Prof. John Hunt

The Saga of John's Missing Ball

In my final undergrad year (Geology Cardiff) super-active caver mountain-fit, I decided to do some gym work for upper-bod gym workout. Just after one during some weights or crunches (I forget what) a twinge in back rather uncomfortable and painful, though I thought nothing of it. Weeks passed by, annoying pains coming and going in my lower right back and lower right stomach. So much. Soon caving weekend I was not feeling cave-fit and decided to kick start my member duties hut maintenance etc. decorating the Caving Club cottage (Mynydd Llangattwg, NP8 1LG). This weekend I was ‘not right’ & I had to keep, with one hand, a pressure compression on my lower back. Something deffo not right. Same, this weekend as usual cavers went to the pub (this time, not to excess, nice meal devilled kidneys a pint of Waddies 6X normal). Went to leave and threw up all over the front door mat everything.

Next day caving it continued: back groin pain, I’m always aware of it telling me it’s there – not agony, ‘just there’. Back to the docs on. Monday. I did the totally wrong thing I disobeyed Sherlock Holmes. And self- diagnosed (“Dr. I think If got a. gym injury from weights”). I should have just described the incessant pain in my lower back and stomach (“Describe, don’t diagnose”) Dr does examination. No trigger points – “just rest, keep an eye on it, it’ll probably go away". Doctors words and doc visits are funny things: like Merlin’s spells, their reassurance puts away the pain for a bit (just a bit).

At a term break I head back to my mums for a week prep for an alpine geological mapping expedition. Back at Mum’s, during the day the pain grumbles on think not eating my normal wolf-like appetite; 2nd night back I’m shot in, my back by unbearable spasm of pain. In the middle of the night, agony of agonies in bed I'm almost screaming in pain. I left the mattress to lay on the hard floor, better. But the comfort is so brief, I need to walk around. Maternal-anxiety of course. GP called out. Sends me to hospital with suspected kidney stones scans.

Two doctors. Massage palpate. My stomach. Squeeze my balls not much said a few minutes later I’m wheeled away and am told to expect something sticky and cold as an ultra-sound is. Glided over my privacy. Nothing said. Then the wheels back to my ward at this point the pain has eased – perhaps distraction. And then discover that the oncology registrar is daughter–in-law to one of the most famous professors in my climate change field – a known eccentric living in a castle with a pet rescue falcon fed at the dining table! Anecdotes distract then some white-coats come looking serious. What happens is exactly as I wrote in this poem.

Basically in a few short sentences I’m told I’ve got cancer, need a testicle removed and asked if I want a new ball - too much to take in. Decisions? I said no after all: I didn’t have much going on in the way of sex & relationships etc. didn’t see the point which much later I came to regret. Two weeks later I was like Hitler with a certain genital asymmetry. But that was only the beginning of the saga of “ one-ball-John” actually I’m missing-out on the sordid episode of the ‘wank-bank’.

So they tell me that testicular cancer and chemo can affect fertility so before they give me ‘the chop’ I need to provide a sample. Now this was some 15 years before I recognized my sexuality, and that I was gay – so fertility and potential fatherhood was something to me to be mindful of. Then I’ m taken to Central Birmingham, a tower block hospital, ushered into a ward waiting room. Then A nurse appears, bearing a plastic phial with an aperture about 2cm diameter says, “would you step in here please Mr. Hunt. Could you provide us with a sample in here please. No need to fill it, whatever you can manage.” I enter a dimly lit sordid room that feels like, and reminds me of a job-centre waiting room (I suppose it was!); grimy windowed, leatherette couch on which some ‘assistive material’: several well-thumbed month-old page-three-spreads from “The Sun”. As I didn’t then know or recognise my own proclivities (open reference to being gay was not easy then, so they were hardly to know that the “assistance” these provided would be negligible) ... not an environment to induce arousal in any situation for me. 2cm. aperture!!, hmmm, a small target. But I tried & supplied, left feeling dirty. And so, turns out I didn’t have enough to freeze. My swimmers were few and lacked vigour. So, I would have to proceed with my orchidectomy with no back-up bank for future fatherhood. Then the least of my concerns. But I understood the reasons and still do - I assume it still the same. Though hopefully the process is now more conducive to comfort and putting a man at ease than then!

It certainly helps. Having a sense of humour to. Get through all stages of this. As a tip your friends will struggle to know how to talk with you about this. If you can turn a trauma into a comedy, then your laughter will bring your friends much more at ease and able to support you when you need them to be of help. At serious heavy times it will seem that more natural for them if they know they can make a joke or try to lift with cheers. The BBC did a gentle informative and affirmative progamme about guys facing these issues in October 2020, I recommend it to all.

Orchidectomy has nothing to do with beautiful flowers, but the removal of a ball was Phase One as the Cancer had spread through my lymph system so chemotherapy I’d been assured with such matter-of-fact delivery that “the treatment had a high success rate”. Then (as it does now) and that “if you are going to get a cancer this is the best one to have“. Of course, I’ve blanked or lost a lot of that phase from my memory as it was so traumatic. But there are flashes that I’d like to share about coping; & what to expect if this happens.

I’ve been blessed in having a stubborn, resilient & determined nature largely through inspiration of watching my ever cheerfully-stoic mother (a former international cricketer – Wales vs. New Zealand ) face disability and the death of two husbands. Luckily, Although there have been episodes in my life that could have caused a situationally-driven mental-health decline. I’m thankful to have avoided this But having had had two partners with mental health issues. I realize still more how lucky I’ve been. But much of what my experiences under the trials of chemotherapy have taught me is the power & value of keeping a positive mental attitude, a sense of humour and being open to relying on the kindness of friends. The journey through chemo was tough. I dropped weigh to about 6-7 stones because I couldn’t face eating and when I did, it wouldn’t stay down; hospital food then was barely deserving of the description of food; my mum then was so supportive, and she would make some of my favourite meals bring them in to cook or reheat in the oncology ward staff kitchen. I’d be in for a fortnight at a time. Plumbed into a constant drip of chemo and / or saline. I’m terribly needle-phobic (odd given my pierings and tattoo), and have very small veins so the process of being cannulized was always traumatic and is still something I dread. But I was at a stage of life when I knew where I was going and refused to contemplate that I might not recover. I would visualize the tumor in my lymph nodes getting smaller. And was lucky in that really all I felt I had the energy to do was watch TV I was able to receive a load of books and audio-tapes from friends so resumed my improving of my spoken Welsh (sadly mostly evaporated now!).

I lived then for weekend escape from the grim monotony of the same bed and the same room. I’ve been blessed throughout life with incredibly supportive friends and this time was no exception. In our final undergraduate year at Cardiff I had one friend with whom I did lots of mountaineering / geology etc. and whom I introduced to caving. On one Friday before one release weekend Marc arrived at hospital to take me to the caving cottage where Id arranged a potential caving drama. A cave-trip to potentially discover a new cave new never seen, never known, at the far end of a cave I'd been in before realized that any potential discovery would require the removal of a large boulder blockage in the passage. Back then several of us had explosive licenses and were legally permitted & licensed to transport, store and detonate certain types of plastic explosives. I’d participated before in several detonations but had never led my own ‘bang’ trip. This was the plan for that weekend: I would take Marc on my 1st ‘in-charge explosive trip’. It wasn’t a long walk from the cottage to the cave uphill but not so far that today it wasn’t unusually slow hard work & breathless for me; going up the tram-incline but we made it and venture in to the far recesses of this cave where I set the explosives, laid the wire and we retreated to the cave entrance to show Marc how to activate the wires and detonate, a dull thumping thud and ground quake success! Of course, the fumes inside the cave now would be potentially lethal so we could only and must return tomorrow to check that the detonation site and boulders site was left in a safe condition.

Sunny walk back down to cottage, tea, lie back recover then contemplate the pub (of course) not overly done on the beers after back up to the cottage next morning ready to go back in to do our safety duty. I had to responsibly verify all was well - in any case I was hoping we had revealed the discovery of a new cave network! Heading back up the rocky incline for the 2nd day in a row I could barely lift one leaden leg in front of other and was puffing wheezing short of breath and not en forme, real exhaustion. And the effort to walk a small brief half a mile slope seemed almost super-human but I had to. Only I could verify all was safe, Marc was a novice and to place the assessment responsibility on his shoulders would have been wrong. So slowly gradually we got up the slope sat on boulders that the cave palpitating a bit recovered breath and made way into explosion site all-clear: boulders and explosives gone all safe; sadly no new way to new cave but all was left safe and checked! Mission complete safely but no new chasm measureless-to-man was found that day (this would come later another tale!). Time to head home Marc drove me to my Mum’s I stayed there the Sunday night on Monday she drove me to the QE hospital for continued chemo etc. that night exhausted I slept well, pleased that the weekend had been productive, dynamic and different: more like a normal weekend of ’John’s Life‘ except for the breathlessness.

Monday morning off to the chemo treatment for another week of needling sickness and tedium. Dropped off in car park by entrance, report to phlebotomist for blood testing, then walk to lift and up 3 floors to oncology. Walk down the corridor, sure still a little breathless but onwards, in to see Dr Cullen, my specialist. Now 30 years on I can’t say this is word for word accurate but the flow and content is certainly correct: Dr C: “so Jonathan this is interesting how did you get here today?“ Me: “Mum drove up dropped me at the entrance came up in the lift & down the corridor.“ Dr. C: “hmm that seems unlikely ..” Me: ”what do you mean? I came in today exactly like usual.” Dr. C: “unlikely Jonathan, you shouldn’t be be able to walk or stand your red blood cell count is critical you need a transfusion; you should be struggling for breath and struggling with standing.“ Me: “Oh that would explain, why I found the caving on the mountain such a breathless struggler this weekend would it?“ Dr C: "!!??**"". Almost suggesting I was lying very unbelieving then escorts me to my usually ward bed. The bed opposite me is empty – "where’s Rob?"" I ask as he never moves from his bed, he has the same cancer and treatment regime as me. It’s always horrid and poor Rob seems usually worse affected than me as he never seems interested in human interaction nor able to try to move or lift his head or which is certainly how I feel at the times I can do no more than watch TV (Neighbours!) or listen to cassette tapes of Richard Burton reading Under Milkwood, or my siarad cymraeg for learners. I believe that the chemo regimes of today are kinder and less aggressively an assault on mind and body than they were then.

Ward Sister sits on end of my bed and explains that Rob died yesterday. Obviously, I’m stunned - that could be me but we all react differently in mind and body to treatment; optimism such as I’m grateful to have is, I believe potentially as strong a form of healing as you can offer yourself provided alongside & in parallel with vital therapies. I do believe in the value of a positive mental attitude towards health and life-struggle not everyone is able to do this of course. Yes, for sure I was unusual in going caving in the middle of my chemo- with low red cell count but my mind was hugely restored by grasping part of a normal life. Inability to have access to a positive mental drive is as much of a disability as a mental disability as the physical disability that would later befall me! I know how those with poor mental health could not without huge enablement attempt or visualize positivity in such a struggle. I’m so lucky that I don’t suffer on that score; with two ex- partners who had bipolar and CFS I’m totally supportive and understanding of the trials they face in their own invisible adversities. My message to any of you who are felled by a chemo-course. If you can try and find a focus and something you can think and act upon with positivity, then I personally believe that your chances for a speedier recovery will be optimized. As it happens I never saw a morphological shape- or scan- of my testes or my lymph node tumors but I had a mental picture of them walnut or conker sized masses which I visualized getting smaller each day by day, Doing this visualization helped me ‘feel’ (very unscientifically perhaps!?) a sense of empowerment and control over them as I envisaged and imagined them shrinking. What worked for me might not be useful to any other, but sharing cannot do any harm can it?! and if it helps one person then it’s worthwhile and that’s why I’m writing these blog page to help any other guys in the same situation as I was. If that’s you the French have a phrase which needs no translation and to you all in your fight, I do say to you all “Bonne Chance et Bon Courage“.