My story begins one day after my 34th birthday. It was during the COVID-17 lockdowns, a time when I was usually trapped inside watching Toy Story 1–4 for the 123rd time with my two-year-old daughter. (I don't know if we have seen any of them since, but they were her absolute favorite at the time.) On this particular day, I took a quick shower. It may have been a brief moment, but I immediately felt a bump, and alarms went off in my brain. Two people close to me had previously gone through a testicular cancer journey, so it was easy for me to identify. The problem was, at the time, I didn't have a primary care physician. I called around and managed to secure an appointment to establish care about two weeks later.
When that first appointment arrived, we discussed my various symptoms and health history. The doctor performed an exam and thought it was 100% a cyst, but he ordered a general blood panel (without cancer markers) and an ultrasound, which was scheduled for about a week and a half later.
That ultrasound happened to fall on a Friday, a day I was supposed to be helping my dad build a new deck. I told my parents I needed to leave for a doctor's appointment without revealing the real reason, but I asked them to watch my daughter while I was examined. During the ultrasound, they brought in a second technician. At the time, I didn't think anything of it, but when I was all done 45 minutes later, I googled, "Is it normal for a second person to read an ultrasound?" The results I found were not great.
The next week, I had an eye exam scheduled. While I was surprisingly a few minutes early for my appointment, an unrecognized number called me. At that exact moment, I received a notification that my lab results were available online, so I answered the phone. On the other end was my new doctor—who happened to be on vacation with his family—calling from his personal cell phone. He started off by asking, "Did you look at the results?" which I was doing as we spoke. He apologized for doubting me and told me he was putting in an immediate, STAT referral to urology.
The ultrasound stated I had several issues: a hydrocele and a cyst on the right side, and a suspected neoplasm on the left. I had to google pretty much all of those terms right away. I took it in stride but felt entirely numb to the situation. I went to the urology appointment and finally told my mom what was going on. She came with me and took meticulous notes for my wife as the doctor explained the next steps and kicked off my journey. Blood markers needed to be drawn, sperm banking was recommended, and an orchiectomy was scheduled for the following Friday. I did the blood markers on Monday and went golfing right afterward. I handled the sperm banking quickly, which required driving the sample to the nearest FedEx 30 minutes away.
With the surgery looming, it was time to tell the rest of my network. I wrote a long Facebook post—the kind I was known for—and the outpouring of support was incredible. Many offered to watch my daughter or bring meals. My workplace was incredibly generous, not only giving me time off but offering to pay for DoorDash every single time I had a surgery. My entire post focused on how lucky I considered myself. That positive attitude, combined with an amazing support system, carried me through.
The day came to say goodbye to "Lefty." It all went by so quickly; before I knew it, I was on the way to a sandwich shop, texting my friends that I was officially a "Uniballer." I went home to rest, and the initial recovery was fairly easy. Then the pathology report came back. My urologist called and said, "It is confirmed that you have cancer." I took it in stride, and he seemed shocked that it was such an easy phone call to make. I updated my support group with the words "Embryonic Carcinoma," having only briefly googled it before posting. I had 100% EC with lymphovascular invasion (LVI), but I had no real idea what that meant.
I was told I would need a CT scan the next week and a follow-up with the urologist a few weeks later. Around this time, I had to stay indoors because massive wildfires across Oregon were creating terrible air quality. I couldn't golf due to my surgery, but even if I could, nowhere was open because of the smoke. The CT scan was my first real time stepping outside after the fires. It was still hazy, and I went into the appointment with very little knowledge of what they were looking for. The contrast fluid tasted terrible, but I got through it. Within a day or two, I received a note from my doctor saying everything looked great and that he would see me in a few weeks.
I celebrated and went to the follow-up appointment alone almost a month after my orchiectomy, confident that I was cleared and life would return to normal. Instead, they presented me with only two options: three rounds of chemotherapy or a surgery called an RPLND (Retroperitoneal Lymph Node Dissection). I met with two oncologists and two urologists, this time accompanied by my wonderful mom. They basically recommended whatever was in their respective wheelhouses, resulting in a 2-2 tie. Based on some reading that indicated an RPLND is significantly harder to perform if you undergo chemo first, I made an internal coin flip.
My surgery was scheduled for November 9th. I did practically no reading on the procedure or its potential side effects. I had to take several COVID tests just to be cleared for admission, and thankfully, they all came back negative. Soon enough, an early morning date with a knife arrived. I vividly remember the frantic energy of that morning—not just for me and my wife (who, during my first surgery, had to wait out in the car due to pandemic protocols), but with nurses rushing in and out, including my wife's cousin's husband dropping in for last-minute encouragement. Doctors and anesthesiologists gave me final instructions and checks that I would soon forget.
I was under the knife for a quick nine hours for a robotic-assisted procedure. My wife sat in the waiting room, just watching the clock, while the surgeon called every few hours with progress updates. They removed 23 lymph nodes deep in my abdomen, leaving an incision from my sternum down around my belly button. When I woke up, I was in an amazing river-view room that was larger than many hotel rooms I’ve stayed in. My wife was by my side, and I was entirely confused about where I was. She stayed as late as visitor hours allowed. I couldn’t move or eat. I spent five days in the hospital, gradually passing the milestones of eating, walking, and having a bowel movement. Unfortunately, I didn't receive the right instructions for the PCA pump, so I was barely giving myself enough pain medicine while watching late-night reruns of The Office. Because of strict COVID restrictions, I was only allowed one visitor per day, so my dad, mom, and wife alternated throughout the week until my wife finally picked me up on release day.
We got home, and I wasn't allowed to lift anything for six weeks. That timeline lined up perfectly with Christmas morning, allowing me to finally lift my daughter again and see the joy on her face as we opened gifts. The strict low-fat diet caused me to lose 27 pounds, but the recovery was manageable. I was back at work within two weeks; since I have a desk job, it wasn't too bad, though moving and using my core was rough. A week after Christmas, I felt ready for the golf course again. My friend Allen, who had survived cancer during his teens, took me out. I insisted on walking the course—which turned out to be a terrible idea. We played with another buddy on a day that alternated between cold rain and bright sunshine. I probably shot the worst round of my life, but I was just happy to be out there.
Life seemed back to normal. All my scans and lymph nodes were in range; the largest node removed was 2.9 cm, and I was told 3.0 cm was the cutoff for immediate chemotherapy. I figured my three-month follow-ups would be routine and life would settle into whatever new normal the pandemic allowed.
However, four weeks after that golf round, I woke up feeling incredibly nauseous and developed a severe tightness around my lower chest. Normally, I would have tried to wait it out, but given my history, I called my mom to watch my daughter so I could head to urgent care. After a brief exam, they told me I absolutely needed another CT scan and directed me to the emergency room. I chose an ER near my original urologist just in case it was cancer-related. They ran a battery of tests before rolling me into the CT room. The results came back quickly, and the doctor stepped in to give me the news. It wasn't cancer—it was my appendix.
Slightly relieved, I underwent surgery number three to have it removed. Because of my recent RPLND, the procedure was much more complicated due to scar tissue. I spent two days in the hospital recovering, and the pathology text later confirmed the tissue was negative for cancer.
Every scan and blood draw since then has been completely clean. I celebrate each clear milestone with a round of golf right afterward, sharing the good news with the family and friends who have supported me from day one.
In 2023, I wanted to find a way to give back to the cancer community. Knowing I couldn't support people financially on a massive scale, I came up with an idea: Coffees for Cancer was born. It began as a way to provide a quick, simple pick-me-up to those actively going through treatment. Every donation that comes into the charity goes directly toward buying coffee for cancer patients and their families. Through this initiative, I’ve been able to help a few dozen people with a simple message: "Hey, you aren't in this alone."
In 2025, after a few years of casually following the Testicular Cancer Foundation, I learned about their annual Summit. I had been having a tough time figuring out how to expand the reach of my charity, so I applied for a scholarship to attend. I spent most of that first summit being quite shy, just soaking in the information and connecting with a few fellow survivors. The weight of the experience didn't truly hit me until the next day while walking around Las Vegas with my wife. I found a massive wave of inspiration to do more with the foundation.
Admittedly, I slacked off for a few months after returning, joining the Discord channel but mostly just lurking and posting sporadic updates. However, as I neared my five-year milestone (I was actually released from active surveillance around year three, though I don't recommend early release to anyone), I knew I needed to lean in. I started joining the community Zoom calls, and I have attended nearly every single one since. I frequently find guys to support privately through direct messages, texts, calls, or general chat on Discord.
By the time the 2026 Summit came around, I was highly involved, and I was incredibly honored to receive an MVP award. Since that summit, I have been consistently providing feedback to the TCF team, answering questions on Reddit, supporting guys currently fighting the disease, and finding new inspiration to do more. This work will not stop, regardless of where my own health takes me. TCF is the absolute best organization I have found for testicular cancer support, and it will have my full backing for the rest of my life. Please reach out if I can ever help!