“Drop your pants,” he said. I did as I was told, and looked blankly at the ceiling while he probed my nuts. I tried to ignore the pain that shot up from my pelvic region to my lower back and abdomen as he nudged here and there, as well as the awkwardness of the whole situation.
“Does it hurt here?” Yes. “How about here?” No. “What kind of pain do you feel?” I wanted to rip his face off for asking me such a stupid question, but I tried my best to describe the excruciating pain I felt in my nether region. “I will order an ultrasound and refer you to a urologist. In the meantime, take these meds… blah, blah, blah…”
“You have a growth in your left testicle, and there’s an 80–90% probability that it’s malignant.”
The urologist was telling me that I probably had cancer, yet oddly enough, I felt calm. Contemplative. Analytical even. Because I suspected as much. I’ve done my research. My symptoms were inconsistent with a hernia, which the general practitioner I first consulted suspected. Yet they were consistent with a tumor. I wanted to know more, so I asked a barrage of questions.
“The likelihood that this growth is malignant is high because it grew inside your testicle. If it were on the outside on the side of your testicle, then most likely it would be benign. But don’t lose hope; there’s still a 10–20% chance that it’s benign. For further confirmation, I’ll order a blood chemistry test to see the level of tumor markers in your blood.”
I was back in the urologist’s office, this time with Papa. The doctor scanned my test results. “Sir,” he said to Papa. “Have you seen your son’s condition?” Papa said that he had not, so I was asked to drop my pants for the nth time. By then, I had dropped my pants so many times already that I lost count. Thankfully, this time was quick. After Papa saw my condition, I pulled my pants back on.
“Your son has a growth in his testicle, and his blood chemistry confirms that it’s a tumor. His numbers are way off the charts. I told him before that because the tumor grew inside his testicle, the chances of malignancy are 80–90%. But now, I’m quite certain that it is malignant.”
Papa asked about conducting a biopsy for further confirmation.
“A biopsy would not be recommended because if it is indeed cancerous, we run the risk of metastasis. The cancer cells will spread through the hole from the biopsy needle. If you want confirmation other than these blood results, I can order a CAT scan for you. I strongly suggest that we operate immediately. I can schedule you for surgery at the Kidney Institute, but you will have to pay me 15,000 because your insurance doesn’t cover my professional fee… blah, blah, blah.”
Papa was ticked off by the doctor’s lack of empathy; right after telling someone he might have cancer, the last thing you do is talk about money and professional fees. After securing the request for a CAT scan, we politely thanked him and left.
“It’s normal for you to feel dizzy and have a rusty taste in your mouth,” the radiologist said. “It will pass. Just be sure to stay still during the scan.”
I lay still, ignoring the cramp in my arms and nausea and rusty taste in my mouth brought on by the contrast fluid being pumped into my veins. 10 minutes. 30, an hour. Finally, it was over. I got up, dressed, and wobbled out of there dizzy and with a desert on my tongue. I struggled home and fell asleep right away, exhausted. It was 3 pm, and I did not wake until the next morning.
While I had a CAT scan, Papa was back in Baguio. He consulted uncle Francis, my aunt’s brother-in-law, who is a urologist. Papa showed him copies of all my test results, and he concluded that I had to undergo surgery as soon as possible. He agreed with the first urologist, but he was more optimistic. He was more hopeful and considerate. He did not mention money at all.
As soon as I got the results of my CAT scan, I headed to Baguio. I arrived in the afternoon, and the first thing I did was see uncle Francis. I was scheduled for surgery the next day.
“Close your eyes and breathe deeply,” the anesthesiologist said, her voice fading. I felt a drug-induced buzz as the sedative took effect, and I plunged into unconsciousness. There was nothing but black and the anesthesia entering my spine.
One blink. Two blinks. I squinted at the white light blinding me. What time was it, how long was out? I looked at the clock on the wall, but I couldn’t tell the time; my vision was still fuzzy. I surmised that I was in the recovery room. I couldn’t feel my lower half at all, but I knew for sure that I was incredibly lighter. I couldn’t feel it yet, but I was certain that a weight has been lifted. It was finally over. I smiled. I praised God.
The post-surgical biopsy confirmed that the tumor was malignant. Based on new cancer staging criteria, I had stage 3 testicular cancer. The tumor that was taken out of my body through a radical orchiectomy was probably the size of a tennis ball, but heavier, weighing in at 180 grams. Having it out of my body was such a relief. I had a literal thorn in my flesh taken out.
Uncle Francis said that there was no metastasis, but he still ordered a bone scan of my left thigh to be sure. The CAT scan showed some indistinguishable marks on my bone.
The bone scan was as gruesome as the CAT scan because I had to hold positions for several minutes each, and it was extremely tiring. Aside from that, I had to stay at least a meter away from children and pregnant women because the fluid they injected me with to make my bones visible in the scan made me radioactive for 12 hours.
The scan showed that the markings on my bone were no signs of metastasis, but rather they were tiny craters of no consequence. I was safe.
