(Republished with permission: cancerouscapers.blogspot.com)

I'm Jamie Ross.

I'm twenty, and I was an English student until last August when my doctor threw a giant cancerous spanner in the works. This blog tracks my little fracas with Hodgkin's Lymphoma and is a reading experience that will make you laugh, cry and possibly physically sick as I mention my testicles more times than social convention deems acceptable.

Part One - Sperm

Judging by my Bebo views graph, 193 of you are now fully aware that I was diagnosed with Hodgkins’ Lymphoma earlier on this month. Delving deeper into statistics, only four of you have expressed your commiserations through a Bebo comment making me feel like somewhat of a circus sideshow that can be viewed with curiosity yet is not to be conversed with. Moreover, two of these comments came from within my family, with another one being a photoshopped image of me with no hair. So, all in all, I have been deeply moved by your support and condolences which have kept me positive in this troubling time.

Luckily for all of you heartless monsters, it’s not a terribly serious condition. One tactful medical professional told me that I had ‘the best cancer’, which I thought was somewhat of a bittersweet piece of news. Looking at various statistics however, it appears that she was correct as my condition is second only to testicular cancer in terms of cure rates but I get to stay firmly attached to my testicles so there is only one winner here.

The fact that I will remain fully endowed did not, however, prevent a wonderful trip to Ninewells Hospital Human Reproduction Unit in order to give them a sample in case of any complications. The first question that arose from this was why they felt the need to put the word ’Human’ in the title of the ward, is there a cat reproduction unit next door? The second question that arose from this trip was why the NHS can afford the extravagance of a massive wooden sculpture of a sperm in the waiting room, which I spent an entire morning sitting next to watching the Olympics, but yet they can not afford a weekly subscription to an adult magazine company. The ones that they had on offer were literally the oldest, filthiest, crustiest, dog-eared pieces of material I have ever come across. That was a lazy and grubby pun and I apologise. Anyway, the lads are all frozen up in Ninewells Hospital now, leading my Dad to hilariously suggest that I should name my first son Solero should I ever need to make use of it. However, I suspect it’s far more likely to end up as a device in a hilarious prank in years to come involving Douglas Crawford, Magners Cider and novelty ice cubes.

Another fantastic opportunity that this has provided me with was a bone marrow biopsy. Basically, this involves taking a young man who’s recently received the worst news of his life and then subjecting him to the most blindingly painful experience known to man. It’s a huge needle, a spear would probably be a more appropriate term, which they push into your pelvis bone and then suck up marrowy goodness. I was told beforehand that the procedure created roughly the same level of pain as getting a tooth out, this could only be true if your tooth was removed by Satan himself driving a car made of nails into your face. It was horrific. It took every effort not to jump up and punch the nurse right in the face for doing this to me whilst trying to make small talk regarding my university career. The conversation basically consisted of her asking me what I studied, and then me screaming really loudly for roughly seven minutes. Banter.

Anyway, I kicked off chemotherapy last week which isn’t really as dramatic as it sounds. It roughly involves going to hospital once every two weeks, sitting with loads of old people, getting a drip for an hour and trying to politely decline the plate of biscuits which are almost definitely pure MRSA. I’ve not even been sick or anything, it’s been a total anti-climax. I’ll be sure to give you all frequent updates so you don’t worry about me seeing as you‘ve been so concerned so far, but if I don’t write for a while you mustn’t assume something’s gone terribly wrong. I’m far more likely just to be giving it laldy on my £150 a week of benefits. Cashback.