Check Yoself, Fools.

Ever since my first diagnosis with cancer people ask me, "How did you find it?!" My reply is often surprising to them, which is surprising to me, "I found a lump on my ball."

People look at me bewildered that it is either so simple or that my answer is so matter of fact. Girls seem to get a bit uncomfortable when you are upfront about discussing your testicles... so if you happen to be in the same situation, proceed with caution. With my second diagnosis the question has changed slightly from the masses, "How did you find it, this time?" Again, my reply is met with bug eyes, "I found another lump on my ball."

The issue with young men finding a lump on their testicle is not that they don't know that something is obviously wrong. It is simply that they don't want to discuss with ANYONE their most private and cherished of body parts. From an extremely young age you protect your testicles as if there was a miniature Fort Knox inside of your underwear, and if anyone was trying to get to them they would be killed (*this goes only for aggressive moves towards your junk, with the intent of injury. There are scenarios when you should be allowing, nay promoting aggressive moves towards your junk).

When young women start having their period, they go to see a doctor on a regular basis to make sure their plumbing is working correctly and to check for any issues such as cancer. If anything, when boys reach maturity a doctor comes to your PE class, grabs your nuts, and tells you to cough. It is a very uncomfortable experience, and quite scary for a 13 year old boy. There is little to no pleasantries, his hands are cold (otherwise it would be WAY bigger, right?!), and there is no discussion about illnesses that possibly can show up and what symptoms you should be looking for later down the road.

Although, the old man grabbing your balls at age 13 has nothing to do with you checking them on a regular basis throughout life. You have to be proactive kids! The general population needs to move past the embarrassment of discussing your privates. It is not just an issue for diagnosing cancer... it is also a way to prevent STD's and other genital issues that can be avoided by just recognizing something is different and being vocal. I don't know about all of you dudes, but growing up I had a hand down my pants almost all the time. I knew my twig and berries better than I knew anything else in life... I cherished them, kept them clean, put protection over them for sports, and made sure they were in prime condition.

So freshman year in college, when I was sitting in my dorm room playing Tiger Woods' golf, and I put my hands down my pants I knew immediately that something was wrong. There is a bump there that was not there before... something was definitely wrong. Lucky for me, I was/am far from being embarrassed about talking about my testicles. I was living with one of my best friends of all time, Larson Welsh. Larson and I went to high school together with a group of friends that I am lucky enough to remain my best pals with to this day.

Within a couple seconds of finding it I called Larson into the room. The discussion went almost exactly like this (picture inset is Larson and I at Nascar):

Robert: Hey guy, I think I found something very interesting.
Larson: Yeah? I am fairly excited about the possibilities...
Robert: Yeah. I just found a lump on my testicle, if I touch it, it really hurts.
Larson: oooohhhhh, ok ok. Well bro, I have a lump on my testicle too.
Robert: You do?
Larson: Perhaps we should compare them to see if we both have the same thing.
Robert: I definitely think we should compare them.

  *it somehow made sense to Larson and myself that because we lived together, slept in the same room, ate every meal together, and worked out together that we definitely would be suffering from the exact same ailment.


Larson and I then proceeded to figure out how to do this in the most mature and medically acceptable way possible. It was decided that whoever was touching at the time would put a t-shirt over his hand and the touchee would hold the infected area and direct where to press. We decided on who would go first the same way we handled every situation involving a disagreement... there would be a DUEL.

I guess you could consider Larson and myself 1700's gentleman, who find the romance and allure in the old ways... We respect our forefathers and how they handled disputes. Knowing that we could not shoot each other with real bullets, because we would die, we agreed that metal BB gun rifles would be the best alternative to decide any situation in our new household.

The rules are simple: remove your shirt, rifle rests at your waist until the word GO, shoot until the other person can no longer take it and drops their rifle. If you shoot at the face, you are automatically disqualified and must face the firing squad. The firing squad consisted of three friends on the opposite side of the room. The "face-shooter" must get on his knees put his hands behind his back and face the opposite wall... someone would yell, "FIRE!" and all three would simultaneously shoot you in your bare back. Needless to say, you tried your best to not shoot near the face. The best strategy is to shoot for the upper thigh or chest, but to consistently hit near the same spot. I am waaaay more mature than this now...

Larson won this round. He put the shirt on his hand and touched my bumped testicle. He immediately pronounced that my bump felt nothing like the one he had. I confirmed. So the discussion continued...

Larson: Maybe we both have different tumors (we had come to the conclusion that we both have tumors). Something is definitely wrong with both of us.
Robert: I don't know man, I just found it today. It was definitely not there a couple days ago.
Larson: Ohhhhhhh, ok. Cool.
Robert: Why? How long have you noticed your tumor?
Larson: I'm not sure, I think I found it when I was in 6th grade.
Robert: Are you f%#king kidding me Lars?!! You think that you have had a cancerous tumor since 6th grade? Don't you think you would be dead?!
Larson: I don't know bro, maybe I am dying. I don't know these things. Do not judge me.
Robert: I can't believe you are comparing my tumor to one you found 7 years ago. This extremely scientific experiment is flawed and now failed.

We probably laughed for a while, went to the gym, played some TWoods, and I left for hockey. On this specific day of practice we were leaving for a road trip immediately following practice which meant that the team doctor, Dr. Jim Davis, would be there. I figured he would know more about the situation than Larson. After practice I took a shower and then told Doc what I had found. Doc had me drop my pants, he put on gloves (gloves! genius!) and felt the lump. Dr. Jim Davis is the head of medical at Utah State University, a former NCAA football player, a emergency room surgeon, and an all around unbelievable human. To this day I still consider Doc as my main physician, one of my closest confidants and one of the smartest people I have ever met.

Doc's prognosis in the locker room was that it was a swollen gland. Although, he did remind me that he was not a urologist, and if it was something that I was worrying about than I should most definitely should go get a second opinion.

Doc's prognosis was good enough for me. I was fine, and if it got worse, I would go see a doctor. That first check-up took place in the beginning of the month October, hockey season had just started.

Over the next few months there were very noticeable changes going on physically and mentally. I had an excuse for them all:

1. I started seeing black dots in my vision whenever my heart rate would go up. As a hockey player, this became an issue... for I was searching for a black cylinder puck whenever I touched the ice. This resulted in me constantly being flattened on my back by opponents. I would not let anyone know what I was feeling/seeing... it would pass.

2. My nipples become large cones. I figured I was going through another round of puberty. I would be more manly, nay a superhero once this one finished up. In actuality, I found out later that this was happening because my body was no longer producing more testosterone than estrogen.

3. I never slept anymore. Meh, I was excited about being in college. It was the first time I was away from home so that is why I couldn't catch some sleep eye.

4. I had a huge lump on my ball that was getting larger. I don't know on that one.

Overall, I was an athlete and my dad had taught me to play through the pain. Be tough. He explained to me as lovingly as he could, "You don't come out of the game unless there is a bone sticking out of your skin or if you are puking blood." You attempt to play the sick out of you. At age 17, I played Midget ice hockey with a broken hand and wrist for a week until my mom came back from vacation and noticed my swollen extremity. She brought me to the orthopedic to find out that I had broken my wrist in a number of different places. I felt proud though, I had toughed it out.

SIDENOTE: Gary (dad) played hockey through college, was a player/coach for Toledo University, still plays roller and ice hockey weekly and still competes in tournaments around the country. By all accounts from family members and friends has never lost a fight on the ice... back when they played old time hockey... Eddie Shore? Gary is no joke.

                                                         Derek, Gary (stache), Fran, and me


Gary raised tough boys. I would ignore the pain until it went away... this was no different than anything else I had assumed at the time. When the season ended, I went back home for Spring Break, in March. Seven months after the first check up. My dad had set up a visit with the urologist, who let us know three days later that I was diagnosed with cancer.

I had the testicle and tumor removed by my urologist in Las Vegas. Went to Indiana University to get treated by urologist Dr. Richard Foster, MD. Dr. Foster revolutionized the way testicular cancer is now treated. My family had read the book, It's Not About the Bike, by Lance Armstrong immediately after my diagnosis (a gift to us from my Uncle Jim, who is, or used to be an avid rider. I believe he is a professional golfer now, but you'd have to ask him) and according to my mother, "I was going to the same doctor as Lance Armstrong! The best!" I was already wearing the yellow bracelet, so I figured what the hell. If you get a chance, read the book... it is the most inspiring thing I have ever read.

After the exhausting and sometimes terrible recovery I was left with one testicle. Throughout my treatment I had not once felt the lone testicle. I was scared of what I might find. Was I a freak now? Would I ever be able to get married? Should I get a prosthetic? How would I explain this to future female suitors?

I decided to weigh the options for a few weeks before I decided my next course of action. The next few weeks were eye opening. I had a premonition: One Testicle is Way Better Than Two.

Here are the reasons:

1. I was streamlined.
2. I could fit in a cramped car with more comfort than the two-baller sitting next to me. Or in my case, a cramped hockey bench was not an issue anymore.
3. I got WAY less Swall. Mom, this a hyphenated word originating sometime in the 1600's that stands for "sweaty balls." Someone will have to check the place of origin, I'm guessing celtic?
4. Chicks dig it.

So kids, to wrap it all up... the lesson we learned today: Check your balls often and thoroughly and if you get the chance to get rid of one of the berries, do it. Be tough. But don't be an idiot. Don't be afraid to talk to somebody about it.

Scribble that down somewhere.