By: Nate Edwards, Testicular Cancer
I found the lump the day after my 34th birthday in 2020; not exactly the kind of present you want to discover. I wasn’t entirely sure at first. I remember standing there thinking,“Has that always been like that?” But it turns out: nope. Two weeks later, I was sitting in a doctor’s office, having that dreaded conversation. A few days after that: ultrasound. A few days after that: “Hey, we think it’s cancer.” And so began the wild ride.
In early September, I had an orchiectomy (yes, that’s the correct spelling,I checked it 18 times). That was the first moment it all felt real. Pathology confirmed 100% embryonal carcinoma, a type of aggressive testicular cancer. I still remember hearing that and Googling way too much afterward (pro tip: don’t do that). Next came decision time: chemo or RPLND surgery. I spoke with several experts, each with their own take — it was like a very serious version of Choose Your Own Adventure. Eventually, I opted for surgery.In early November 2020, I underwent the RPLND. They removed a 2.9 cm lymph node — just one centimeter shy of needing additional treatment. Talk about cutting it close (pun fully intended). Recovery was rough. I couldn’t lift my daughter for six weeks which, as any parent knows, is basically forever. But by Christmas, I could pick her up again and that meant everything.Then, as if I hadn’t collected enough hospital wristbands for the year, appendicitis struck. I was back in the ER and under the knife again.
After all that? I’ve been lucky. Surveillance showed no signs of cancer returning and this year, four years later,I was officially cleared. But here’s the kicker: after a couple of years of secondary infertility (a side effect I was warned might happen), we welcomed another child. That journey came with its own cocktail of labs, tests, and, “How’s your sperm count today?” jokes but hey, miracles sometimes come with paperwork.
Reflections with a Smile (and Some Tears)
Do I celebrate a cancerversary?
I do. Every November, I pause and reflect — not just on surviving, but on growing, laughing, and still being here. I treat myself to something small. (Usually tacos. Cancer doesn’t get tacos.) I also make sure to share my story on social media to remind others: it can happen to anyone, at any time.
Best experience with a healthcare provider?
Without question, my original urologist. I actually returned to him for my final year of surveillance. He remembered me, showed real compassion, and gave me space to ask questions — answering them all with respect and honesty. He made a huge difference in how I experienced care and recovery.
Biggest lesson cancer taught me?
That you can do everything right and still get punched in the gut. What matters is how you get back up — and who you bring along when you do. I took that to heart by running a half marathon in 2023, beating my only previous attempt by nearly half an hour.
Why do I keep going?
I keep going for my kids. For my family. And for the people out there getting that call for the first time.
That’s why I started Coffees for Cancer — a nonprofit that gives coffee gift cards to cancer warriors and their families. It’s simple, human, and honestly just a way of saying: “Hey, I see you.”
I also support groups like the Testicular Cancer Foundation, Expect Miracles Foundation, Kicking Cancer, and Stupid Cancer, because nobody should feel like they’re fighting alone. Cancer taught me a lot. About fear, resilience, and testicle anatomy (way more than I ever expected to know). But mostly, it taught me how much strength lives inside each of us, especially when it’s fueled by community, love, and a hot cup of coffee.