Last month, my new boyfriend of just two months was diagnosed with testicular cancer. We had known about the lump in his left testicle for nearly a month. After a bout with the flu, he noticed tenderness and I instinctively reached down to feel. A few moments later, I felt panic rush over me as I pinched a tiny lump between my thumb and index finger. It was hard and he winced as I rolled it around in my fingers. It took my breath away.
We went to a doctor on our east coast road trip and he assured Aaron it was an infection. Even though a doctor had assured us it was nothing, I felt dread in the pit of my stomach. After a full course of antibiotics, the lump remained. We returned to Columbia, started class and Aaron made an ultrasound appointment. Just 24 hours after the ultrasound, his doctor called with the news. There seemed to be extra blood flow in the area. It was indicative of.
And the rest he didn't want to tell me over the phone. But I made him. My stomach was in a knot and I couldn't concentrate on my ethics homework.
"Cancer," he said.
It's indicative of cancer. We spent the weekend with a dark cloud hanging over us. I felt fear, sadness and helplessness all at once. I had nightmares that cancer had spread throughout his body. We spent an agonizing four days waiting for the news.
On Tuesday morning, we drove together to the cancer center in our small college town. In the span of three hours, we heard that Aaron most likely had cancer and that he would be having surgery in less than 24 hours to remove his testicle.
We raced over to the fertility clinic before class to deposit sperm and tried desperately to summon romance when all we wanted to do was weep in each others arms.
What I remember most from that week is a steady stream of tears falling down my face. I went to class. I did my reading. I took notes. But, in the quiet time, I thought nothing of school and only of cancer. I had nightmares, but couldn't remember them. I woke up crying.
Aaron bravely walked through the outpatient doors of the clinic on a Tuesday morning resolved to remove the cancer and move on with his life. He took 40 pain pills in the course of a week and woke up in agony every morning for days.
"I want to learn from my dad," he often said. His father died of prostate cancer 10 years ago and that fact terrified me more every time I heard it. As I write this, I can hardly believe that this was my life just a month ago.
These days, Aaron is riding his bike, running down the stairs of his basement to switch his laundry from the washer to the dryer and running in the afternoons on the MKT. His doctors told him they can't detect any cancer in his body at the moment. But, he's under surveillance and will be probably continue to be screened carefully for the rest of his life. His insurance company is fighting the bills tooth and nail, claiming that his testicular cancer was a preexisting condition. After riding such an emotional roller-coaster, getting angry at the insurance company seems like a silly waste of time. Besides, it's so obvious that cancer, in any form, when diagnosed for the first time, is not preexisting.
My vicarious experience with cancer has influenced my life in many ways, but at the same time, it hasn't really changed it at all. Yes, cancer is scary as shit. It is a reminder of our mortality and our total and utter lack of control over our own lives, despite what we may think or feel about this topic. During that time, Aaron and I still fought about little things, like any couple does. We just fought with tears in our eyes and a little more fear than normal.
The process of finding out about cancer, treating it and moving forward is much more drawn out than I once thought. There is no particular day that changes everything. Rather, it is an experience like any other. Knowledge comes in small deliveries. And, really, there is no way to be completely sure of anything.
As my quantitative research methods professor says, "it's just a matter of what kind of error you're comfortable with." Really, I believe that in life, it is better to live as if no error will occur at all and when it does, look back with great appreciation for what has already occurred.
But perhaps the greatest realization I've made through all of this is that I met a great man last October and this experience has both given us more respect for life and for each other.
We went to a doctor on our east coast road trip and he assured Aaron it was an infection. Even though a doctor had assured us it was nothing, I felt dread in the pit of my stomach. After a full course of antibiotics, the lump remained. We returned to Columbia, started class and Aaron made an ultrasound appointment. Just 24 hours after the ultrasound, his doctor called with the news. There seemed to be extra blood flow in the area. It was indicative of.
And the rest he didn't want to tell me over the phone. But I made him. My stomach was in a knot and I couldn't concentrate on my ethics homework.
"Cancer," he said.
It's indicative of cancer. We spent the weekend with a dark cloud hanging over us. I felt fear, sadness and helplessness all at once. I had nightmares that cancer had spread throughout his body. We spent an agonizing four days waiting for the news.
On Tuesday morning, we drove together to the cancer center in our small college town. In the span of three hours, we heard that Aaron most likely had cancer and that he would be having surgery in less than 24 hours to remove his testicle.
We raced over to the fertility clinic before class to deposit sperm and tried desperately to summon romance when all we wanted to do was weep in each others arms.
What I remember most from that week is a steady stream of tears falling down my face. I went to class. I did my reading. I took notes. But, in the quiet time, I thought nothing of school and only of cancer. I had nightmares, but couldn't remember them. I woke up crying.
Aaron bravely walked through the outpatient doors of the clinic on a Tuesday morning resolved to remove the cancer and move on with his life. He took 40 pain pills in the course of a week and woke up in agony every morning for days.
"I want to learn from my dad," he often said. His father died of prostate cancer 10 years ago and that fact terrified me more every time I heard it. As I write this, I can hardly believe that this was my life just a month ago.
These days, Aaron is riding his bike, running down the stairs of his basement to switch his laundry from the washer to the dryer and running in the afternoons on the MKT. His doctors told him they can't detect any cancer in his body at the moment. But, he's under surveillance and will be probably continue to be screened carefully for the rest of his life. His insurance company is fighting the bills tooth and nail, claiming that his testicular cancer was a preexisting condition. After riding such an emotional roller-coaster, getting angry at the insurance company seems like a silly waste of time. Besides, it's so obvious that cancer, in any form, when diagnosed for the first time, is not preexisting.
My vicarious experience with cancer has influenced my life in many ways, but at the same time, it hasn't really changed it at all. Yes, cancer is scary as shit. It is a reminder of our mortality and our total and utter lack of control over our own lives, despite what we may think or feel about this topic. During that time, Aaron and I still fought about little things, like any couple does. We just fought with tears in our eyes and a little more fear than normal.
The process of finding out about cancer, treating it and moving forward is much more drawn out than I once thought. There is no particular day that changes everything. Rather, it is an experience like any other. Knowledge comes in small deliveries. And, really, there is no way to be completely sure of anything.
As my quantitative research methods professor says, "it's just a matter of what kind of error you're comfortable with." Really, I believe that in life, it is better to live as if no error will occur at all and when it does, look back with great appreciation for what has already occurred.
But perhaps the greatest realization I've made through all of this is that I met a great man last October and this experience has both given us more respect for life and for each other.
