What a Lump in My Testicle Taught Me About Health, Humanity and the NHS

There are easier ways to start a month. Winning the lottery, maybe. Getting a free coffee from Pret. Even just having a morning where you don’t spill something down your shirt. But no at the turn of Movember, the month dedicated to discussing men’s health, raising awareness of testicular cancer, prostate cancer, and male mental wellbeing, I found a lump in my testicle.

There’s irony, and then there’s this.

It’s one of those moments that stops you in your tracks. Not dramatically, not like in the films where a single piano note plays and everything slows down. More like: Huh. That’s… new. Then the slow mental whirring. Then the rational voice trying to be calm while your internal monologue googles your entire life expectancy.

And before anyone jumps to conclusions: I’m fine. All clear. But getting to that point gave me a perspective I want to share, especially because I spend my life working in and around healthcare, wrapped up in data, analytics, models, systems, and the constant hum of “how do we make things better?”

This time, I wasn’t the system-builder. I wasn’t the problem-solver. I wasn’t the guy in a meeting advocating for better data, better digital pathways, better leadership. I was a patient. And that subtle shift changed everything.

How Little We Actually Know About Ourselves

The first thing that struck me, after the initial “oh no, please no” moment, was how much time we spend learning about work, organisations, people, politics, leadership, frameworks… yet how little we really know about our own bodies.

I’m not clinical, and I’ve never pretended to be. I know the basics. I know enough anatomy to be dangerous at a pub quiz. But did I actually know how a testicle works?

Not really.

Then the thoughts spiral:

If I don’t know that… how well do I understand my liver?

My lungs?

My heart?

How does constant stress impact me compared with occasional stress?

What does sleep deprivation actually do beyond making me slightly more sarcastic?

How much damage do the “just another coffee” days add up to?

Modern life encourages us to be experts in everything except ourselves. We can quote leadership theory but not explain our own cholesterol. We understand personality profiles but not our own warning signs. We track performance dashboards at work better than we do our own health.

Finding a lump forced a moment of introspection that was overdue.

Being a Patient in a System You Work In

We say it all the time in the NHS: “We are patients too.” It’s a well-meaning mantra, but it hits differently when you’re actually sitting in a waiting room, realising that this time, you’re not analysing a pathway – you’re on one.

The system, to its credit, acted fast.

• A GP appointment within days (and would’ve been same-day if I wasn’t obsessed with work).
• Ultrasound within a week.
• Consultant within another week.
• The whole thing, start to finish, incredibly efficient.

But the efficiency sits alongside something else: poor communication.

My initial scan? Inconclusive, I think. Hard to know, because the letter uploaded to my NHS App was full of terminology that meant absolutely nothing to a non-clinical brain. Perfectly appropriate for a clinician; utterly useless for a patient.

It made me think seriously, again, about the need for plain-language patient versions. We have the technology. We have AI that can summarise a legal contract into a paragraph. Should we really expect patients to decipher radiology jargon without support?

Then came the 2WW referral. No explanation of what that entails. No patient leaflet. No “here’s what to expect” email or SMS. Just… see you at the next appointment.

The hospital letter wasn’t much better. Something vague about having “some observations done.” Nothing that would actually help you prepare. Nothing to reduce anxiety. Nothing to give you that sense of control that patients desperately need.

I’m a calm person by default. I don’t catastrophise. I don’t get easily shaken. But even I found myself going from appointment to appointment feeling a bit lost. What will the consultant do? Another examination? More tests? Do I need to mentally prepare for someone else rummaging about down there again? Can I drive afterwards? Should I bring someone with me?

Patients shouldn’t have to guess. Information isn’t a luxury. It’s part of care.

Inside the Consultant Appointment

By the time I got to the consultant, I’d built up a mental picture of every possible scenario: more scans, biopsies, needles (which I do not like), or a repeat of the “drop your trousers, please” routine.

What I actually got was reassurance but after quite a bit of uncertainty.

The consultant explained that the scan would be reviewed by a panel for completeness, but clinically, it looked like a cyst. Benign. Harmless. Something to leave alone unless it becomes uncomfortable.

The relief was huge. But the journey to that relief didn’t need to be as murky as it was.

What This Experience Taught Me About the NHS

Let me be clear: the clinicians I saw were excellent. The speed was excellent. The care itself was excellent.

But the communication around the care? That’s where we can do far better.

This isn’t about criticising individuals. It’s about recognising a system-level blind spot that most of us, myself included, fall into until we’re the ones wearing the patient wristband.

A few truths hit me hard:

• Patients don’t know what’s happening behind the scenes. We know. We work in it. But most people are operating in the dark.
• Clear communication reduces anxiety, reduces workload, and improves outcomes. It’s not fluffy. It’s operationally essential.
• We need to design services we’d be genuinely happy to receive ourselves. Not theoretically happy, actually happy, if it was our partner, our child, or ourselves on the receiving end.
• We don’t talk enough about men’s health. And especially not testicular health, because it’s awkward. But awkward conversations save lives.

The truth is, even in a high-performing pathway, the patient journey can still feel shaky if the information is lacking.

A text message saying, “Here’s what to expect,” or a link to a simple page explaining a 2WW or a patient-friendly summary of a scan.

These aren’t big things. But they make a big difference.

Movember, Motivation, and a Message

In classic timing, this happened right as Movember began, a month designed to get men talking about the very thing I was now dealing with.

So here’s the message I want to share plainly:

Check your bits. Regularly. Don’t be embarrassed. Don’t wait. Don’t assume it’ll go away.

Know your body. Understand yourself. Learn the basics of your own “mechanics”, because ignoring them never ends well.

And if something feels off, get it checked. Quickly.

Early detection saves lives, and the NHS is at its best when people come forward early.

If sharing this helps even one person push past the awkwardness, break the silence, or book an appointment, then it’s worth every word.

And to my fellow NHS colleagues: never forget we are patients too. Build services you’d want for yourself. Communicate like it matters, because it does. We can absolutely do better, and experiences like this are the reminder we sometimes need.