The Fall That Saved My Life

My Testicular Cancer Story

By Eric Wright

If you had told me in the summer of 2025 that within a year I would fracture a testicle, be diagnosed with testicular cancer, go through three rounds of BEP chemotherapy, have major abdominal surgery, and then end up back in the hospital fighting a serious postoperative infection, I probably would have laughed and told you that you had the wrong guy.

But that is exactly what happened.

And somehow, I am still here.

My cancer story does not start with cancer. It starts in August 2025, while I was working on my dock. I fell and landed straddling a steel support beam. The pain shot through my scrotum and down my left thigh. It was the kind of injury most men do not even want to describe, much less talk about in public. I told myself it was a terrible accident and hoped it would get better.

It did not.

By the next day, my left testicle had started to swell. I tried to tough it out, but the pain and swelling continued. About two weeks after the fall, I needed surgery to repair a ruptured left testicle. The surgeon did not see or feel a mass. At that point, there was no reason to think I had cancer. I thought I had suffered a freak accident, gotten it repaired, and would eventually move on with my life.

That was supposed to be the story: get hurt, get fixed, recover, and get back to life.

Except my body had other plans.

The injury would not stay in the past

For a while, the surgical area seemed stable. Then the swelling started getting bigger again. I was still uncomfortable, and I knew something was not right. An ultrasound in late October showed a markedly enlarged, abnormal-looking left testicle. The findings could still be explained by the injury, bleeding, and swelling—but cancer could not be ruled out.

That uncertainty stayed with me. Was this simply a stubborn injury that needed more time, or was it something worse?

By December, it was clear that waiting was not going to solve the problem. On December 16, 2025, I underwent surgery to remove my left testicle. I went into that surgery thinking I was dealing with the lasting damage from the accident.

Then the pathology came back.

Cancer.

The tumor was a 6.1-centimeter mixed germ cell tumor: 85 percent embryonal carcinoma and 15 percent teratoma. It had invaded blood or lymph vessels and involved the ruptured testicle, although the spermatic cord margin was clear.

There is no easy way to hear the words “you have cancer.” One word can divide your life into a before and an after.

I have wondered many times what would have happened if I had not fallen on that dock. I do not know whether the injury had anything to do with the cancer, and I would never claim that it caused it. What I do know is that the injury forced us to look. Maybe the cancer would have been found another way. Maybe it would have been found later. I will never know.

What I do know is that August 2025 divided my life into a before and an after.

Cancer changed the language of ordinary life

Suddenly my vocabulary changed.

Embryonal carcinoma. Teratoma. Tumor markers. Lymphovascular invasion. Retroperitoneal lymph nodes. BEP.

Words I had never needed to know were suddenly some of the most important words in my life.

The next round of testing brought another blow. My chest scan showed no spread there, which was good news, but the abdominal scan found an enlarged lymph node near my aorta measuring about 4.7 centimeters. My tumor markers were elevated: AFP was 126 and beta-hCG was 17, while LDH was normal at 189. The diagnosis was Stage IIB, good-risk nonseminomatous germ cell cancer.

“Good risk” is a medical category. It does not make hearing “Stage II cancer” feel good.

Before that phone call, I was a husband, a dad, a friend, a coworker, and a guy trying to recover from an injury. After it, I was all of those things—and also a cancer patient.

That transition is hard to explain unless you have experienced it. The world does not stop because you have cancer. Your family still needs you. Work still exists. The kids still have things going on. The bills still arrive. People keep making plans.

But inside your head, everything has changed.

Is this going to kill me?

Will I see my kids grow up?

What is this going to do to my family?

Am I going to be okay?

The plan was three cycles of BEP chemotherapy—bleomycin, etoposide, and cisplatin—with the goal of curing me. I was grateful there was a clear treatment plan, but I was also scared. The doctors explained the possible damage chemotherapy could do to my lungs, kidneys, hearing, nerves, blood counts, and the rest of my body. I knew I had to walk straight toward the thing I feared because the alternative was giving cancer more time.

Chemotherapy was a fight measured one day at a time

I began chemotherapy on February 2, 2026. That was the day chemotherapy stopped being something I was researching and became something I was actually doing.

BEP is a grind. There is not necessarily one dramatic moment that defines it. It is showing up, getting your blood drawn, sitting in the infusion chair, watching another bag get connected, going home, trying to eat, trying to drink enough water, taking medication, trying to sleep, and waking up to do it again.

There was something psychologically strange about watching the medication drip into my body while knowing two things at exactly the same time:

This stuff is making me feel terrible.

And this stuff may be saving my life.

My mom came to visit me during treatment. My dad and my stepmom came to visit and sit with me during infusions. Each time one of my parents walked through the door, I was reminded that I was still their son—not just a cancer patient. Having them there mattered more than they probably knew.

The records use words like neutropenia and oral mucositis. My words were “chemo hangover.” Some mornings I woke up exhausted before the day had even started. I had painful mouth sores. I had days when the only plan was to rest, hydrate, and try again tomorrow. Chemo brain was real too. I could have an entire conversation and later have no memory of it. That was frustrating, humbling, and sometimes scary.

On March 10, during Cycle 2, Week 3, I told my family and friends I had reached the “battery low” stage. My blood counts were suppressed, I was very tired, and I was moving at a slower speed. The doctors said my numbers were where they expected them to be, though, and we were still on track. That became the rhythm of treatment: acknowledge how hard it was, listen to the doctors, and keep taking the next step.

My white blood cell counts had tanked from the chemotherapy—neutropenia, in medical terms—so I had to give myself Neupogen shots, a growth factor that helped boost my white blood cells back up. At one point, I was prescribed ten more injections to help my counts recover and carry me through Cycle 3. The timing made it even scarier because the flu was going through our house. With almost no immune defense, I could not afford to catch it. Along with the infusions and bloodwork came masks, constant handwashing, trying to keep my distance from the people I loved, and sticking myself with another injection to keep my body in the fight. It was one of those unglamorous, frightening parts of chemo that does not make the inspirational photos—but every shot was one more thing I could do to protect my recovery and keep moving forward.

Cancer gets into parts of your life that have absolutely nothing to do with a tumor. It changes schedules, conversations, family routines, work, meals, sleep, and the way everyone around you plans an ordinary day. It takes over rooms it was never invited into.

My labs cooperated, so I started Cycle 3 on March 16 without falling behind schedule. I was officially about two-thirds of the way through. I sent an update with the words I kept coming back to: “Keep moving forward and kick cancer’s ass.”

By March 24, I had one week of chemotherapy left, followed by what I called a couple weeks of “acute recovery mode.” The weekend before, we had gone to the lake and even gotten the boat out. For a little while, life felt almost normal.

Two close friends came with their wives—who are close friends of my wife—to help us plant a dogwood to mark the final cycle and the transition into recovery. Before we planted it, we each placed a small personal token in the ground. Those little pieces beneath the roots made the tree more than a marker of the moment. It became a symbol of my journey forward and of the people helping me take the next steps. I wrote that I was “hoping it’s in full bloom right along with me.” That tree became a symbol of where I was: not finished, not fully healed, but planted and moving toward something better. We were heading back to the lake for spring break and Easter with family, and having that to look forward to helped.

March 30 was my final chemotherapy session. It was a huge milestone, but I did not walk out feeling instantly normal. Cancer has a way of shrinking your world, and chemotherapy shrank mine down to what I could manage that day. Some days, the win was not feeling strong. The win was simply showing up again.

One more boss battle

By early May, the scans and labs brought encouraging news. My blood tumor markers were back in the normal range. There was no sign of cancer anywhere new, and the enlarged lymph nodes had shrunk dramatically since January. That was real progress.

But there was still residual tissue in my abdomen, and because teratoma can remain after chemotherapy, my doctors recommended a retroperitoneal lymph node dissection, or RPLND.

On June 8, I updated everyone again: “The chemo portion of this adventure is behind me, but I’ve got one more boss battle ahead.” I would be heading to Indiana University Health in Indianapolis from July 6 through July 12 for the RPLND. I wanted the story to be over. Instead, I had another major surgery ahead of me.

Surgery brought hope—and the scariest moment

In early July 2026, I traveled to Indiana University for the RPLND with a surgeon who specializes in testicular cancer. It is major abdominal surgery, with the lymph nodes sitting deep in the abdomen around major blood vessels and other critical structures.

The surgery removed the remaining tissue. Pathology found a small focus of metastatic teratoma in one of eight sampled lymph nodes, along with treatment effect, but no viable embryonal carcinoma. That meant the next step could be surveillance instead of more chemotherapy.

It should have felt like the finish line. Instead, the most frightening part of the entire battle was still coming.

I went home with a surgical drain. In the days that followed, the pain around it worsened. The drainage changed from clear to cloudy yellow. The skin became red and started draining pus. Then came the fever, chills, exhaustion, and a temperature that reached 102 degrees. Oral antibiotics were not stopping it.

By July 21, I was back in the hospital. My white blood cell count was nearly 14,000. A CT scan showed large fluid collections in my abdomen that could have been postoperative lymph fluid or abscesses. The drain site was infected. Doctors from infectious disease, urology, and surgery became involved. I was started on powerful intravenous antibiotics while everyone watched closely to see whether I would improve or need another procedure.

That was the moment I truly thought I might die.

I had already heard the word cancer, lost a testicle, completed chemotherapy, and endured major abdominal surgery. But lying there with fever, chills, pain, and an infection inside a body that had already taken so much punishment, I felt dangerously close to sepsis.

The doctors did not diagnose me with sepsis, but from inside that hospital bed I felt dangerously close. I had the terrifying sense that things could turn very bad, very quickly—and that I might not get back home to the people I loved.

For all the tough talk that comes with fighting cancer, there are moments when you are simply scared. That was one of mine.

Thankfully, the antibiotics began to work. My fever settled, my white blood cell count returned to normal, and the redness and swelling improved. The infected drain was removed on July 23, and I went home on oral antibiotics to finish the fight against the infection.

Leaving that hospital felt different from every other discharge. I was not just relieved. I was deeply aware that I had been given another chance.

Recovery happened quietly

There is no movie moment where the music starts playing, you ring a bell, everybody cheers, and suddenly everything goes back to normal.

Recovery happens quietly.

One walk at a time. One normal meal. One good night’s sleep. One day when you realize you have not thought about cancer for an hour. Then maybe an afternoon. Eventually, maybe a whole day.

But recovery does not mean walking away without reminders. I still deal with neuropathy—the tingling in my fingers and toes that gets worse as the evening goes on. I live with bad tinnitus too, a constant ringing in my ears that never really goes away. On the left side of my hip and down my leg, I still have an area where I cannot feel much of anything, a souvenir from the RPLND. These are not the dramatic moments people see in hospital photos or treatment updates. They are the lingering effects I live with every day.

My stamina is still not back to where it was before this journey began. I have to know my limitations in a way I never did before, but I refuse to treat those limitations as permanent. The daily work is finding the line, respecting it enough not to set myself back, and then challenging it—pushing that line a little farther each day. Some days the progress is small, but it is still progress. I am rebuilding my endurance the same way I got through treatment: one step, one challenge, and one day at a time.

Then there is one change that makes me smile: my hair had been completely straight my entire life, and when it grew back after chemotherapy, it came back curly. Cancer left me with pain, numbness, tingling, and ringing—but apparently it also decided to give me a new hairstyle.

That is part of recovery too: learning to live with what changed, being honest about what still hurts, and finding reasons to laugh whenever I can. I am not the same person I was before cancer, physically or otherwise. But I am here, and I will take here every single time.

By September 2026, my bloodwork and tumor markers showed no evidence of recurrent disease. My CT scan showed no metastatic disease, and the postoperative fluid collection was getting smaller. After more than a year that began with an accident and became a battle for my life, I finally heard the kind of news every cancer patient longs to hear: the scans looked clear.

I am now in surveillance. That word carries both gratitude and uncertainty. Every upcoming blood test and scan can wake up the fear again. A clear scan does not erase chemotherapy, surgery, infection, or the nights when my mind went to the darkest places. It does, however, give me something precious: more time with the people I love and another chance to live deliberately.

Nobody fights alone

This may be my cancer story, but I did not survive it alone.

To my wife: you were there for all of it—every appointment, every infusion, every surgery, and every scare. Before, during, and after each hard moment, you were by my side. You were my rock through the shock, the exhaustion, the fear, the complications, and the long road back. You carried more than anyone should have to carry, and you kept our family moving when I could not. When other people stepped in, it was not because you had left my side. They were giving you a little relief and a chance to catch your breath after you had carried so much for so long. You were my constant. You never left my side, and I will never be able to put into words what that means to me.

To my son and my daughter: you gave me a reason to keep fighting when I felt worn down. Being your dad mattered more than every statistic, scan, and treatment plan. I wanted to get home. I wanted to see you grow up. I wanted more ordinary days with you and to be present for the lives still ahead of us.

Cancer happened to my body, but it happened to all of us. My family carried part of this battle whether they wanted to or not, and I will never forget that.

At first, I asked my family not to post publicly about my health. I was not ashamed. I just needed to keep something this personal from becoming public before I was ready. The private “Family Update Chemo” and “Friends Chemo Updates” text groups gave me a way to share the truth—the good news, the bad days, the dark humor, and the milestones—with people I trusted.

To my mom and my dad—and to my stepmom—thank you for coming to visit, sitting with me, and being there when I needed my parents. You each brought your own kind of comfort, strength, and love into some of the hardest days of my life. No matter how old you are, there are times when you simply need your mom and dad, and I felt that more deeply during this journey than I can put into words. You reminded me that I was still your son—not just a cancer patient—and your visits meant more than I probably knew how to say at the time.

To my brother: thank you for stepping in, helping, and sitting beside me through an infusion. To the close friend who came up and joined me at an infusion too: thank you. Your being there gave my wife a chance to catch her breath after carrying the worry, the schedules, and the long hours right along with me through every infusion. You were relieving her for a moment, not replacing her. She was always there—before, during, and after—and I will never be able to fully explain what that kind of steady, day-after-day love meant.

And my brother-in-law—my wife’s stepbrother—deserves a big, fat shout-out. He came all the way to Indianapolis for my RPLND at Indiana University—not only to support me, but to help my wife get through the long wait and fear of that surgery. Knowing she did not have to carry that day alone meant the world to me.

To my family members and everyone in the family thread: thank you for respecting my privacy and carrying the news with love.

To my friends and everyone in the friends thread: thank you for every reply, check-in, visit, and reminder that I was not walking into those rooms alone. To the two close friends who helped me plant the dogwood: I will always think of that tree—and what it represented—when I think about the final stretch of chemotherapy.

To every other relative, friend, neighbor, and coworker who supported us: thank you for the calls, the texts, the encouragement, the patience, the meals, the practical help, the laughter, and for simply being there. There were days when I was tired of talking about cancer and days when I desperately needed to talk about it. There were days when I wanted encouragement and days when I just needed someone to acknowledge that this sucked. You were there for all of it.

I also want to thank my employer. The company I work for stood by me through this entire battle. When so much of my life felt uncertain, knowing that my employer supported me and gave me the space to focus on treatment, surgery, recovery, and my family took away a burden I did not need to carry. That kind of support is not something I take for granted. It mattered to me, and it mattered to my family.

You reminded me that strength is not always something we create by ourselves. Sometimes it is something other people lend us until we can stand again.

I am also grateful for the doctors, nurses, infusion teams, surgeons, infectious disease specialists, and everyone else who cared for me. Skill saved my life, but compassion helped me endure the saving.

Strength means showing up while afraid

Cancer changed me. I am still figuring out exactly how, but one thing is clear: it has given me a completely different perspective on life.

Before cancer, it was easy to treat time like something I could always count on. Work, schedules, unfinished projects, and small frustrations could feel bigger than they really were. Then a fall on my dock became surgery, cancer, chemotherapy, another surgery, and a hospital bed where I wondered if I would ever make it home. That has a way of putting everything into sharp focus.

What matters is not complicated. It is my wife beside me through one infusion after another. It is my son and my daughter needing their dad. It is my mom, my dad, and my stepmom each showing up to be with me, my brother and a close friend taking their turns in the chair beside me, and my brother-in- law making the trip to Indianapolis so my wife would not face that surgery alone. It is getting the boat out for a few hours when my body allows it, seeing the dogwood two close friends helped me plant, sharing a normal meal, laughing with the people I love, and simply being home.

Cancer did not turn every day into a perfect day, and it did not make me stop getting frustrated by little things. But it changed the weight I give them. A lot of what once felt urgent is just noise. Time with the people I love is not the background of my life; it is the point. Life is shorter and more precious than I understood before, and the ordinary days I once took for granted are the same days I fought so hard to get back to.

It also taught me that being strong does not mean you are never afraid. I was afraid plenty of times.

Strength is being scared and showing up anyway. It is sitting in the chemo chair when you know exactly how you are going to feel afterward. It is getting another scan when you are terrified of what it might show. It is walking into major surgery because you know it is what needs to be done.

Sometimes strength is much less dramatic.

Sometimes it is getting out of bed. Taking a shower. Eating something. Walking around the block. Or admitting to someone you love that you are having a bad day.

I got through this by making the fight smaller.

I could not do three cycles of BEP in one day. I could do today’s infusion.

I could not recover from RPLND in one afternoon. I could walk to the end of the hallway.

I could not guarantee I would never have another complication. I could go to the emergency room when something felt wrong.

One thing at a time. One day at a time.

Cancer took a testicle. It took months of my life. It took comfort, certainty, and pieces of the person I was before all of this began.

But it did not take me.

Keep going

I am sharing this because testicular cancer is personal, uncomfortable, and easy to avoid talking about. Men are often taught to tough things out, laugh off pain, or wait for a problem to go away. I did some of that after my injury.

My message is simple: listen to your body. If something changes, get it checked. If swelling or pain does not improve, keep asking questions. Do not let embarrassment keep you from getting checked. Embarrassment is temporary. Your life is not.

If you just heard the words “testicular cancer,” you are allowed to be scared. You are allowed to be angry. You are allowed to have days when you do not feel positive or inspirational. Cancer does not require you to become some superhero version of yourself.

Ask questions. Learn about your disease. Advocate for yourself. Find doctors with real experience treating testicular cancer. Accept help. And when the whole journey feels impossibly large, stop looking at the whole journey. Handle what is directly in front of you.

To the guy sitting at home tonight staring at a pathology report he barely understands...

To the guy about to walk into his first BEP infusion...

To the guy who just lost his hair...

To the guy lying awake wondering whether he will see his kids grow up...

And to the guy staring at the ceiling of a hospital room wondering how much more he can take...

Keep going.

You do not have to win the whole fight today. You just have to fight today’s fight. Tomorrow, fight the next one. Those days start adding up.

Today, my scans are clear. I know the fight is not completely over; surveillance is part of my life now. But I am here. I am with the people I love. I am grateful. And I am moving forward.

Cancer took a lot from me. But it did not get to write my final chapter.

You can be scared. You can struggle. You can have days when you do not feel strong at all.

Keep going. You can kick cancer’s ass.

I am living proof.