my husband had testicular cancer. And we found out in a 30 second voicemail from his doctor. Certainly, not the best way to receive some not-so-great-news.
Three months prior to that ominous voicemail, we discovered a lump on my husband’s testicle. And immediately, we knew something wrong.
Laying in bed that night, I tried to calm the racing thoughts in my brain about what it could be.
Is it a tumor?
Is it cancer?
Is it something else?
I wanted to be strong — for myself and for Garth. So, I calmly suggested we get it checked out.
I tried to convince myself everything was okay, but from that moment on, it seemed as if the cloud of uncertainty rolled in and began hovering over our house. We tried to ignore it and move about our busy, happy lives. But, it was hard to mistake the doubt and fear as the fog grew thicker.
Weeks later, Garth visited his primary care physician who determined this was some kind of mass and referred Garth to a urologist.
The urologist later confirmed that, in fact, it appeared to be a tumor. But unfortunately, we had no way of knowing if the tumor was cancerous until the entire testicle was removed. Apparently, a biopsy would run too much risk of spreading the tumor.
“Oh, and if you want to have kids, you might want to preserve some sperm,” the doctor told Garth.
Dealing With Two Issues at Once
If the uncertainty of a tumor isn’t enough, it was now entangled with our fertility, or lack thereof.
We didn’t have children despite years of trying. It was an issue we had been conveniently avoiding. Since we were our mid-30s, we knew we needed to seek help and possible intervention. But all this time, we desperately hoped that one day we would miraculously become pregnant without fertility assistance.
It never happened.
And now, it seemed, that our hand was being forced. We could ignore our infertility no longer.
So, we scheduled an appointment with the fertility clinic to begin discussing our options. (More on that story later). But, we agreed that we needed to store some sperm in case Garth needed to undergo treatment.
After that appointment, Garth began making regular “deposits” at the clinic. I still shudder thinking about what he had to do.
He would describe sitting in the waiting room with all the other dudes who were likely there for the same thing. Each one avoiding eye contact with the others, trying to pretend this was all normal. And then being called back to a sterile room with smutty magazines and the sound of Taylor Swift’s “Shake it Off” echoing sweetly through the speakers. An ironic song choice, for sure.
It’s embarrassing and humiliating.
But, he did it. I think he deserves a medal for this.
The Insanity of Uncertainty
As we approached Garth’s surgery, we mostly kept quiet about this journey. Up until this point, we told our families and a few close friends. After all, why worry people with something that might not be that big of a deal? Maybe this tumor was nothing.
So, we pretended everything was okay. Every encounter with people we knew was met with something like this:
“We’re great. Keeping busy. Just plugging right along. You know, the same old stuff.”
But, it was a lie. We weren’t great. We were worried, stressed and tired.
The potentially precarious road ahead weighed heavy on us. There were three long months of this process where we knew something was wrong, but still didn’t have answers. It was lonely. And isolating.
I don’t know what it is about uncertainty, but it causes our brains to do funny things. I started imagining all the possibilities of what could happen.
What if it’s cancer?
What if he has to undergo months of chemo?
What if he can’t work?
What if he dies?
I can’t tell you how many times I imagined Garth’s funeral.
Crazy, I know. But, lack of information caused my brain to make up all sorts of possible futures.
The best way I learned to cope was to think about one day, one hour, one minute at a time. Keeping my focus on the present helped me remember that my imagination was creating outcomes that might not even happen.
And if we were plunged into weeks and months of sickness, I wanted these times to be as happy as possible. It wasn’t always easy, but it helped us trudge through the days and weeks of uncertainty.
Farewell Lefty
The night before the surgery, we had three close friends over for a farewell party to “Lefty.”
Our friends brought cards, mylar balloons and an array of silly gifts. A single pear. A bag of nuts. A tennis ball sleeve with only one ball.
It was perfect.
Laughter was the best medicine.
It was moments like this where we realized the value of opening up to trusted friends. They help you laugh during the tough stuff and help you see that the bad stuff might not be all that bad.
Hello, Cancer
Once we finally got word that the tumor was, in fact, cancerous, we had to wait three more weeks before Garth could get into the doctor for follow up testing.
Three weeks.
It was an eternity.
While the waiting up until this point was challenging, this stage was excruciating. At this point, we knew it was cancer, but not whether it had spread or what the treatment looked like.
Enter in the imaginary brain tape of possible futures.
Cancer is always scary. But, this wasn’t my first confrontation with it. That’s why I was so afraid — I had seen cancer up close and personal before.
When I was 11, my 9-year-old sister was diagnosed with leukemia. It rocked our family’s world. She endured chemo for months. And it dramatically changed all of us. My mom was always at the hospital with my sister while my dad was busy running our farm. I often had to take care of my two youngest sisters when we weren’t shuffling between my grandparent’s houses. The whole situation forced me to grow up way too fast.
I dreaded going through that kind of experience again.
Thankfully, we wouldn’t have to. We found out that Garth’s cancer was Stage 1. That means, it didn’t spread beyond his testicle and the treatment would be minimal.
Two rounds of chemo was all that was needed to take the rate of possible recurrence from 20 percent to two percent. So, we spent two afternoons in August undergoing chemo.
There is nothing more sobering than a chemo ward. Just when you want to drown in the self-pity of your situation, you look around and realize it could be a whole lot worse.
Garth didn’t get sick. He didn’t lose his hair. He was fatigued for a few days, but that’s it. And he only had to get chemo twice.
We were lucky. Really lucky.
That’s why Garth will be the first to tell you he doesn’t feel like a cancer survivor. Compared to what other people go through, our confrontation with cancer was minimal. In the scheme of things, it will be a blip on the radar.
And yet, it was a six-month period of time that was marred with fear, worry and stress. We pretended to be strong and yet, we were crumbling inside.
Stop Pretending, Start Sharing
As a society, we tell ourselves that we need to be strong and brave. That we need to maintain a stiff upper lip and not let difficult situations get us down.
And while I think that is largely true, this mentality tricks us into thinking that we are supposed to always pretend everything’s okay. Because life is just easier that way — for us and for the people around us.
But if we are to be honest, we avoid sharing the hard stuff to prevent the potential let-down of being brushed aside or ignored. We are afraid what people will think of us if we admit life is not perfect or that we don’t have it all together.
So, it’s easier to hold it all in. Self-preservation is safe.
But, it’s also lonely.
We experienced that first hand. That’s why I’m finally sharing this story now. Because life has been awfully damn hard this past year and I’m tired of pretending otherwise.
Sharing your story opens up beautiful opportunities to connect with others. It allows others to give you love and support so the weight of your worry doesn’t feel so heavy.
But also, when you share your hard stuff, you give other people permission to do the same. Because we all have hard stuff.
It’s time to stop pretending life is perfect and start admitting that we all have struggles. When we do, we’ll realize we’re not so alone.
That’s why I’m sharing my story now. I hope that maybe, just maybe, doing this will help someone — maybe you — share yours.
