I’m writing this to you from a hotel room in Vegas. The day they confirmed that the growth they’d removed (along with my left testicle) was cancer, I booked a solo pilgrimage to see Kelly Clarkson. The responsibility and release of a diagnosis left me feeling suspended, like I was strapped in at the top of a coaster and thrilled by my own mortality: momentarily floating freely above my life. Something equal and opposite to the anticipation I lived inside of when I used to make theatre, when my days were fuelled by the promise that an email or phone call would change my life.
My life changed the day I received the news that they’d finally need to remove my testicle. I’m trying to remember how it had felt the day before but all I remember is that I’d started watching the third season of The Other Two. I don’t know if you’ve seen it. It’s a comedy about two siblings, Carey (a gay aspiring actor) and Brooke (a former professional dancer turned manager), whose teenage brother becomes a pop star overnight leaving them to question their own relationship to fame. Any success they’d experienced was now dwarfed by their brother’s. All day I’d been minding the hours until my follow-up appointment, but that night as I watched the first two episodes seated at my kitchen counter with some take-out roti and a ginger ale I felt connected to a previous self, like having dinner with an old friend.
I say my testicle was “finally” removed because by that point I’d been seeing the same urologist about it for over five years. My appointments had gradually become less frequent, even stopping altogether for a while, as the small growth they’d discovered by accident remained unchanged. I say the growth was discovered “by accident” because the ultrasound during which they found it was meant to explain why the other testicle (the right one) was swollen. The first person to mention the possibility of cancer was my urologist’s resident, Dr. Dion. When I shared the news with my friends, I joked that Céline Dion’s cousin had examined my balls and told me I might have cancer.
"The weekly episode drops of The Other Two helped to distinguish the days as they began to blur with anxiety."
By the time an ultrasound revealed that the formerly small and stable abnormality had grown, Dr. Dion had moved on and my urologist’s latest resident struggled with the news that this time it might actually be cancer. That night I watched another episode of The Other Two. The season begins with the streaming release of Carey’s biggest project to date, the movie Night Nurse. The release comes with a flood of social media engagement and press coverage that becomes addictive. Throughout the season, Carey’s desperation to make the most of this temporary cultural relevance becomes absurd to the point of humiliating. Yet, I relate to his sense of urgency. At that time, I didn’t know if the growth on my testicle was cancer, but I knew I was “lucky” to have caught it early and that luck only lasted so long. The longer the growth went untreated the less that luck mattered.
The weekly episode drops of The Other Two helped to distinguish the days as they began to blur with anxiety. As I scheduled and moved through the prep, the surgery, and the tests looking for signs of spread, I grew more attached to Brooke’s storyline than Carey’s. Season 2 had ended with an in-show announcement that COVID-19 had arrived. Season 3 begins after the shutdowns when professional life has resumed. Over the season, Brooke struggles with her perception that the pandemic has inspired everyone around her to make professional changes in order to “do good”, but not her. It quickly becomes clear that she cares less about making a positive impact than she does about receiving public recognition as proof that she is a good person. Her efforts to be perceived as doing good often involve the mistreatment and even endangerment of others.
It’s been challenging to separate how I feel in this moment from how I imagined a cancer diagnosis would inspire me to change my life for the better. Now halfway through my 30s, my life is more stable and less passionate than I’d imagined. This year, my 34th, has been a series of lessons on my mortality, yet none of them have inspired me to drastically change my life in service of some greater purpose. Instead, I’m alone in this Vegas hotel room and trying to decide how long I need to charge my near-dead phone to last through Kelly Clarkson. I no longer feel urgency, only love for the life waiting for me back in Toronto. It’s sometimes boring and often sweet and I’m lucky. Lucky that the growth on my testicle was discovered early and removed without any signs of spread and that I have so much time left to spend with the people I love.
I’m writing this to you from a hotel room in Vegas. The day they confirmed that the growth they’d removed (along with my left testicle) was cancer, I booked a solo pilgrimage to see Kelly Clarkson. The responsibility and release of a diagnosis left me feeling suspended, like I was strapped in at the top of a coaster and thrilled by my own mortality: momentarily floating freely above my life. Something equal and opposite to the anticipation I lived inside of when I used to make theatre, when my days were fuelled by the promise that an email or phone call would change my life.
My life changed the day I received the news that they’d finally need to remove my testicle. I’m trying to remember how it had felt the day before but all I remember is that I’d started watching the third season of The Other Two. I don’t know if you’ve seen it. It’s a comedy about two siblings, Carey (a gay aspiring actor) and Brooke (a former professional dancer turned manager), whose teenage brother becomes a pop star overnight leaving them to question their own relationship to fame. Any success they’d experienced was now dwarfed by their brother’s. All day I’d been minding the hours until my follow-up appointment, but that night as I watched the first two episodes seated at my kitchen counter with some take-out roti and a ginger ale I felt connected to a previous self, like having dinner with an old friend.
I say my testicle was “finally” removed because by that point I’d been seeing the same urologist about it for over five years. My appointments had gradually become less frequent, even stopping altogether for a while, as the small growth they’d discovered by accident remained unchanged. I say the growth was discovered “by accident” because the ultrasound during which they found it was meant to explain why the other testicle (the right one) was swollen. The first person to mention the possibility of cancer was my urologist’s resident, Dr. Dion. When I shared the news with my friends, I joked that Céline Dion’s cousin had examined my balls and told me I might have cancer.
"The weekly episode drops of The Other Two helped to distinguish the days as they began to blur with anxiety."
By the time an ultrasound revealed that the formerly small and stable abnormality had grown, Dr. Dion had moved on and my urologist’s latest resident struggled with the news that this time it might actually be cancer. That night I watched another episode of The Other Two. The season begins with the streaming release of Carey’s biggest project to date, the movie Night Nurse. The release comes with a flood of social media engagement and press coverage that becomes addictive. Throughout the season, Carey’s desperation to make the most of this temporary cultural relevance becomes absurd to the point of humiliating. Yet, I relate to his sense of urgency. At that time, I didn’t know if the growth on my testicle was cancer, but I knew I was “lucky” to have caught it early and that luck only lasted so long. The longer the growth went untreated the less that luck mattered.
The weekly episode drops of The Other Two helped to distinguish the days as they began to blur with anxiety. As I scheduled and moved through the prep, the surgery, and the tests looking for signs of spread, I grew more attached to Brooke’s storyline than Carey’s. Season 2 had ended with an in-show announcement that COVID-19 had arrived. Season 3 begins after the shutdowns when professional life has resumed. Over the season, Brooke struggles with her perception that the pandemic has inspired everyone around her to make professional changes in order to “do good”, but not her. It quickly becomes clear that she cares less about making a positive impact than she does about receiving public recognition as proof that she is a good person. Her efforts to be perceived as doing good often involve the mistreatment and even endangerment of others.
It’s been challenging to separate how I feel in this moment from how I imagined a cancer diagnosis would inspire me to change my life for the better. Now halfway through my 30s, my life is more stable and less passionate than I’d imagined. This year, my 34th, has been a series of lessons on my mortality, yet none of them have inspired me to drastically change my life in service of some greater purpose. Instead, I’m alone in this Vegas hotel room and trying to decide how long I need to charge my near-dead phone to last through Kelly Clarkson. I no longer feel urgency, only love for the life waiting for me back in Toronto. It’s sometimes boring and often sweet and I’m lucky. Lucky that the growth on my testicle was discovered early and removed without any signs of spread and that I have so much time left to spend with the people I love.