Charity Fundraising No Ball Ache for this OV

Over the August Bank Holiday weekend, OV Ben Shimwell (Cr 09-16) and friends tackled the infamous Three Peaks Challenge in an impressive 22.10hrs. Ben and his team scaled Ben Nevis, Scafell Pike and Snowdon in aid of The Oddballs Foundation, Macmillan Cancer Research and MAD Academy.

 

What was the inspiration? Ben’s own challenging journey with Testicular Cancer, following diagnosis in November 2021, testicle removal the following month and chemotherapy starting shortly thereafter. We are happy to report this treatment was successful.

Ben is incredibly passionate about raising awareness of testicular cancer and especially the need to keep checking and not hesitating to seek medical advice should a lump be found, especially considering that most lumps are not cancerous.

For the next stage of his awareness raising, Ben held a charity rugby match at Ledbury Rugby Club on Sunday 11 September 2022, with Ben’s ‘Makeshift Barbarians’ team, taking to the field against his old Ledbury Team. Joining his Barbarians team were OVs Barney Sears (Ch 10-15), Rory Atkins (K 09-16), Marcus Letori (Cr 09-16), Dan Pritchard (Cr 12-16), Tom McGrory (Ch 09-16), Dion King (Cr 12-17), Ben Richards (S 09-16) and Sam Ladd (W 14-16).

Ben explained, “Mr Gilgrass (Hon OV) came to referee and the donations on the sidelines have brought the total money raised to just shy of £6000. I’m lost for words! A minute’s silence was observed for Her Majesty The Queen’s passing, and a further minute was then also observed for the passing of Julian Cotton, our old Rugby coach at Ledbury RFC. As for the score-line, it was not to be our day! The Barbarians lost 37-24, although with only one substitute and only 20 minutes to warm up it was a very decent showing.”

 

If you would like to know more about Ben’s activities, please do get in touch with us at alumni@ksw.org.uk, noting that his fundraising page will be closing on 1 October 2022.

Ben explains his journey with Testicular Cancer further, in his own words:

Testicular cancer is a special kind of ball-ache. Not only do you have to make your peace by saying farewell to one of your dear childhood friends but in a cruel twist of fate, you’ll also look just like that ball in the not-too-distant future. Along the path you’ll also need to accept that your remaining spherical wonder has a 50/50 chance of surviving the chemo that may follow.

Still, as cancers go, we’re told testicular cancer is highly survivable. Ninety-nine percent of us, in fact, are expected to make it through the year after our treatment (although not in one piece) and 98% for five years following treatment.

But say you find a lump, where does that leave you? Most likely in hospital.

The good news is, most lumps aren’t cancerous. You’re far more likely to find a cyst or a benign tumour than a cancerous lump, but that doesn’t mean you should leave the issue to ‘see what happens’.

In a society where it’s the ‘masculine’ thing to do, to keep your issues to yourself and soldier on (stiff upper lip and all), there’s no worse mentality you could carry in a situation like this. Get to the doctors and get it sorted. Swallow your pride, let the lovely ultrasound specialist put some jelly on your balls and thank the NHS for the health check. This is where your taxes went. It’s worth it.

One of two things will happen now; neither of them enjoyable. You’re either told you have a cyst or a benign tumour and carry on down that route, or you’re told you probably have cancer. Unfortunately, I fell into the latter camp.

Everyone reacts to the news differently. Me? I felt as though I was dreaming from the time I was told until the morning after I started my chemo. I hear that’s not uncommon. Ultimately, you do what feels right to you in the situation. I preferred to stay in work up until the operation (I found the adrenaline and buzz of the kitchen to be amazing in distracting my mind from any worries). Others feel like seeing family and friends and loved ones. It’s a tough period.

Let’s hope you’ve been a good boy, fondle your pride frequently and find the lump early. The orchidectomy (the not-so-ceremonious removal of the affected member) is your next step on the road to recovery. Surprisingly, this isn’t as painful as you’d imagine. You’ll likely be imitating the walking gait of Butch Cassidy for the next couple of weeks, but worse things have happened. You do have the option, though, of having a prosthesis placed in your old boy’s stead. Simply massage downwards for the weeks following the operation and pray it doesn’t dwarf your remaining nut. It’s only your pride that’ll hurt. I promise.

Following the orchidectomy, you’ll either get good news or bad news. The good news? It’s all gone; you’ve got the all clear! Do a victory lap, thank the surgeons and the nurses very kindly for doing a great job, get home and do whatever you please (but remember your check-ups). Have a beer on me.

The bad news, though, comes in the form of finding it’s not all clear; either the cancer has maybe made it into your blood and you need a course of preventative chemo or worse still, it’s spread and you need a few courses of chemo to combat that. I got lucky, and fell into the former camp. Adjuvant chemo it is.

Ah yes, chemo. What fresh hell this has turned out to be. Personally, I was sent off to experience the pleasures of ‘BEP’ – a chemotherapy used frequently for testicular cancers.

Let’s start with the obvious; the drugs. Unfortunately, with no noteable hallucinogenic or otherwise beneficial side effects, the drugs going into you are there to poison the cancer cells. Even more unfortunate; cancer is, put simply, your own cells multiplying too quickly for your own good. Put two and two together and we come to the understanding that these drugs aren’t only poisoning the cancer, but also any other rapidly dividing cells in your body. With a myriad of nausea inducing, hair-losing, bowel-upsetting and mind-disorientating side effects, it’s safe to say they suck. Thankfully modern medicine has a plethora of pills to combat these, so don’t worry too much!

The good folk at the NHS are lovely (seriously, they’re amazing) and you’re made to feel welcome and as though absolutely nothing is too much trouble. Really, though, everyone would rather you weren’t there – yourself included. It’s no reflection on you personally or them, it’s just how it is. No one wants you to have cancer and so by proxy no one wants you to be in the hospital in the first place. That feeling of being out of place, combined with the COVID-era ban on visitors (unless you live in a nice house in London with a black door, a ’10’ sign and wax lyrical for a profession) did leave me feeling rather isolated and alone.

Still, at least Deadpool was there to keep me company. Thank you, Ryan Reynolds, for the bizarrely accurate portrayal of the pre-superpower emotional space that’s actually felt by cancer sufferers. Thank you also for the reminder that no matter how cancer might change you, the people who loved you before will still love you after. That film did more for me than you might ever know.

Back to the storyline. Chemo dose 1 done, you’ve left hospital feeling ‘peaky’ at best and downright awful at worst. I could get out of bed for a few hours every day without feeling nauseous and my favourite foods (the few you can still stomach) suddenly tasted different to how I’d hoped and imagined. Having gone in for my Day 8 chemo dose and returned home feeling even worse, it transpired life had thrown me yet another curveball; neutropenic sepsis!

This is a spin on the classic of ‘I feel ill’; not only do you feel about as unwell as you ever have before, but this time your body lacks any motivation to help you feel better. I just wanted to lie in bed and sleep. Think ‘hungover and wanting to die’ with bonus shots of feverish rushes, stomach-through-to-groin-ache and a spinning head to boot. The party’s just getting started, y’all!

Catch it quick, though, and you’ve not got much to worry about. The good doctors with whom you’ve now become all too acquainted will hook you up with some sweet, sweet penicillin through a drip for a little over 24 hours before sending you on your merry way with a few more pills for good measure. I’m eternally grateful to my parents for rushing me into hospital at 9pm the night we got home from my second dose on the off chance something was wrong. If they hadn’t, things could have gone sideways incredibly quickly.

At this point, I should mention the people who stand by you through this period are heroes in their own right. It cannot be overstated the amount of energy and positivity which I derived from conversations with friends and family throughout the whole course of cancer while I was staring down the toilet bowl. Whether it’s the mundane or the exciting, gossip or science, people keeping in contact and genuinely giving a damn how you’re doing can help more than you know and more than they might imagine.

To have someone decide to make the effort to call you weekly or text you fortnightly or see you daily makes you feel like you still have shot to take at this comedy of errors we call life. At a time when energy is running low, emotions are running high and faecal matter is running higher still (damn you, sweet, sweet penicillin), human interaction is perhaps the only saving grace you can truly rely on to get you through. Alongside the BEP.

The last dose of chemo went by pretty quickly with far fewer complications than the others. I thank my lucky stars I don’t have any plans for more courses. One has been plenty for now. As of now, I’m half a year on from my chemo experience and still trying to get my energy back and deal with chemo brain. It’s tough at times but it could have been a hell of a lot tougher. As the great, late Bourdain wrote: ‘There is no A train to mecca’.