The initial reaction was panic. Then came the embarrassment.
You see, I had invested years giving health advice to colleagues, friends, and family, thinking I was well-versed in many medical areas.
And then I found myself at my desk as the Health Editor in New York City, receiving the news that I had cancer.
It was particularly hard to accept because my identity had been so intertwined with health and fitness.
I practiced martial arts, exercised regularly, kept meticulous track of my diet, and, if I’m honest, often boasted about my healthy lifestyle.
Friends approached me for health tips: Should I eat this? Could that lead to cancer? What supplements should I take? How do I get abs?
In fact, my peculiar eating habits—like six boiled eggs for lunch and yogurt parfaits in oversized bowls—were a common joke at the office, not to mention my popcorn that always filled the newsroom with its smell every afternoon.
So, being diagnosed with cancer at 29, when I seemed in peak health, felt disproportionately unjust, almost like some cosmic retribution for my overconfidence in my wellness.
Still, the diagnosis didn’t come completely out of the blue.
Just the day before, after delaying for months, I had finally gone for an ultrasound to check on a lump the size of an almond in my left testicle.
The scan, initially slated for 30 minutes, stretched into an hour and a half.
The technician mentioned ‘poor visibility’ and the need for clear images, and now I understand she was likely capturing as many pictures as she could because she suspected cancer.
By the time I was finished, it was 3 PM, and I thought I would hear back in a couple of days.
But at 9:03 AM the next morning, my phone lit up. Most offices open at 9 AM, so I sensed this was serious.
I bolted out of my chair and dashed across the newsroom, where the caller directed me to find a private room and turn on my camera. The doctor needed to speak with me urgently.
I awkwardly propped the phone up and waited as the doctor connected. When she said, ‘I’m so sorry – we’re fairly confident you’ve got cancer,’ I felt numb.
It was as if she were describing someone else—a distant patient I had written about, not me.
She continued, ‘There’s good news… and bad news.’
The bad news was clear: they were fairly certain I had cancer.
But she reassured me that if I had to choose a type of cancer, this was among the most treatable forms, which hardly eased my nerves at that moment.
Still, she was correct. Testicular cancer has over a 95 percent five-year survival rate—and even without being a health journalist, I knew that was encouraging.
For context, the overall five-year survival rate for all cancers hovers around 69 percent, but many more common types in younger people, like pancreatic and liver cancer, have lower survival rates.
Testicular cancer is particularly manageable for a few reasons.
First, the tumors respond extraordinarily well to chemotherapy, capable of eliminating cancer cells even if they’ve spread.
Moreover, it typically appears in men in their 20s and 30s, who generally handle aggressive treatments quite well.
Nonetheless, I was told surgery was imminent.
After my call with the doctor, I was engulfed in emotions. It’s all a bit hazy now, but those ten minutes were pure panic.
My eyes welled up as images of worst-case scenarios raced through my mind: balding, frail, dying young, missing out on my dreams.
I attempted to call my mom, who was at work, while frantically Googling survival statistics which offered a slight sense of calm.
Then, oddly enough, something shifted in my mind.
I became laser-focused on the practical next steps: appointments, scans, blood tests. That focus persisted throughout my treatment, and I haven’t felt emotional about my cancer since.
A large part of this was due to the efficiency of my treatment plan. From the diagnosis to surgery, it took less than two weeks—a startling speed.
As a Brit, I reflected on how my grandfather had to wait six months for treatment in the NHS for stage 3 prostate cancer. The rapidity of American healthcare, despite its flaws, was surreal.
While it was reassuring to be treated so quickly, the one unspoken terror of a cancer diagnosis is the moment when the doctor says ‘you have cancer.’ You still have no idea about your survival chances.
Not until they evaluate the tumor’s size, check if it has spread to lymph nodes or organs, and determine the cancer type, can you receive a clearer picture of your prognosis and treatment.
The next day’s blood tests brought astonishing relief—no tumor markers.
CT scans followed shortly after to assess if it had spread, showcasing the efficiency of the US healthcare where I received results later that day: negative again. Another hurdle passed.
Once surgery was done, the exact stage could be clarified. It appeared promising.
Based on the negative tests and tumor size, my doctors had been inclined to believe I had a single seminoma, a slower-growing tumor.
Yet, post-surgery, they discovered I had two tumors: one seminoma and one embryonal carcinoma, the latter of which can proliferate rapidly.
There were indications that cancer cells had begun entering the bloodstream. Tiny cells may have leaked, possibly increasing the risk of growing new tumors over time.
At my visit with the oncologist at Memorial Sloan Kettering—a surreal setting since I had spent years writing about the institution—he explained that, given my situation, I had about a 40 percent chance of relapse.
To my surprise, despite that risk, my doctors recommended against chemotherapy, which would have reduced that chance to just 1-3 percent.
They explained the medical community is reassessing the need for blanket chemotherapy due to its harsh side effects, including hospitalizations, infections, sepsis, and even a small risk of secondary cancers.
For otherwise healthy, young patients, they suggested it might be worth taking those odds.
I was skeptical—it was tempting to just proceed with treatment and remove the worry of cancer entirely, especially since I’d mentally geared myself up for chemo.
So, I sought a second opinion at Mount Sinai. To my surprise, the oncologist there also recommended careful monitoring instead of immediate chemotherapy.
With two elite doctors on the same page, I realized I needed to listen and be humble.
As vain as it sounds, what unsettled me most was the thought of losing my hair.
The chemotherapy associated with testicular cancer almost guarantees hair loss—not just on the head but eyebrows too. It’s a tough proposition, though many might consider it a price worth paying for survival.
I now undergo regular monitoring through blood tests, scans, and X-rays every few months. If the cancer returns, chemotherapy will be necessary.
The cancer also impacted my hormones.
My testosterone levels plummeted to that of a 70-year-old, leaving me feeling overwhelmingly fatigued.
Now, I inject medication three times a week, slowly regaining strength.
After two months away from training, I’m back to a routine of working out five times a week, including martial arts.
Curiously, despite keeping my diet the same, I’ve gained over 10 pounds in three months without apparent fat gain—most likely a result of my testosterone rising again.
I’ve also reduced my alcohol intake, sticking to a two-drink limit when I do indulge.
One surprising shift in my mindset has been the guilt after drinking.
Knowing that alcohol is a known carcinogen, combined with this critical period of monitoring for cancer return, just feels reckless.
By sharing my story, I want to advocate for awareness. My perspective is straightforward: if it can happen to me, it can happen to anyone.
I now encourage all my male friends to regularly check for lumps and remain vigilant.
Reflecting on that earlier embarrassment, I realized the symptoms had likely been there for a long time.
Two significant health issues I faced—persistent back pain and chronic fatigue—were nearly certainly linked to the tumor.
I had suffered from pain for two years, blaming it on slipped discs and jiu-jitsu. The morning of surgery, I could hardly walk, yet the moment I woke after surgery, the pain vanished—and it never returned.
Doctors believe the tumor likely caused inflammation that affected my pelvic nerves.
As for the chronic fatigue, I thought it was due to the stress of moving to America and long work hours, oblivious to the fact that fatigue can often be a precursor to a cancer diagnosis.
Here I was, the person responsible for covering cancer in young people, and I had somehow overlooked my own situation.
I first thought it was my body failing me, but maybe it was my mind that failed to heed the signs.
Testicular cancer seems linked to a genetic predisposition; I probably had some defect in the germ cells forming my testicles.
These cells develop into sperm but can become cancerous if they go awry during growth.
Though we haven’t fully unraveled what triggers this change, we know that testicular cancer rates are rising among younger men.
Incidence has nearly doubled in the last four decades among American men aged 20 to 34, making it the most common form of cancer for males under 35.
So, I urge anyone noticing something off, however trivial, to get it checked. It just might save your life—I’m hoping it’s saved mine.
