I just gave my first live speech since Covid: Here's how it went.

It’s March 2021, and the phone rings.

“We need to be in person,” Connor O’Leary, my friend, and a leader at the Testicular Cancer Foundation says on the other line. “These guys need each other in real life. Would you come and speak and photograph our guys?”

“Sure,” I said.

It’s been over a year since I’ve had a mic in my hand. I’ve spent my days in front of people via zoom, in a virtual studio where it never quite felt as real as the heart racing, deep breathing, focus a person needs to command a stage.

I relished that feeling and some days thought it might never return.

The ballroom is designed for 400 but currently holds 44.

The tables are set for 10 but only four people sit at each. We’re all still a little restless, half masks - half no masks. Do we hug? Fist bump? Air high five?

I am also rusty.

An hour later, I’m done. I’m my own worst critic. I leave the stage dejected, wondering to myself if I still got it.

Connor says, “You did great.”

I sigh and breathe relief.

A part of our storytelling method hinges on creating conditions for each person to feel agency in the experience.

It’s a difficult needle to thread when you’re working with men who’ve had a testicle (or two) removed to save their own lives.

A cascading effect happens, I’m told. To save your life, you have to remove a part of your most intimate and masculine body part. And for many, to go through this is scary and lonely.

The Testicular Cancer Foundation gatherings can sometimes mean the difference between life and death.

During our closing session, one attendee shared he very recently tried to commit suicide. It’s the first time in a decade of my work that someone has made such a recent and real revelation, live.

He’s overcome by hugs and love from the other survivors.

Time slows down for us all lucky enough to witness.

Another participant shares how he stepped on his watch the day his doctor told him he was in remission.

“I wanted to freeze time,” he says.

The watch? Its face is cracked, the hands frozen and it never leaves his wrist.

Then I met Alex.

Alex is the kind of guy who contributes openly, lovingly, and generously. The gentleman who disclosed he almost committed suicide? Alex was the first to meet him with a hug.

Need a secondary tech guy to run a camera? Alex raises his hand.

He also has a RAD tattoo and a huge scar from his surgery.

Alex’s cancer diagnosis came at age 33, he survived four rounds of chemo and the doctors removed a softball-sized tumor.

He has a son, Theo, who is now four.

“I have no words that can describe the beauty of the piece you’ve created,” he said, “All I can tell you is that it will be cherished for the rest of my life, and hopefully generations after.”

His brain tattoo, I woke up on the ground, is equal parts literal and metaphorical. And I’m grateful to him that he shared the story, which you can watch above. 

As we enter back into the world, I think I learned three things from my first stage back and I’m grateful to the Testicular Cancer Foundation for having me.

• It’s ok to have changed: Be different, be anxious or be nervous. Others, I guarantee you, are too.
• Rejoice in each other: And let us not forget how integral connection is to our mental, physical and spiritual health.
• Serve each other: To support and be supported is why we’re here. 

Sincerely,

rx fogarty

founder, dear world