At the end of each three-week cycle, my immune system, suppressed to the point that I competed with AIDS patients for lowest white blood cell count, I felt like shit. If I felt that smoking a ton of weed would help me briefly forget my cancer to me, I smoked a ton of weed.
Two weeks after my surgery, I sat down in a giant room full of old people and annoying beeps to start my first chemo cycle. (not a Swedish house DJ collective), is both exceedingly effective and exactly as terrible as you'd expect of a medicinal cocktail that literally pumps liquid platinum through your veins. drip in my own little semi-private stall, where I'd watch daytime talk shows on a tiny TV or surf the Internet (chemo bonus: free Wi-Fi!When I woke up, I was relieved to know that the cancerous testicle was gone, but stunned. If you're going to get cancer, testicular cancer is definitely the way to go.According to the American Cancer Society1, if the cancer hasn't spread outside of your scrotum (Stage I), the five-year survival rate is 99 percent. Compare that with the survival rate for men with lung cancer (only 15 percent survive beyond five years) and you can find a certain gratitude living here in Halfsack City. That last one was never on my list of fears—I'm a “buried alive” guy—but then a urologist sat me down in his office and told me the bad news: I had testicular cancer. It would have taken a feat of in-flight parkour to escape. Should I run to the bathroom and check the situation? I'd chosen the window seat and the big guy on the aisle was fast asleep.