Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck

That was precisely my line of thought when my right testicle exploded.

It was 2012, a couple of months before the London Olympics, and I was drinking a bottle of wine on a quiet night in before helping out on a Hereford United open day the following morning.

At about 11pm, a sharp pain emerged in my balls. A quick feel, and all was not good. My right testicle was larger than previously measured, unless my hand had shrunk significantly, and the pain did not stop.

I spent the next five hours going through every possible scenario. "They wouldn't see me at A&E due to the alcohol", "It's only a stone", "Something's twisted and a good rummage will sort it out", "It's Saturday night, I won't be seen for hours".

Eventually at 5.40am, still in pain, without sleep and having done the calculations as to whether the bottle of wine had sufficiently worn off, I drove myself to A&E. I walked in to an empty A&E. The receptionist asked the problem, I whimpered a response, and she told me to sit over there "if you can".

Within 10 minutes a nurse assessed me and decided I needed to see a Doctor. The out of hours GP service opened at 6am and that was the quickest option. I wandered round and was called in to see a Doctor that looked like he was midway through pulling a double shift.

"Pull your trousers down. That's not happened today. When did this happen?"
"Last night, about 11pm."
"Rubbish."

He rang someone, inferred my testicle was the size of a tangerine, and sent me to an admissions ward.

A nurse guided me to the ward in question, I was pointed to a bed and offered tea. Half an hour later one of the 'team' came round. The young Doctor pulled the curtains round and asked to see the offending article.

He shortly after spoke to a colleague using the word "Orange".

I was now an inpatient for the first time in my adult life. I hadn't spent a night in hospital since I was born. I was sent for an ultrasound, which reported that there was no growth - the ball was full of fluid - and growing.

By Noon, I was on a ward. I pointed out I had no possessions with me and my van was still in the car park. I was allowed a day pass to go and get things sorted. "Be back by 8pm, or you won't have a bed."

I went home, packed, told people what was going on, showered, ate, and then returned.

The consultant appeared around 10pm "We'll fit you in as soon as we can." Monday afternoon was the first surgery date.

"We've had to cancel, there's a cesarean that needs the bed" was a phrase I heard several times. While it was painful, what I had wasn't immediately life threatening. The 12 hour Nil by Mouths each time were though.

Eventually, surgery was scheduled and committed for Tuesday afternoon. I had, apparently, become the talk of the hospital. A friend's wife reported she had overhead gossip and pointed out that it was me. I think it probably didn't help I was so bored I was posting many of the gory details onto Facebook.

I seemed to become a local attraction. Every time the consultant appeared, it was with more and more trainee Doctors. After the third or fourth group, I picked out the youngest looking male "You look like you've got a weak stomach, they're cutting this out of me and feeding it to you as your rite of passage."

I didn't see another group.

The surgery was eventually done, the surgeon described it as the size of a Honeydew Melon.

I went home and rested.

A couple of weeks later, my blood test and the biopsy on the ball was done. A meeting in Cheltenham didn't exactly suggest good news. The consultant, a friendly chap in his sixties, asked me why I thought I was there. "If it's good news, you'd have sent a letter."

I had testicular cancer. A three month course of chemotherapy would follow.

I'll write at some point in the future about that time, but I spent a lot of time reassessing my life from that point.

Journalist Simon Ricketts - https://twitter.com/SimonNRicketts/status/804718981596774400 - has announced on Twitter that his Cancer has returned and this time it's terminal.

This thing not only hits when you least expect it, but when you really don't need it.

Don't be a victim.