One afternoon about two decades ago, my husband Jon failed to come home from work on time and wasn't answering his phone. When he finally arrived, I could tell from his face that whatever had happened was grave. He threw himself down on the bed and announced his news through a mouthful of pillow: "I have testicular cancer."

He'd felt a lump in his left testicle when he showered, so he decided to pop into his neighbor's office—a urologist with whom he had attended medical school—at the hospital where he worked as a neurologist. The urologist examined him, immediately sent him for imaging and later that afternoon determined that he had a tumor. Surgery was scheduled within a few days.

In many ways, we were fortunate throughout the whole experience. His testicular cancer was stage 1. He didn't need chemo or radiotherapy (RT) afterward. And because Jon had been suffering for more than a dozen years from intractable ulcerative colitis, an inflammatory bowel