In His Own Words: "Had to Break Up the Band" by Matt Smith

NOTE: This story was originally written by Matt Smith for his English 101 course at Northeast State Community College in June 2015.

Ever since I can remember, I have always wanted to use humor to make others smile. It wasn’t until certain shenanigans in my nether regions started happening that I started to use it to make myself smile. I’m an overall happy guy, [but] this aspect of my life changed on September 29th, 2011, Cancer Day.  

Back in August of 2011, I was working for the local cable company.  I had been there for about three months, mostly doing disconnects and installs. I had started noticing some discomfort in the boxers; of course, as a guy, we try and tough things out. That’s exactly what I had planned to do, thinking that whatever was going on would just go away on its own.  

Roughly a month or so later, the discomfort was starting to become more painful, like a tightening vise grip.   I figured it was about time I go and get things checked out. So I decided to stop at a First Assist type of medical office.  After a short wait, the doctor walks in, [and] I explain to her why I am in the office today. No amount of self-confidence can prepare you for a moment like this, and I am not built like Channing Tatum, but I gave it my all. Now she has her, albeit warm, hand, on my nuggets and she is squeezing.  “Does that hurt?” she asked me.  “Yeah, it does.”  She adjusts her kung-fu grip and asks again, “Does that hurt?”  I calmly respond with “No, that feels good.”  With no instant spared, I immediately shouted “I mean, it doesn’t feel good, just doesn’t hurt.” I would pay to hear the story of any other moment in her professional career that was more awkward. She tells me that she doesn’t think that I have anything to worry about and tells me that I am dealing with a common issue that should correct itself. To be safe, she sets me up for an ultrasound. The appointment isn’t for another two weeks, and even though she says I have nothing to worry about, I start to worry a bit.  

Truthfully, my biggest worry is my mother, I was worried about adding any stress to her life.  That’s the biggest reason that for the last month or so, I hadn’t told anyone about what I had going on. Just before I left the parking lot at the doctor’s office I called my mom and asked if she would meet me at the pharmacy. Before we could go in, she basically demanded I tell her what was going on. I give her the rundown of the goings on and she instantly goes into “Worried-Mom-Mode”. After picking up the prescription that had been called in for me, it was time to have the conversation with my dad. With my whole ordeal, I was already making jokes about it and my mom had quickly picked up on how it was going to be, so she joined in. My dad, on the other hand, was pretty tight lipped about it and wasn’t a fan of my jokes. I immediately know my dad is worried. A few days later, I have some time to spend with my son, who was six at the time. I didn’t tell him about my situation, he wouldn’t understand. This part of the whole ordeal is me, preparing for the worst and hoping for the best.

Fast forward a week and I am sitting in a waiting room at the hospital, waiting to have an ultrasound.  My mom and dad in tow, they refused to sit it out. I finally get called back and oddly enough, my parents hang back. I’m led into a small dark room.  Just inside the door to my left are three chairs, to my right, my old friend the exam table. Beside the table is the ultrasound machine with a tech sitting at the monitor entering my information and getting ready to do the test.

The tech instructs me to throw on the very breezy hospital gown then to lay back on the table. At this point I am laying on the table, white sheet over my waist, pride checked at the door, and the tech grabs his wand and puts way too much lube on it and me. “So, this is a first and hopefully last for me” I told the guy.  “At least we are on the same page” he fired back. Awkward laughs and a few more quips and I notice he has a puzzled look on his face. “I better go find the doctor and let him see this,” the tech said.  

Immediately, I knew something was wrong.  About two minutes [later] my parents walked in. I told them about the whole situation and that I felt something was wrong. My dad, being the ever-supporting man he is, threw out his “Don’t worry, we don’t know anything yet.”  We sat in there for what seemed longer than the extended cut of Braveheart when finally, the tech came back in, alone. He said that the doctor was too busy to come speak with me, but he had ordered me out of work and was setting up an appointment for me with a specialist. This must be bad.

Weeks go by, again, and I finally have my appointment with an urologist.  Walking into a doctor’s office under these circumstances is stressful and frightening. A few days before I had come to a different part of the office and given blood, today I get the results of that and the ultrasound.

This bring us back to sitting in the small doctor’s office, posters on the walls, boxes of latex gloves sitting in a basket mounted to the wall, my mom in the chair, and me on the table. Every time I sit and wait for a doctor, I try and keep myself entertained, usually consists of me blowing up gloves or stretching one over my head. This time I was truly a bit more nervous though.  I tried to hide it well so my mom would stay calm. My doctor finally walks in, he is tall and skinny, a good-looking guy, especially to my mom, his name is Doctor Olsen. He immediately greets us and shakes our hands. He comes across as very confident but very friendly.  

He jumps right into what I have going on, he explains everything in simple terms that we could easily understand. He says it: “It is cancer.”  Words spoken to me have never really carried as much weight as those. I had done everything I could think to do to prepare myself to hear it, but no amount of prep time can really ease that blow. I felt like the world paused, just briefly. At the same time, I felt like I could breathe again. I didn’t have to sit and wonder anymore. I knew exactly what was wrong.

My first response to the doctor was “Ok, explain it to her,” and I pointed to my mom. I was scared, but I didn’t feel like it was something I couldn’t handle. The doctor directed his focus to my mom and explained to her what indicated that it was cancer and asked if she had any questions. 

I asked him “So what do we do know?”  “Well, we are going to have to do surgery.”  “You mean you’re going to take it out? You’re going to break up the band?”  He laughed and said “Yes, unfortunately we need to get it out as soon as we can.”  

So now it starts to get “real” and I ask about how the removal takes place. I assumed what most would, cut the sack, take it out. I was shockingly wrong. “I’ll make a small incision on the lower abdomen and remove it from there.” Now, for any guys reading this, let that sink in. My nut will be taken out through my stomach. What kind of hell is this? Once Dr. Olsen explained to me why it’s done that way, it made much more sense. It’s much easier to protect from infection that way.

The surgery was scheduled for the following morning, Friday Sept. 30th. The night before was basically spent telling my friends and family that I was, indeed, not kidding about having testicular cancer. I can’t blame them, it seems like something I would joke about. I remember the drive to the hospital that morning. I was really sleepy sitting in the passenger seat of my parents’ car, my mom driving and my dad in the backseat talking about eating great food, because I couldn’t have anything. That seems to be a tradition with us anytime someone has to fast for any reason.  

I was sent back to preop, [and] out comes the infamous and all too familiar hospital gown. I get it on and get into the hospital bed, both metal rails on the sides are up and I am waiting. I get my IV inserted, meds start flowing, and I am set. The last thing that needs to be done is for me to take off my watch. I can’t stand to not have a watch on, it's always the last thing to go. As they start to put me to sleep, the doctor tells me to start counting backwards for 100.  

“Why do you always tell people to count backwards?” That’s the last memory I have before waking up in a small room [with] all white walls. I don’t remember anything on the wall except mounted medical equipment and lighting. I do, however, remember that the very first thing I asked was “Where’s my watch?”

When I was finally coherent enough, the pain set in. The incision was only a few inches long, but it may as well have been a civil war battle wound. Even with the pain meds, it hurt. I sat there waiting for the doctor to come in and let us know how everything went, having small talk with my parents and trying anything to take my mind off the pain.  All of a sudden, I had to cough. The amount of pain that came along with this cough should be considered a weapon of mass destruction. Up to that point in my life, I had never felt so much pain. Cancer blows. 

Things were going to be different for me for the next week.  I had a cut on my lower right abdomen that was only held closed with a simple bandage.  No stitches, no staples.  Just a bandage that looked like clear packing tape.  I had to leave it on for 48 hours and I couldn’t have a shower until it came off.  Even with all of this going on, I watched the UT football game that Saturday.  Sitting in the recliner, which I ended up sleeping in for five days straight.

One of the first things I did when I was feeling pretty good, was order a new t-shirt. Not just any shirt, but a bright red shirt with bold white print that reads “Cancer stole my right nut”. Finally, the 48-hour mark passed, and it was time to take off the tape and have a shower.  I picked at the corner of the tape forever trying to get it to come off, no joy.  I ended up having my mom try it.  Now, I appreciate her doing this and anything else for me, but this will always be one of the worst experiences of my life.  Pulling that tape off hurt so bad, that saying it hurt is a dramatic understatement. My mom just kept saying sorry as she was pulling it off and I was trying not to rip the arms of the chair off. This was the worst experience of the whole ordeal up to this point.  

My doctor referred me to an oncologist that he worked with regularly. After the surgery, the tumor markers were still too high. Now I am really hoping that this oncologist wasn’t going to decide I need to have chemo or radiation. His name is Dr. Sen and he is truly great at what he does. He takes lots of blood from me for testing. Dr. Sen lets me know that he will review my test results and coordinate with Dr. Olsen on what to do next. Great, more waiting, cancer really sucks.

I think about two more weeks go by before I was able to go and see Dr. Olsen again. He tells me that I have a few enlarged lymph nodes in my abdomen that have him concerned.  

“Basically, you have three options. We can try chemo, we can remove the nodes, or we can do nothing and just monitor it.”  He tells me.  

“Well, what would you do in my situation?” I asked him.  

“Remove the nodes, and then you eliminate any issues.” Done deal, I decided to remove them.  

About five days before I go in [for surgery], I have to get all my pre-op done. I go to the office and have my blood drawn, sign some papers and that’s it, or so I thought. On the drive home, Dr. Olsen’s office calls me.  “There seems to be a problem with your insurance, [it] appears to have been canceled.”

The next day I go to the office for my job and speak to the HR lady. She informs me that the company policy is, after thirty days, they are not required to cover an employee. I was outraged; I am told it will cost me $800 for COBRA to cover me for one month. Awful. I remember hanging up the phone with the rude woman from Cobra and just dropping my head to my palms. The amount of money I was receiving while on short term [disability] wasn’t even really enough to pay my current bills, let alone adding this to the mix.  

When I woke up the next morning, I ventured upstairs and saw my mom. I asked where my dad was and she told me some tear-jerking news. He took a small collection of pocket watches that his dad had given him and was trying to pawn them for money to pay COBRA. I decided to call Dr. Olsen and tell him that I would have to cancel my surgery and wait until I could go back to work and get my insurance going again. The receptionist told me that he was away on vacation. Not long after, I was surprised that Dr. Olsen called me back, while still on vacation. I explained my situation to him and told him my plan.

“You really can’t afford to put this off. The cancer spreads too quickly to wait.”  

“I really can’t afford it,” I told him.

The next words out of his mouth are enough to restore anyone’s faith in the medical profession: “We have to get this done, I won’t charge you anything for my part of the surgery and I will see what else I can do.” I was blown away. This man just told me that he would do this intense surgery for free. It was settled; the surgery would go ahead as planned. After managing to scrape together enough money, COBRA was paid, and I was good to go.

November 16th 2011, the big day. I remember sitting in a row of chairs, both parents present, and all my registration and preop is done. Nerves were running in full force. They call my name, it’s time. My mom starts to cry, my dad has his stone face on; I look back at them and tell them I love them, and I’d see them soon. 

This surgery [a Retroperitoneal Lymph Node Dissection - or “RPLND”] I was having was the real deal. It involved a large incision on my stomach, from about 4 inches below my belly button to just below my breastbone. To remove my lymph nodes, my insides were pretty much pulled out and laid on my chest. Pretty serious stuff.  

Luckily, everything went well. I woke up in my room, watch already on, and found out the hard way that morphine doesn’t really work for me. I pleaded with my nurse for something to ease the pain and finally received something else that eased it to manageable levels. Still sporting my high fashion gown, I pull it up to note the damage. All I could see at this point was a giant white bandage from just above my twig and giggle berry (singular these days), to about the center of my chest. I couldn’t see the scar but could definitely feel it was there. There were thirty-seven staples holding it closed.  I was in for a longer recovery this time. I had random visitors throughout the first day, but my parents were always there, at least one or the other. That first night, my dad stayed all night. To this day, I maintain that we bonded more that night than any other time. We shared great conversation, I was so very thankful to have him there.

[On the second day] Dr. Olsen came in to check on me. He said he wanted to see the incision and quickly jerked the bandage off. For about fifteen seconds, I hated that man more than I hate pickles which is the worst.  

“I’m not going to lie, I enjoyed that a little.” He laughed. I liked him again by this point and laughed with him. After that, he told me that my tumor markers were back down to normal and I was officially in remission. I was finally cancer free and on my way to having a normal life again. Well, my kind of normal anyway. Sure, I have one less nut downstairs, but I am cancer free.  

This story may not reflect it fully, but humor was the best medicine for me. My family and friends were a huge part of me being able to stay positive. I am thankful for the people that didn’t treat me differently because I was sick, and sad to say that I actually lost friends because of it. I pay a lot more attention to cancer in the news and different events that are designed to bring a focus to the fight against cancer. While watching a Stand up 2 Cancer event on TV one night, I had the greatest quote by the actor Michael Douglas, “Cancer didn’t bring me to my knees, it brought me to my feet.” I think about that a lot.  

My life has changed so much since my battle. I appreciate the little things more, I cherish time with my family and friends, and I believe even more firmly that humor can help you get through anything. A person that is sick with cancer, or any disease for that matter, can use humor to feel better about things. Just because you are sick, doesn’t mean you can’t smile. I still wear my “Cancer stole my right nut” shirt and it still gets funny looks and sparks questions.

This story has been shortened for readability. To read the full version, please click here.