On Friday, July 30, 2010, I walked into the Conrad Pearson Clinic on Wolf River Blvd. in Cordova, TN, just a few miles from my office. It was mid-morning.
For several weeks I had experienced pain and swelling in my testicle. A few days earlier, I had visited a small general practice clinic to see about my problem. They told me that I probably had a urinary tract infection, but that I should go see a urologist just in case. This is how I came to be sitting in the lobby of the Clinic. I was the youngest person there by at least three decades.
I thumbed through a Sports Illustrated while I waited. I was not terribly concerned about my ailment. I was thinking about the next morning, when I would drive home to Mississippi and go out on the lake with my roommate and his girlfriend and several of her friends. I was 27. The sun was shining outside.
After a long wait I was finally called into the back of the clinic and led to a small room where the doctor would see me shortly. There was a chair and a small examining table for me to stretch out on. The walls were covered with posters that diagrammed the inside of a penis. The kind you'd find in junior high biology. I texted and played Angry Birds.
Finally the door opened and Dr. John Adams walked in, a short man with curly hair and a square jaw. I described my symptoms to him with awkward uncertainty - I wasn't comfortable talking about my genitals with strangers at this point.
After a while he instructed me to drop my pants, and rolled in a small ultrasound machine. After examining me for a short time he asked me to zip up my pants and hop down from the table. He handed me a picture from the ultrasound and began talking as I was tucking my shirt in. He looked me square in the eye.
"What you're looking at," he said, "is a tumor."
I immediately felt like my stomach had dropped out from under me. Dr. Adams showed no signs of emotion.
"The swelling and pain you've experienced is because your tumor has hemmorhaged. Because it is in your testicle, there is a 90% chance that you have cancer."
At this point he continues describing what are probably very important details and instructions, but I am not listening. I am staring at a picture of a penis behind him. My mind races.
I am too young for this. Will I die?
A thousand thoughts are running through my mind. Presently, I realize that I am in sole possession of this terrible news and there is the business of having to tell people. It dawns on me that I am alone.
What am I going to say to my mom? How do you tell this to your mother?
I am staring at a jar of cotton balls on the counter. My mouth is open, lower lip moving as if I were talking. Dr. Adams says something about scheduling a surgery soon and leaves the room. I am still lost in hurried thought when a nurse comes in to draw blood. She needs blood to test for tumor markers, but I do not know this. I offer my arm without looking at her.
After a long moment I realize she has let go of my arm without sticking me. I turn to look at her and she is smiling nervously. She looks away, and I notice that my arm is shaking badly. I cannot make it stop. I realize that my breath is short. I think I may be having a panic attack. She tells me she'll come back in a few moments. Half of my shirt is still untucked. My belt is unbuckled.
Should I tell anyone? How much will this cost?
Eventually the nurse reappears and is able to draw blood. She hands me some papers and directs me to the check out desk. Follow the maroon tiles on the floor to the exit, she says, and hands me a card. I am walking away. She tells me to call the number on the sheet if I have any questions. I smile.
"My mother is going to call you," I say over my shoulder.
"That's fine."
I stop and turn to face her. "You don't understand. My mother is going to call you a lot. I'm sorry."
I proceed to the check out desk and pay a $20 co-pay. I walk back out through the lobby filled with gray haired men, past the welcome desk, through the double-glass doors and out into the Cordova heat.
