Probably. By itself, “probably” is a pretty benign word. When it's the answer to “Is it cancer?” however, “probably” can be a terrifying word.

I had just settled down to do my crossword puzzle when the exam room door opened and a surgeon entered the room. We were introduced, and he began asking some basic questions. Then I asked the question that would change my life forever. Testicular cancer, the “Lance Armstrong disease,” had just become part of my everyday vocabulary.

Nothing I did

The average age of testicular cancer diagnosis is from the teenage years to the late 20s; I was 41. When I asked how I contracted the disease, the surgeon stated it was nothing I ate, nothing I drank, nothing I did. I was unable to find any definitive causes on the Internet, though some believe there are environmental factors involved in contracting testicular cancer.

Could those environmental factors be related to firefighting? I started my fire service career in 1982 with the Air Force and transitioned into the civilian fire service in 1986. How many toxins had I been exposed to over the years? Was it a cumulative effect or was it something recent that triggered the cancer in my body?

Or was it genetic? My mother was diagnosed with cancer in 2000 and passed away from the disease last January. It was totally unexpected to hear my diagnosis just four months later.

It was hard having to tell my 10-year-old twin daughters about my cancer so soon after they had lost their grandmother. I concentrated on the differences between her cancer and mine, and told them I would survive my bout with the cancer. My wife, Mary Pat, and I prepared the girls for the hair loss and other side effects of the treatment. Being honest and up-front with my daughters was instrumental to their coping.

I didn't have a will or living will, so I was caught scrambling before the first surgery to get both documents written. I didn't want to be kept on life support with zero quality of life. I made sure I told several people of my wishes in that particular matter, including my wife, and I consulted my lawyer, who advised me on the steps to take for both papers.

My surgeon was a firefighter before going to medical school. It was nice having a doctor who spoke the firefighter language and who understood my concerns about being able to return to work.

After my diagnosis, I went back to work for one shift. I informed my crew members and asked them to keep the information to themselves. Being a typical fire department, it didn't take long for the rumor mill to get going. To the credit of my crew, they kept the information confidential; the riding list/roster showed me on an extended leave, thus generating discussions on my status.

I knew speculation would lead to misinformation, so I decided to send an e-mail to the department's members. I felt getting the information out was the best thing to do, and I received many e-mails voicing support and thanking me for being honest with everyone. I have no regrets about going public with my condition. My hope was to make everyone aware of any changes to their own bodies, thus preventing what I was about to endure.

Within three days of my diagnosis, I had the cancerous testicle removed. My particular cancer had taken a vascular route and spread to my right lung, but the surgeon was able to remove the tumor without removing any significant lung tissue.

Our fears were lessened slightly when the oncologist stated there was an 85- to 90% cure rate with this particular type of cancer. In fact, the treatment regimen was so good, there are no studies being conducted to find new cures. I was allowed to recuperate for 10 days before I began chemotherapy.

Self-imposed isolation

Surreal is the best word I can come up with to describe a chemotherapy ward. As you walk into the room you're confronted with about 25 recliners with IV infusion pumps along the walls. In the center of the room were the nurses' station and the chemo pharmacy. The pharmacists' only jobs were to prepare the toxic cocktails for the cancer patients. At any given time, there were six to eight nurses attending to the patients.

Chemo nurses are angels. As a firefighter and paramedic, I have met and worked with many nurses, mostly in the emergency room setting. Chemo nurses are a totally different breed. I could not imagine doing their jobs day after day, facing cancer patients with the patience, caring and understanding they do. I asked about the average tenure of these nurses, and found out the most senior nurse had been there for just over a year.

People were sitting in the recliners going about their everyday lives. Cell phones, newspapers, books, portable DVD players, iPods, and business work were part of the environment. The veterans were differentiated from the rookies by the lack of hair common among chemo patients. For cancer patients, the credo is “life goes on.”

I wish I could sit here and tell you I walked into the chemo ward and acted as a cheerleader for all the patients. In reality, I found my chair, drew the curtain around me and isolated myself — I was in my own little world and didn't want to be bothered.

It seemed like I was in a constant state of fatigue. The doctors said there was no reason to be sick as there are too many good anti-nausea drugs on the market. This was partially true, but I still experienced the effects, albeit not on such a severe scale. Imagine the most vile and disgusting thing you can do to your body, and that pretty much sums up chemotherapy — sit there for four hours and let someone pump toxic poisons into your body. Chemotherapy consisted of 21 treatments over nine weeks. Three different drugs were used: cisplatin, bleomycin and etoposide. I endured side effects that included hair loss, nausea, malaise and minimal vomiting.

I didn't take any of my friends up on their offers to drive me to the ward and sit with me once there. I had decided that I wasn't going to subject anyone to that experience. I drove myself to and from the appointments, and my wife is still upset with me for refusing the rides.

Family needs

After the last round of chemo, my wife wanted to go out of town for the weekend. I was physically and mentally spent and wanted nothing more than to stay in my own house and bed — I was reluctant to leave that comfort zone. She was persistent to the point that it dawned on me, she wasn't telling me she wanted to get out of town, she was telling me she needed to get out of town.

We loaded up the car and headed to the mountains. My weekend consisted of lying in bed in the hotel room while my wife explored the surrounding area. As much as I didn't want to go on the trip, I belatedly recognized my wife's need for a change of scenery. Family members' needs are important to recognize during difficult times.

When my daughters become adults, I want to talk to them about our experiences. Although they seem to have weathered the storm in a remarkable manner, I wonder how they will remember this event in their lives later on down the road. Never underestimate the resilience of children; they are remarkable.

It is also important to seek out assistance in your area, both for yourself and for your family. A non-profit in the Denver area, the Diana Price-Fish Foundation, was very supportive to my wife and me. The organization provides diversions (dinners, theater, sporting events) to cancer patients and their families. Once a month, they provided us with a restaurant visit. I might have taken advantage of the theater or sports, but I wasn't sure how I would feel at the particular time of the event. People would ask me how I was feeling, and my response was “I'm feeling OK now, but I don't know how I will feel an hour from now.”

My crew members and friends were a great support system. I could always stop into the firehouse and get support from my crew. The countless phone calls, e-mails and cards were very much appreciated. There were a few times where a well-timed e-mail or card picked up my spirits when they were down.

Our church also was a huge support system for my wife and me. They were in constant contact with us and provided one-on-one support for Mary Pat. I don't remember much after the lung surgery, but I do remember one of our pastors and his wife standing at my bedside later that evening with my wife.

Emotional toll

Going back to work was a huge milestone. During the thick of chemo treatments, I was wondered if I would ever feel well again, let alone return to work. Resuming my career seemed so far in the distance. After almost five months, my leave banks were depleted. In typical fire service manner, the firefighters donated more than enough time to get me through the last month of recuperation.

My time away from work was six days shy of six months. Upon returning to work, I participated in and passed the annual fitness test given by the health and safety coordinator.

When approached about this article, I was faced with the decision to tell my story to a national audience. Many emotions were stirred, as I was on the road to recovery. Did I want to revisit my six-month battle with cancer? After reviewing the responses I received from members in my department, I decided to write this article. Again, my focus was to make other firefighters more aware of any changes to their bodies.

Cancer continues to have a profound mental and emotional impact on me, which I suspect will continue for the rest of my life. I don't know if a person ever gets over the psychological impact of fighting and surviving the disease. There's not a day, quite possibly not an hour, that goes by where I don't think about what I and my family endured. They may not have been physically affected, but they have to endure the stresses that go along with a family member's ailment.

Subsequent CAT-scans and blood tests have revealed I am cancer-free. That's probably true in a physical sense. Although the chances of this particular cancer coming back are very low, I will always have the memory of having lived with cancer. Regular check-ups, blood tests and CAT scans will be a way of life for the rest of my life.

If I have one message that I would like to get across, it would be for everyone to be aware of any changes to their bodies, however subtle they may seem. If it doesn't feel right or look right, get to your doctor immediately. Early intervention often can mean the difference between survival or non-survival.

As a profession, we experience too many inherent risks associated with the job. Early intervention can lessen any undue risks.

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Craig Coultas is a station captain with the Aurora (Colo.) Fire Department.