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Northwest resident Rudy Hernandez writes about his fight wit
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Posted by lward Thu Nov 18, 2004 17:03:00 PST
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0 responses 0 comments I have had some really nice summer vacations in the past few years. I have traveled to various beaches -- from San Diego to the San Francisco Bay -- not to mention all the road trips and Las Vegas vacations.

This summer, I didn't visit any beaches. In fact, it was one of the most difficult summers of my life.

On April 9, 2004, at 28 years of age, I was diagnosed with testicular cancer.

I felt a lump, went to the doctor, blinked my eyes, and found myself on the operating table. For those of you who have experienced cancer, this is pretty much what happens. One minute you feel tired, maybe find a lump, then you wait awhile, have pain, then when it doesn't go away you finally see a doctor. Then your whole life changes.

I had been feeling tired for some time, but I figured I had just been working too hard. I went on with my daily routine until I felt a pain in my side that convinced me to make an appointment.

I went to see Dr. Ha at Kaiser Permanente, and he said it could be a number of things and referred me to a specialist. I said, "What about cancer?" Dr. Ha said, "It could be, but I don't know, you need an ultrasound to know more."

I saw the look in his eyes and got that feeling everyone gets a time or two in their lives -- that really bad feeling. I didn't want to worry my parents, but I knew I had to tell them sooner or later. I went to see them and, with a lump in my throat, said, "There's no easy way to say this so I'll just tell you: I have a lump in my testicle and it's been growing for some time. It could be nothing, but I don't think so and neither does the doctor. It could be a tumor; it could be cancer."

My parents froze. My father said, "Well, we'll hope for the best and pray it's nothing to worry about."
My mother acted like the worst was already happening.

Telling your parents that you, the baby of the family, may have cancer, is the worst thing there is.

I went to see Dr. Mallen, a urologist. He took one look at my lump and said, "That's a tumor. I have to take it out as soon as possible."

When I suggested an ultrasound, he replied, "Son, I've been doing this for over 39 years. I know a tumor and it may be cancer. We have to get it out because it's probably spreading." He scheduled the surgery for the next day, Saturday, April 10.

I wrote the following in my journal: "The nurse brought me into the office and asked, ‘How are you today?' ‘Scared out of my mind,' I replied."

I woke up from surgery to see my entire family and my girlfriend, Jackie. They leaned in, with tears in their eyes, and said, "It's cancer -- the doctor said the tumor is cancer." I wasn't too shocked. I had prayed for a miracle, but I knew the truth in my heart.

The recovery took about three weeks, then came the trip to the oncologist. Dr. Mallen said I would probably need a small form of chemotherapy. I met Dr. Risbud, a Kaiser Permanente oncologist and hematologist.

Dr. Risbud took his time -- almost three hours -- explaining what was happening to me. The cancer was beginning to spread to my lymph nodes and would then travel upward to my chest and, eventually, to my brain.

"You have three options," he said. "Wait and see if it spreads but do nothing, have another surgery to remove the tumors and lymph nodes, or attack everything with chemotherapy."

None of these options were appealing, but I chose chemotherapy.

The small dose of chemo turned into an almost daily 12-week treatment that lasted throughout the summer.
Everyone in my family who had ever died of cancer had tried chemo, and I couldn't help but wonder, "Will it work for me?"

As a cancer patient, you quickly realize what's important in life. I realized it's not how good your hair looks, how tall you are or how much money you have. Cancer doesn't care about any of that.

I thought about the large family I wanted someday, my parents who wanted me to succeed and my niece and nephews who wanted to play with Uncle Rudy again.

I knew my hair would fall out, but I didn't want to see it, so Jackie and I went into the bathroom and shaved it off. My hair stopped growing after the second week of chemotherapy.

I would sit in my chemo chair at the oncologist's office from 8 a.m. until around 2 p.m. My nurse, Mary, would administer the chemicals, and she would listen as I complained and tell me someday I would forget everything that happened. I told her I never wanted to forget it and would never forget her.

Some of the side effects included mouth sores and fever blisters that covered my entire lips. I could barely open my mouth and couldn't eat anything solid for a week. Jackie would make me a bowl of ice cream whenever I needed it, and she sat with me through the pain for hours on end.

I would get fevers of 104 degrees and be stricken with nausea and vomiting. My immune system was reduced to nothing and required shots that were taken at home. My veins collapsed over and over. Then came the anemia with jaundice and a different set of shots. My body hurt more than I can describe.
By the end of the summer I had lost a total of 25 pounds, all of my hair, and chemo damage had caused scarring.

My parents would come in and look like they hadn't slept for a year. Their hands looked sore from praying and their eyes were bloodshot from crying. My godchildren would come over and see me and look sad and scared. But I knew I had to get better for all of them.

I don't know if the cancer will come back, no one does. I'm just thankful when I wake up in the morning to another day.

Many people think this was the worst summer of my life, but they're wrong. Cancer was the best thing that happened to me. It made me stronger than I ever was before.

I'm currently trying to start my own non-profit organization to help those in chemotherapy. If you are a cancer patient or know someone who is, pass along the word to my organization, "Never Quite." I named it "Never Quite" because although I'm still not back to normal, and we don't know if the cancer will ever come back, I must continue to fight.

For more information e-mail me at rmhactor@aol.com.

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