TALKING HEADS/ADAM FABRICIUS


Commissioning my own left side: a lesson in self-m onitoring


Sharing his experience of testicular cancer, Adam Fabricius – our 2023 winner of Energy Influencer of the Year – is looking to raise awareness about a sensitive topic that deserves wider attention.


A jeans. One Saturday, I decided to try


on some old clothes. You know, the pre-kids, pre-mortgage jeans that had been lurking in the back of the wardrobe for about ten years. I wriggled into them (just about) and felt a sharp pain in my left testicle. It wasn’t new, I’d felt it before, but this time it stopped me in my tracks. A dull ache, then a sharp, unmistakable pain. I knew something wasn’t right. That day, I did something I should’ve done months earlier – I called the doctor. To their credit, I got an appointment


straightaway. The GP, a woman, asked if I’d like to be examined, but I declined. I’m not proud of that. There was a flicker of embarrassment. I still don’t really know why. I was 36, had three kids, had been present for every scan, every birth, every sleepless night and yet I couldn’t face a quick checkup for myself. Thankfully, she referred me for an


ultrasound the next day. During the scan, the radiographer


prodded around. I looked away. It hurt. I couldn’t breathe. And then she said something I’ll never forget: “I think you need to go home and


pour yourself a large gin and tonic.” She’d found a lump. A large, sinister looking one. I walked to the car, I called my wife and just cried. In that moment, the enormity of it all landed – not just the diagnosis, but the life I was living and everything I stood to lose. At that moment, everything in life was going well. I had a wonderful three-year-old and an 18-month- old at home, and my wife was three months pregnant with our youngest. My career was thriving. I work for SAV Systems and EnergiRaven – the company and brand I’d been building. The previous year, I’d won Energy Influencer of the Year, and EnergiRaven had taken home Energy


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s engineers, we’re trained to monitor systems, spot anomalies, and take action before something breaks. We


apply logic to everything, diagnose, fix, optimise. But when it came to monitoring my own body? Let’s just say my personal management system was offline for a while. It started with a pair of jeans. Yes,


Campaign of the Year. I was scheduled to present an award just a few days later at The Energy Saving Awards. My career, my life, they were perfect. And now I had cancer. Two weeks later, I was booked in for


surgery to have my testicle removed. Before the operation, I was asked if I’d like a prosthetic replacement. Apparently, they need to be ordered in advance – it felt a bit like Amazon – “which one should I choose?” On top of that it had to be swapped out every six years. I declined. Honestly, I never felt that having one less testicle made me less of a man. If anything, crossing my legs now feels a lot more comfortable. Christmas came, oddly quiet. A


strange period of pretending things were normal. And for some reason, everyone avoided saying the word. “It.” The Big C. Let’s be clear: I had cancer. There’s no shame in saying it. Then the biopsy results came


back: a mixed germ cell tumour. 95% seminoma. 5% the more aggressive kind. The recommendation: a single three-week cycle of BEP chemotherapy. This would reduce the chances of spread or recurrence by 15%. That might sound insignificant, but when your life’s on the line, you take every percent you can get. I had no idea what to expect. People


told me I’d lose my hair (true), lie in bed for weeks (also true), and that it could take months to get my energy back again.


System Reset The operation was the easy part. I was up and moving the next day, even back to work. The real test was chemo. We’d decided to move the whole family into my parents’ house; with two small children you need a good support structure. Without them I don’t know how we would have coped. Week 1: Two full days of sitting in the chair and hooked up to a drip, followed by a half-day of treatment. I felt nauseous, exhausted, and worst of all, my taste buds revolted. Everything tasted like metal and cardboard. Sleep was tricky thanks to the steroids. Tinnitus and diarrhoea soon followed too. Week 2: A single hour of bleomycin, I ended up shaking uncontrollably


We monitor buildings to


keep them safe, efficient and


operational. We need to do the same for


ourselves.


all night, like I had the flu without the fever. It passed, much worse than the worst night I had with COVID. Week 3: Cancelled. My white blood


cell count had crashed. I had tried avoiding the children; nursery germs are best avoided during chemo. But I got the flu anyway and ended up in A&E for a day of antibiotics and fluids. Week 4: Half days at the office,


resting in the afternoons. Week 5: I was back home, back at


work, back with my kids – though still tired. And then my hair started falling out – everywhere. By Week 12, my energy levels had


returned. My hair was starting to grow back — head, face, and body. I could’ve lived without the armpit hair making a comeback. It all felt like a strange, surreal dream. But one I’d lived.


Lessons learned I’ll be monitored every three months for a while. And yes - it’s strange being the guy with one testicle in a room full of engineers, and of course, there are a lot of jokes. But honestly? I wouldn’t change a thing. I’m not a fan of the term survivor because I’m not. The survival rates for testicular cancer are after all over 95%. But I have changed. Not just physically, but in how I think about health, life and what matters most.


The irony isn’t lost on me. I


work in an industry obsessed with efficiency and early intervention. With EnergiRaven, when a problem arises in a building, it raises an alarm. Every day you ignore that alert, a monetary penalty ticks up, a visible cost for inaction. But in my own body? I ignored the alarm for months. There’s no


dashboard for your balls. No red alert or automatic email saying, “Action required: lump detected.” You’ve got to run the checks yourself. You’ve got to take action. This industry is full of brilliant,


hardworking men (and women, of course!), but we’re often useless at looking after ourselves. We’ll overhaul a heating system for marginal gains but won’t get a check-up for years. We’ll commission a plant room but won’t self-examine something as basic and lifesaving as our own testicles. So, here’s my advice - from


someone who’s been there, and is still here because I acted (eventually): Check yourself. Get familiar with


your bits. Book the appointment. Don’t ignore it. And don’t be embarrassed. You’d be surprised how many of us are walking around with fewer body parts than we started with. And while you’re at it, when you hit


your 50s (or sooner if there’s family history), get your prostate checked too. It’s a moment of awkwardness that could buy you decades. We monitor buildings to keep them


safe, efficient, and operational. We need to do the same for ourselves. Because trust me - you’re worth the


energy. And one final point: Get health


insurance. Get life insurance. Nearly half of us will be diagnosed with cancer at some point. Health insurance, life insurance, they won’t stop it happening, but they might just make it easier to get through. Do it for your family.


Adam Fabricius Head of marketing & communications at SAV and EnergiRaven


EIBI | MAY 2025


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