The 2011/2012 English Premier League ended with an uninspiring defeat at Goodison Park, but never mind, we’re off to Europe next season & I’m going to Spain in July for a few weeks, I thought. The weeks between the back end of June & going on holiday in July I felt lethargic & had butterflies in my stomach. I thought nothing of it, given I’m fucking petrified of flying & the standard of Easy Jet travel; I assumed it was the usual “fear” kicking in. The flight was horrific with bairns whinging, fat women standing up for a piss every 15 minutes & too many “lads” in flat peak caps.

My son, Ciaran (6), loves the pool & had been advising me in no uncertain terms that; “as soon as we get there, we’re going swimming”. Within 30 minutes of arriving at the villa we were in the pool & he was diving in & swimming through my legs. On what seemed like the 14,000 dive he banged head first into my groin & to say it hurt would be lying. It’s fucking knacked. “I’m getting out, son” as I drag my body out of the water. My right bollock was in agony & my lower abdomen felt like it does before a Tyne-Wear derby.

The pain eased off over the next few hours but was still noticeable & enough to prevent me from attacking the case of Estrella Galicia in the fridge. 7pm came around & after being nagged into it, I went to the shower to get ready to go out for some food & a drink. Washing as you do, I cleaned my “junk” & noticed something weird. On the bottom of my right testicle there was a lump, rock hard, about the size of a pea & definitely something I’d not noticed before. Shit. Shit. Shit. What the fuck is that? I’ve never noticed this before, check the other one. Nah, that one’s normal. What am I going to do?

Have I got cancer? How long’s it been there? These were all the questions running through my petrified mind within those awful minutes in the shower. How can I tell the missus? Shall I just wait ‘til we get back rather than spoil her holiday? I did, just that, kept quiet & got on with the most miserable holiday of my life. Those weeks were horrendous. Putting a happy face on until I got home. 2 days before the end of my holiday I rang the doctor at home & booked an appointment to get it checked out. “Your doctor’s not around, so you can see the new doctor”. Nee bother; I’d have seen Doctor Dre if he could help. I went into the doctors & told her the craic & she asked me to lie on the bed & drop my strides (Don’t worry, I’d put my good boxers on). She felt the lump & said “2 moments I’m going to get another doctor to have a look as I’m not an expert”. The next Doctor came in, done the same & said; “I’m 99% sure you have a malignant tumour.” Fucking hell, I’m going to die aren’t I? Can I be saved? How am I going to tell the missus & my old mother? I was referred to the Freeman hospital within 4 days & had a scan on the “area”, blood taken & told “It looks very suspicious. Come back on Monday morning at 7am & we’ll remove the testicle”. By this point, I’ve accepted what the doctors have told me & tried to adopt a “Get on with it and smash it’s face in” attitude.

I went back on the Monday & at 4.30pm was placed under GA & had my cajone removed. (This is done by a 3-4 inch gash in the groin area & the testicle pushed up & out of there). The operation went well, no problems & was released at 7.30pm the same day. I went home elated, perhaps that was the GA wearing off or the fact I felt I was getting somewhere. The pain kicked in the next morning around the scar & I struggled around for a few days. I went back to the Freeman Hospital for a CT scan of my abdomen & chest & am waited for those results for 3 weeks. As well as those from the biopsy of my ball.

My reason for writing this is it’s a subject rarely talked about with men. We put a brave face on things & if you’re anything like me will assume these things don’t happen to you. Well, they do. It’s happening to me & I’m pretty scared.  After a long three week wait I received written confirmation this morning from my GP which states; “I have had a letter today from Mr Hasan confirming that you had a testicle cancer which the Freeman Hospital are continuing to investigate and form a treatment plan.” There I had it, 5 weeks after finding the lump; it’s confirmed as being cancerous. I had a small glimmer of hope that it would be non-cancerous when the biopsy was done but deep down, in my heart & head, I knew it was cancer. You know your body. Always trust it & what it’s telling you. As the letter states the Freeman Hospital were still investigating & putting together a treatment plan. I had a few questions from this; why are they still investigating? Does that mean it’s worse than I imagined? What kind of treatment will I need? Can I do this? Course I fucking can.

Inside I felt almost numb to the cancer, I didn't hate it, it was part of me now & I’d shaken off more vicious girlfriends in the past so this didn't know what it’s messing with.  “They” say that if you’re going to get cancer, this is the one to have due to recovery rates & the superb work/treatment that you can be given. Great, but that doesn’t take away the fear, the little bubbles in my stomach or the feeling of being in limbo not sure what the next few months have in store for you. I was astounded by the amount of support & well wishes I received & was asked on a few occasions about having only one ball. I could've got a “placca knacka” if I wanted but that was the least of my worries at that moment in time. Honestly, Dr Fox could cut my cock off & I wouldn’t be fussed; as long as they can make me better.
(They say shaving your pubic hair makes it look bigger; I can safely say that having only one bollock doesn’t have the same effect. Sadly).

I was called on Wednesday, 3rd October 2012 & asked to go to the Freeman Hospital the next day to check my blood as the tumour marker level appeared to have remained the same which indicates “one or two little spots still in you”, despite the cancerous cajone being removed. “Oh, fucking pipe me off, man”. Off I went to the Freeman Hospital & talked to Dr Pedley who informed me that the tumour marker should’ve returned to “normal” when the ball was taken out. “Normal” is a Number between 1 & 4/5. My number was 42, which is high but Dr Pedley also informed me he had other patients who have the tumour markers in the tens & hundreds of thousands (10,000-100,000+). He said the best thing to do was to take blood there & then to check if it’s come down since the last blood test & we’d “go from there”. If it hasn’t we will have a “few courses of chemotherapy” to extinguish whatever’s left in me. I was told I would hear back the results on Monday 8th October 2012.

They called & my tumour markers were much the same as they were the last time & we would now move ahead with chemotherapy. They booked me in to have another CT Scan that week to see if anything else is visible. Looking on the bright side, at least I would have an excuse for my baldy patch from here on in. ;) I didn’t expect it to be in the slightest bit pleasant or enjoyable, I was going to be poisoned, but to quote that American tart Kelly Clarkson “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger”. I didn’t feel “ill” in the slightest; those that were at the match with me the day prior could vouch for that. Still smiling, ish. Keep believing. If Newcastle United can finish 5th in the league then I can easily smash this, I thought. I was called on Monday 8th October 2012 by a cancer specialist from the Freeman Hospital, Helen Showler & advised that I would now be starting chemotherapy to destroy the remaining cancer “cell/s” in my body. This next part is pretty embarrassing, but I’d rather share for peoples understanding than not say anything.

A side-effect of the chemotherapy drugs (BEP) can be infertility. (Unable to have children). Helen told me, quite bluntly, that I should protect myself by banking sperm incase I’m one of the unlucky ones who it affects. SHE HAD ALREADY BOOKED ME AN APPOINTMENT for tuesday 9th October 2012. “Alreet, nee bother I’ve alway’s been a wanker anyway..”, I thought. I had no idea what to expect, but it was nowhere near as bad or seedy as I’d imagined.

I went to the Centre for Life in Newcastle, near Central Station. Embarrassed myself twice by going to the wrong reception & telling them what I was there for. (Aye, I’m still as daft as ever) I went to floor 3 & entered a nice, large, airy, EMPTY reception area & gave my name. “Just take a seat & a nurse will come & see you in two minutes”. I wasn’t embarrassed at all, but it did feel slightly weird. I felt well & didn’t class myself as “ill” so didn’t feel as though I had to be there. The nurse came out, took me into a little room & explained what would happen. Basically;

1) You’re going to tear the heed off it
2) You’ll have blood taken. (Checking for Hepatitis as they can’t store it, if I did)
3) Fill some forms in whilst we’re checking sperm “strength”
4) Get yourself away home.

I’m not going to elaborate much on number “1”, but I was given a tub, a folder containing “Readers Wives” & “Hustler” & a 45 minute time limit. ;) Then leave tub in the little hatch & press the button to alert the “testers” that something was waiting. Note for nurses; try not to giggle & talk about David Cameron whilst you’ve got men in the room next door giving it “six nowt”.  Whilst filling in the form the nurse came back in & told me they’d managed to fill “10 straws of good quality” so I shouldn’t have to go back again. Champion. That’s another job crossed off the list.

On Wednesday 10th October 2012, Helen called back & told me I need to have a kidney function test to ascertain whether my kidneys can cope with the chemotherapy drugs (BEP). I had to go to the Freeman Hospital on Friday 12th October 2012 for 4 hours, which looked like this; 9.30am - Injected with “stuff” & blood taken. *Walk about / Take it easy* 11.30am - Injected with “stuff” again & blood taken. *Walk about / Take it easy* 1.30pm - Blood taken & go home.

This will just check my kidneys are working properly & can handle the chemotherapy drugs which they will have to deal with. I’ll also have a quick lung function & hearing test whilst waiting between 11.30 & 1.30. The hearing test is done as the drugs can give people “tinnitus” (Ringing in the ears). Helen told me my chemotherapy course will start “in the middle of next week”. I’ll go into hospital & have the chemo fed into me for 3 days & then be sent home for a few days. Back to hospital for another dose. Week at home. Back at hospital for another dose. Week or so at home. This will be repeated for THREE CYCLES. That would probably take up until around Christmas time. I wasn't worried about the chemotherapy, possibly stupidly, but I wanted to get “better” & if this is what’s needed then fair enough. I wasn't scared of getting better & this will help me.
 
My first chemotherapy session was scheduled for 19th October 2012 at the Sir Bobby Robson centre at the Freeman Hospital, Newcastle. The days & night before I was, for want of a better word; shitting myself. I’m sure you & I think of torture & pain when imagining what chemotherapy does to your body. I didn’t want to torture my body, but accepted that if I want to get better then you do whatever’s required & whatever the wonderful doctors advise.  I had very little idea what chemotherapy even was, how it was administered & how it affects you. Essentially, chemotherapy for testicular cancer is known as BEP & is a mixture of different drugs which attack the cells in your body & take over; ultimately killing the cancerous cells as they aren’t as strong as the drugs. This does however lower your white blood count which is there to fight off infections & keep you healthy. (I’ll expand on this later). My first day came around & I went to the Freeman hospital for 11am on 19th October to commence treatment. Upon arrival I walked through Ward 35 & was instantly met with “the fear”. I could see other fighters lying in their beds looking iller than me after 12 pints of ale from my local. I had to wait in the “Day Room” & was then taken by 2 nurses to be weighed, have my height taken, blood taken to check my “tumour markers” & have a cannula placed into a vein in my hand where the chemotherapy would be pumped through.

I weighed 74kg & my height was 6ft & half an inch. I was told again that my treatment plan would be 3 cycles of chemotherapy, each cycle spread over a 3 week period. A cycle is;

72 hours continuous chemotherapy pumped in via a drip. *Go home* Return next Thursday for 12 hour bag. *Go home* Return next Thursday for 12 hour bag. *Go Home* (Repeat 3 times over) I had anti-nausea dripped into my arm & was hooked up to start the treatment. A green bag lasting numerous hours, then an alarm goes off, I pressed & called for the nurse & they bring another bag. This process goes on for 72 hours. The boredom in hospital’s infuriating, but I’m quite a lazy bastard normally so can cope lying, motionless, watching internet football streams & An Idiot Abroad like a professional American fat slob.
 
The hospital gave me anti-nausea medication which wasn’t effective & I spent the first 48 hours spewing into cardboard tubs. Horrific. I couldn’t eat, I didn’t want to drink & I didn’t want to move. They changed my anti-nausea meds & thankfully I wasn't sick again. I would lie awake watching television & keep falling asleep every hour. My brain felt foggy and I struggled to concentrate on anything; as much as I tried to focus my mind it fought back & wanted to drift off. I had plenty of visitors, my mother, father, stepdad, wonderful missus, son, Jimmy Craggs, Danny Bell & legends like Stephen Patterson, Lope Irving & Craig Lowery coming in & making me watch people drinking a litre of vodka in one go on YouTube & other stupid stuff. They cheered me up & gave some normality back into my life in that little private hospital room. I fucking love them all. Total beauts & they don’t realise how much it meant.

I went home after the first 72 hour cycle thinking I’d feel ok & would be able to carry-on as “normal”. HA. What a fucking idiot. I could barely get out of bed. Knackered, feeling sick, brain-fog & yeah, knackered. You know when you wake up for graft on a Monday morning in November & it’s pitch-black outside, freezing cold & you don’t want to move? Well, times that by about 52,000 and you’ll be approaching how fatigued I felt. I read people moaning on Facebook & Twitter that they can’t be arsed with work & to be honest there’s nothing I’d have loved more than to be able to get up at 7am & go to graft. That was the “worst” part for me. Not the chemotherapy pumping in or the sickness; it’s the fatigue. The 12 hour bag of Bleo chemotherapy’s pretty easy really. I go in for 11am & chill out all day then at 7pm they wire the bag up & pump it in through-the-night. I wake up when the alarm goes off saying “Bag Empty” & I’m generally back in the house by 9.30am. I’d been eating properly for the first time since it started, I watched my son play football for Hazlerigg on Saturday, had food in the Powder Monkey on Sunday & had been getting up, showered & dressed everyday which is a massive improvement on previous weeks. I did have a lapse after cycle one & had to spend a full week in hospital after picking up an infection & my white blood cell count was rock bottom. I was in serious danger so had to stay in hospital to be kept an eye on.

Finally, my tumour markers normalised to the same as yours, which meant it was working. If I can’t be positive with that then I’d be a mug. I completed my 3 cycles of BEP chemotherapy on 15th December 2012, just in time for giving my family the best Christmas ever.  I've since had 2 monthly check-up's and have been placed in remission and told that all markers are normal and all scans are "absolutely fine". It's been a long, drawn-out battle, but has made me a better, more grounded man in the process. I returned to work 2 months after completing chemo and I'm currently feeling at about 75% of my previous self.

There's absolutely no way I could have coped as well as I did without all the support from Mark and Philly at CheckEmLads as well as my friends and family. I'm now all set to run the Great North Run in September 2013 and climb Snowdon with the wonderful survivors, like myself, to raise funds and awareness for the 'CheckEmLads' charity.
 
You don't know how strong you are, until being strong's all you can be.

Keep on, keeping on.

Mac (Andy McPherson)