seanpresleywrites
Even if the only light in your life's darkest cloud is a lightening strike that burns down
your favorite forest.
It's worth sticking around to see what flowers the ashes grow.
Cancer Essays
Embedded Files
MY ENTIRE CANCER STORY
Essay #1
This is my cancer story and I'm stuck with it. To the best of my recollection, this is how my battle against colon cancer played out. This is not meant as a blueprint for how others should approach it and it may not be entirely accurate with regard to technical terms or hospital jargon, it is simply my story the way I remember it.
On December 7th, 2007, my sneaky attacker was a cancerous tumor. I was 41 years old. My only available counter attack was to have a surgeon remove the tumor, along with thirteen inches of my colon and most of my rectum. Not until after my surgery in April ‘08, four long months later, would I find out if the word terminal would come into play, or if I’d have to wear a permanent colostomy bag on the outside of my body. The bag would be permanent if not enough of my rectum could be saved during surgery. Despite a large tumor, I was told that my youth and overall good health gave me a good chance for best case scenarios. Best cases being; no death, no permanent bag.
First came; the how’s and whys. I take pride in owning full responsibility for my actions and the consequences they create, so I was ready to blame myself for allowing my body’s immune system to be overcome by the bad blood cells of cancer.
I was ready to admit that my lifelong picky eating habits, or other lifestyle habits, had caused my problem. Perhaps more broccolis would have prevented it. However, from all I've learned, it's not very likely that my actions/lifestyle created the bodily environment that caused my tumor growth. Cancer is in my family genes on my mother’s side, and I have little doubt that that is the main root of my troubles. In hindsight, better knowledge of that family health history might have saved my literal ass.
My biggest what-if moment of the whole ordeal was, what if; during my first doctor visit following my first symptom (extra sweat in my anal region), I'd known to tell the doctor of my grandmother's colon cancer? I can't remember if I even mentioned my mother's breast cancer, which I knew about. I don't even remember what doctor I saw on that first visit; only the city where the office was located. I threw away the paperwork. It had been my first visit to any doctor since early childhood, and I left his office with no intention of having a need to go back. That appointment was (IDK but) too many weeks before I saw a doctor again. That all makes me sound very stupid. I prefer to think of it as good-health-arrogant.
I don't believe that first doctor holds any blame. I'm the dumb-ass who didn't give him all the information he needed to run the proper tests. He gave me a simple rectal finger exam. I don't recall my blood being tested. If detected at that time, my tumor would have been smaller, my treatments easier, and the need for surgery might have been avoided. Lucky for me, I don't dwell, much, in what-ifs.
Aside from my initial sweaty butt, which I ignored thanks/no-thanks to the doctors indifference and figured was just my body changing with age, some months later I began suffering painless but increasingly difficult bowel movements. Around the same time an occasional dull throbbing pain near my tail bone emerged and grew steadily worse. Then one day, the ominous sight of some blood on the toilet paper I’d wiped with, shook some scared sense into me. I made a doctor's appointment immediately.
My new primary-care doctor said it might be hemorrhoid issues and only a gloved-finger test was given at that time. My recollection is confused by the long traumatic ordeal, but I think it was a few days after that visit when I saw significant blood in the toilet. “Blood in the stool”, as they say. Logic told me this was a very scary bad sign. Also, around this time, I noticed a very green colored “stool” which shocked me into hoping I’d turned Irish (in spite of being a Sean, I had not). Blood tests and a barium enema followed soon after. As I was gathering my clothes after that very first bowel x-ray, a nurse said to me (against training and proper etiquette I guessed), “I think we saw the problem.” I heard, “I saw something that confirms you’re in big trouble.”
A colonoscopy and ct-scan followed the x-rays. In a very serious one-on-one meeting after the tests, a surgeon explained to me that I had a tumor growing in my colon/rectum area. It was not small, probably cancerous, would surely require surgery, and he added, “you are young and healthy, so you probably won't have to lose your rectum”.
My worst bloody fear had become a reality. My mind was racing and numb at the same time. I drove myself home in a state of absolute shock. Two thoughts trumped uncountable deadly serious ruminations. First; at the time I thought my rectum and my “butt hole” were one and the same. How could losing it even be an option?! I didn’t know, but losing it was obviously on the table now. Secondly; the doctor said the tumor was large, slow growing, and most likely cancerous. Logic told me, if it was large and slow growing, then it had been in my colon for quite some time. And if indeed cancerous, then it had plenty of time to spread already. Spread meaning, metastasized, the word cancer patients should fear the most. The reality of death revealed itself to me for the first time, in what until that point, luckily I realized, had been a life full of good health and relative contentment.
Through my Blue-Shield health insurance plan ($190 a month on Nov., '07 and $550 a month when I had to cancel it in ‘15, btw) it was my job to choose a surgeon. With my life on the line, I studied my choices and took a hopeful guess. I chose a colorectal surgeon with over thirty years experience, and hoped he wouldn't be too old for my comfort. Actually, my first choice was a doctor in Sacramento, Ca. but the wait to consult with him was over a month. Going with my second choice meant I'd have to have my surgery in Stockton, Ca. which was closer to my home, but I worried that a smaller, less affluent city would not be as well equipped, either technically or personally, as would a hospital in Sacramento. Trepidatiously, I went ahead with the more expedient treatment in Stockton. My surgeon appeared young enough, and competent. Of course, I put mostly blind faith in him. What other choice did I have?
After an MRI, more x-rays, and another ct-scan, my surgeon, teaming with an oncologist in Sonora, Ca. laid out these plans for me: Six weeks of simultaneous chemotherapy and radiation treatments, with six weeks to heal afterwards, then a surgery to remove the tumor, all of the endangered surrounding areas (most of my rectum and a foot of my colon), and the proper lymph nodes that provide evidence of spreading cancer cells. Also, during surgery, a section of my intestines would be snipped and pulled an inch outside of my body (a stoma), a few inches right of my belly button. My ingestion would flow into a bag (ileostomy) that would be glued/taped to the outside of my body (sort of like a vacuum cleaner bag). This set-up would reroute the flow of waste away from my rectum while it healed, and into the ileostomy bag, which I would empty/dump manually. After six weeks I'd have a second surgery to remove the bag and sew my intestines back together; called a reverse… something or other. Six more weeks would be allowed to recover from that, and then four months of post chemotherapy infusion would be applied, as an overkill/precautionary measure.
With that lengthy plan to ponder and execute, my life became a day-to-day struggle. With each step, post diagnosis, I accepted the facts and trusted my doctors practiced opinions. From the time of my diagnosis in late '07, until the start of my treatments in late Feb. of '08, I did exactly what the doctors recommended and all I could to become as strong and healthy as possible.
**
The first step toward ultimate recovery was the placing of a PICC-line (peripherally inserted central catheter) into the bicep muscle of my right arm. This allowed chemotherapy “juice” to flow through my blood stream 24/7, for six weeks. Other options included; sitting in a chair for a long spell each day and having an I.V. injection of “juice”, or taking a daily pill. The pill was a very tempting choice, but it was new technology, so I went with my oncologist’s advice and took the more proven and prudent route. I was also given the option of freezing my sperm if I wanted children in the future, because the radiation would most likely leave me sterile. I declined.
The minor while-awake PICC-line surgery was the first blood of my battle. One nurse explained to me that a well trained PICC specialist would arrive soon. Two more nurses chimed in with similar comments about how well practiced this arriving PICC-guy was. As with every word I heard from these and all my future nurses and doctors, I wondered if they were trained to tell me certain positive things, or if sincerity was behind their remarks. It also told me that my PICC-line insertion was a tricky project.
The ace PICC-guy did do a great job as far as I know. As I lay propped up in a bed, he worked on my right arm and explained what was happening. After numbing my arm, he measured off the proper length of thin tubing and then cut a hole in my arm and vein to thread the tube through. The end of the tube would drip chemo juice an inch-or-so few above my heart, which would then pump it throughout my blood stream. The other end of the tube would be attached to a bag full of chemo-juice. This bag, and a small battery powered pump, would fit into a fanny-pack type carrying case, which I'd wear around my waist when mobile, or lay on the bed or chair next to me while resting.
At one point during the insertion procedure I looked at the area of my arm he was working on, and I saw waaay more blood than I expected. From that point on, I always stared blankly away from anyone making holes in my person. I should have learned from looking at the photo of my tumor during an earlier hospital visit, that, out of sight out of mind, was indeed a good thing; but in bloody sight… not as helpful.
Now that I had my “ball-and-chain” of chemo-juice (a three foot tether of tube coming out of the inner part of the bicep on my right arm, attached to the fanny pack strapped around my waist) I walked across the hallway away from the chemo-infusion section of the Cancer Center, and wobbled over to the radiation station. For six weeks I'd visit the radiation sector Monday through Friday, and once a week I'd have the infusion sector replace my empty chemo juice bag with a full one.
The two words hanging above the entrance door to these areas; CANCER CENTER, were a grave daily reminder of the seriousness of my situation. Even on good days, I'd look at the two words on my way in and shake my head at the hard to believe I have cancer notion of it all.
The first move at the radiation center was in the changing room. Changing clothes was not easy with my ball-and-chain of a chemo fanny-pack to maneuver my clothes around. Once in my, never easy to tie, backless gown, I'd sit in a tiny waiting area and wait for my turn under the radiation beams. The radiation department never left me waiting for long. Waiting and killing time with reading or writing or whatever at the hospitals and doctor’s offices, was a test in patience and mind control throughout the entire process, so the short waits to be “beamed-up” were a small bonus for this captain of a ship on the big C.
Once called into the radiation room, I'd lay face down on a table/bed. I'd hear the giant apparatus move into place and hover above me, and then I'd ready myself to hold my breath and lay as still as possible when the technicians commanded. Modesty was low on my priority scale at that point, but it was still a bit odd to lie face down and have two female nurses lift my gown to expose my bare butt.
On my initial visit to radiation, they marked me with three permanent black ink tattoos; small singular dots on each hip and near my tail bone. They would line up my body so that radiation beams would hit these dots. After three-or-so weeks, a second set of dots were re-calibrated and added. The colorectal tumor was the target inside of me. The intention was to shrink it with radiation to make surgery easier, amongst other things.
One side effect was; the radiation beams would cut all the way through me and out the other side. This caused damage to any organs in the beam’s path. I've since learned that certain new technology will stop the beam at the target and not burn beyond and through. Actually, I knew at the time that richer folk afforded this better treatment while I received my lower budget beams.
When commanded to hold my breath, I would hear a series of old school (dial-up) computer noises emitting from the machine above. Sometimes I would struggle to continue holding my breath and wonder if they would ever say “okay breathe” again. I always felt a lot of serious pressure to do exactly as I was told by any health care professional, especially with these stay-still treatments. The face down table treatments did not hurt and would only last about ten minutes or less. I'd re-dress and drive myself home. California State Hwy 49 is a curvy road in my region, so my drives home, after the nausea-weeks kicked in, were testy.
The first few nights trying to sleep, with my ball-and-chain lying on my bed near me and attached to my upper arm, and constant worries about cancer and my own mortality, were restless. The chemo pump inside the fanny pack would make a noise that disturbed me every twenty seconds or so, until I began wrapping it up in a towel to muffle the sound. I wish ball-and-chain sleeping and worry had been my biggest pains during this juncture.
The doctors explained that combined treatments of chemo and radiation to my rectal area would cause an excess of bowel movements, and also make me feel like I needed BM’s even when I didn't. Worse still, the radiation damage made each and every too frequent sit on the toilet, a very painful event, as though I was expelling from my anus razor blades coated with some kind of skin attacking acid. I could only tolerate wiping myself with toilet paper that was run under cold water. In adulthood, most men, myself included, only cry for emotional reasons, while bodily pain is shaken off through gritted teeth. I’ll admit these sittings brought me to tears from shear pain on a few occasions.
I'd heard much about the nausea associated with chemotherapy. Good and bad blood cells are destroyed by the chemo; that and other things I don’t understand well enough to explain create the nauseated feelings. Anti-nausea drugs were given to me along with the infusions of chemo juice, and I was also given pills that would help against nausea. On the one hand, I did vomit countless times over the six weeks. On the other hand, for hours at a time I'd feel very normal. One thing that worked well to quell a vomit was to suck on a breath mint when my mouth would start to fill with the excess saliva that was a sure sign of an upcoming upchuck. This led me to tell friends that Tic-Tacs were the cure for cancer.
I also named my tumor “Boomer”, making it easier to lighten the mood when discussing cancer with the healthy. I wouldn't have known quite how to talk to a cancer patient before I was stricken, so I understood how uncomfortable it was for those around me. I was simply sick, but the word cancer has a powerful impact. I tried to ease people’s sympathy for me through humor when I could.
On the fifth of my six weeks of ball-and-chain chemo and exposed-butt radiation treatments, I developed an infection where the tube entered my right arm, so I had to have the PICC-line moved to my left arm for the final week. I didn't look at the bloody mess the insertion procedure made the second time around. However, two days later a problem with the new PICC-line left a bloody mess in my bed at home. A kind nurse named Sue went out of her line of duty to meet me at the hospital on a Saturday morning to rectify the problem.
A week later the PICC-line was removed for good. What a great simple pleasure it was to walk around without that tube coming out of my arm… and the stylish fanny-pack. Also during this last PICC-line week, I developed the sores on the roof of my mouth that I'd been warned would probably occur. These large painful blisters stayed with me for a week or two. I still deal with a dry tongue issue, which I'm told may stem from those chemo treatments. It was all in the name of, not dying, so I was on board for the fight and the collateral damage.
The next step was six weeks for my body to recover from the harsh duel treatments. I spent this time getting my body prepared for surgery, through exercise and diet. I also tried to summon bravery during this time, because fear of my upcoming big-time surgery and its aftermath grew with each approaching day. Wrapping my brain around the idea of somebody slicing me open and removing some of my cancer infested innards was not an easy task. Add to that, stress about the uncertain outcome and findings of the surgery, and the struggle to handle and block out fear became consuming.
Aside from the fears, I felt very healthy, strong, and “normal”, in the final weeks leading up to my April 8th ‘08 surgery. A few days before my surgery, I went golfing with my usual foursome. Thoughts of it possibly being the final time I would ever play my favorite sport were hard to block out of my mind.
**
The entire day of my surgery was an out-of-body type experience. My mind preferred to hover somewhere above my body and look down on my actions, conversations, and what was being done to me, from a safer elevated place.
A lower anterior resection was to be performed. A six inch long incision would be made from belly button down to my weenis. My intestines would be moved out of the way (perhaps outside of my body, I had read, and never did care to find out) so they could get access to my colon and rectum. About thirteen inches of my colon, the tumor, most of my rectum, and some lymph nodes, would be removed. Also, during this first surgery, there would be a second incision a few inches to the right of my belly button, where my intestine would be cut and partly pulled out of my body, creating a stoma. The ileostomy bag I mentioned previously would be put in place over the stoma to catch the flow of digested food.
The two days before surgery was a body preparation that involved a liquids-only diet, various laxatives, and a clearing enema. I felt very physically prepared, but three thoughts dominated me: Would I survive the surgery? Would they find out the cancer had metastasized and what would that fully mean? And, what in the world would it be like to have a bag-o-crap hanging on the outside of my body for six weeks post surgery?
The night and morning before the surgery were full of more out-of-body feelings. The hospital (St Joseph's, in Stockton, Ca.) provided me a helpful tool to deal with my high anxiety and fears; an audio tape with a soothing voice that re-enforces positives thoughts about the upcoming process, saying things like, “you see the doctors working competently above you during your surgery. They nod in agreement to each other as they perform their tasks with practiced skill.” I'm not sure if it was the nature of the words spoken through my head phones in the last few hours before going under the knife, or if it was the almost comically soothing tone of the narrator's voice, but I believe the tape did help calm me to a degree. Although, I remained highly aware of how severely frightened I was.
When it was time to take the headphones off and get down to the business of removing my cancer infection, things got real when a male nurse shaved off all the remaining hair from my chest on down to, and including, my pubic hair. Watching a man I’d never met very-close-shave my pubic area (I’d already close-shaved myself, as instructed) was a good indicator that my life would never be the same again.
After my private lower region was hairless and ready for the scalpel, and after getting hooked up to I.V. tubes that would become my ever present unwelcome companion, I was wheeled on a gurney until parked in front of two ominous swinging doors. The words above the door, Operation Room, glared at me while I waited to be wheeled in. Once pushed inside, the bright lights made me feel like a frog about to be dissected by the group who’d gathered to help. The group lifted me carefully from the gurney and placed me onto the crazy-thin operating table. My arms at my sides did not touch the table, and were held from flopping to the floor by side-sling armrests of some sort. Small suction cups were stuck around my upper torso, to monitor my heart and whatever else, and that’s the last thing I remember until waking up post surgery.
After I was settled into a hospital room, my body was mostly numb, but I felt the weight of the large bandaged area from my stomach to my crotch. I felt a good degree of happiness that I'd lived through a serious surgery, but I was in a strange place, my body felt new and damaged, and for one of the few times in my modestly charmed life, I was sorry to be me and I wished to be someone else.
The first two days I was fortunate to have the two-bed hospital room to myself, although there were very few comfortable moments. I remember lying in my not quite long enough bed (I’m 6’ 2”, but give me a break with the short hospital beds!) and thinking, and thinking, and thinking, about how I was experiencing pure suffering, and nothing more. No good feelings were to be had.
Impossible to ignore itchy red blotches on my stomach (due to the massive amount of tape holding my huge bandages in place, and I was told, from the morphine) had to be ignored; itching would have made it worse. Plus, I was running a high fever, so I was hot one second, sweating-up the sheets the next, and shivering and wanting more covers the following moment. Plus, I had a catheter inserted in my penis, not to mention that I'd just been cut open and dissected. Oh yeah, and I had my yet-to-be-seen, but on top of my anxiety list, ileostomy bag-o-crap down there near all that tape and gauze. Good and happy thoughts were nowhere to be grasped under those circumstances. Adult, unadulterated, suffering, consumed me. Time moved glacially, and that damn too-short bed wouldn’t allow me a full leg stretch!
I'm sure that an individual's overall quality of life and current conditions, as far as happiness and contentment are concerned, play a big role in the mindset of anybody going through a spell of bad health. So, in full disclosure, the fact that a fifteen year relationship I was in had just ended a month before my original diagnosis, meant I was essentially going through a divorce during my time in the hospital. This surely contributed to the depths of depression I suffered. That said, with my life on the line, all I could really focus on was doing as my doctors instructed, and regaining the best health that I could. But the itching and the fevers and discomfort were relentless. I'd try to find reasons to smile and tried to believe the future held promise, but the second to second suffering, topped by an uncertain outcome and unwanted foreign surroundings, felt like too much to accept. I had an overwhelming sensation of it all being more than anybody should have to deal with.
I could not escape these depressed feelings, nor the sweat on my sheets. I didn't possess the new abdominal strength to roll over in either direction, not for the first few days at least. My sheets were changed for me of course, but they didn't stay dry for long. Sleep would have been a great relief, but as a light sleeper, and with an abundance of hospital noises, I could not sleep for more than an occasional ten minute lapse, for fifteen straight days. The machine very close to the bed, which controls the I.V.-drips, made enough noise by itself every few seconds to keep me awake. Add to that, the ringing phones, nurses talking, etc. and I was one wide awake in need of sleep patient.
On the third day of my hospital stay I got my first roommate. I didn't want a roommate, but I understood the hospital’s business. In the meantime, my fever would not break. Something was not right. I was told that my abdominal muscles were too tight (I wondered if my pre-surgery workouts had backfired on me) and my intestines were not allowing my system to flow out of me and into the ileostomy bag that was glued/taped to the right of my belly button. They said to be a patient feverish patient and it would flow through properly at some point.
My mother was by my hospital bedside through much of my stay, tending to every whim that the nurses would not or could not, but I was alone in my room the day before my first roommate arrived. As I was leaving my in-room bathroom and heading back to my bed, without ease, thanks to the rolling hat-rack I. V.-bag carrier I pulled around with me, the world started spinning. I was able to grab a plastic washtub container just in time to catch the voluminous dark green watery vomit (bile) that hurled from my mouth. A nurse appeared shortly to deal with my tub-o-barf and helped me steady my senses. Once I was resettled in bed, I was told a team would be coming in soon to insert a stomach pump down my throat. The pump would stay there until my stomach’s/intestine’s contents began flowing as they should; down and out of my stoma opening and into the ileostomy bag.
The stomach pump insertion was unpleasant. Three or four nurses gathered around me and prepared to insert a tube up through my nose, down through my throat passage, and down further into my stomach, where it would drain my stomach contents until my blocked-up system began to flow properly, as mentioned. I was warned that my gag reflex might cause me to vomit when the tube slid down my throat. Sure enough, as soon as the tube hit my gag spot, more dark green watery bile flew from my face. With no unoccupied space to turn towards, and no wash tub to grab this time, I had to aim my hurl all over my own chest and stomach.
The attending staff were all busy with the important job of getting my stomach pump tubes inside me and set up properly, so I lay there for quite an Exorcist while covered in my own Blair puke, while also adjusting to the very unpleasant feel of the tube going up my nose and irritating the back of my throat as it lowered into place. I was eventually cleaned up. For two full days I had this pump set-up. I was only allowed ice chips to suck on during this time, and even that was annoying, as I had trouble getting my spoon full of ice chips into my mouth with the tube going up my nose. The tap-water-ice did not quench my thirst either.
By the second day of pumping it hurt my throat when I spoke, so I was reduced to handwritten notes until the pump was removed. With my mother often by my side, and with that old motherly saying in play, I wouldn’t have been saying much at all regardless… I didn't have anything nice to say.
Going back, for this paragraph, to my first few visits to the doctor after learning I had cancer… I was an angry and stressed-out patient. Therefore, my visits did not go well. One nurse was reluctant to put a needle in my arm because she said, “it looks like you're about to jump out of that chair, you need to calm down before I can proceed.” At some point, I made an effort to force a happy and easy going mood on trips to the hospital and such. I'd look for the humor and fun wherever I could. And I believe there's a lot of humor in bad health, if you look real hard. In my opinion, there's a lot of humor in a man having problems with his butt, but I could be wrong. In truth, my humor-sense faded when I was consumed by the tiny surreal world of my hospital room.
Still running hot and cold with a fever, laying on sweaty-wet sheets, itching all over from the tape and morphine, and knowing the best thing that could happen was the bag hanging on the outside of me would start filling up with crap... had me inner-moaning that few beings alive were having a worse day. It also made me realize how health-lucky I'd been until this point in my life. I was struck in the side of the head with an empathy-bat for all who suffer through serious health issues. When life is far more bad than good, the will to simply continue living becomes a challenge. I matured to that distasteful realization during my hospital stay.
**
My first roommate: While already struggling to find the slivers of a comfort zone in my condition, I certainly didn't want to share my room. Halfway through the first day of my stomach pumping, a nurse rolled a patient in a wheelchair passed me to the second bed of our room, on the other side of the curtain. He was a strong, rough looking guy. Throughout my stay, I always kept the curtain that separates the two beds pulled shut. For that matter, I kept my front curtain closed most of the time as well. Since I couldn't talk and was struggling to gain comfort overall, I asked my mom to greet the guy for me, explain my non-verbal condition, and welcome him to our room.
He was in to have his appendix removed. His young wife and infant child would sit with him. Since I'm uno-lingual, and was in need of a worry-distraction, I welcomed overhearing the conversations between nurses and my mostly Spanish speaking roommate. He would explain that he understood English well if it was spoken slowly. If they listened, and did as he asked, it went well. If they spoke too fast, they would have to keep repeating themselves. He left after two days. On his way by me as he was leaving, he pushed open a spot in the closed curtain to ask, “What's your name?” We exchanged names. Then he broke me down with one of the nicest things I've ever heard from a complete stranger, “I'm going to go home and pray for you.” I'm not a religious man, but his kind words hit me hard and broke me down for the stress relieving cry that I'd been holding back for a long time.
Good news, bad news. Good; my ileostomy bag was starting to fill, so the stomach pump was removed. Bad; my bag was starting to fill, which meant the stuff previously being pumped, was the bag filler that would have to be self-dumped. The brown nightmares of wondering what it would be like to deal with ‘the bag’ would start to play out in real life. Surprising to the nurses, in spite of my bag-flow finally starting, I was still suffering from a high fever at this point.
My surgeon decided my fever was no longer explainable, and he ordered another ct-scan. I heard this news from two nurses who stood at the foot of my bed and discussed the fact I'd have to go back onto an ice chips only diet. Throughout my entire ordeal I did exactly as I was told, but… I'd developed a craving for the red cherry popsicles at the hospital. I had one in hand as the nurses were about to tell me not to eat it. Well, I couldn't help myself and I took a large, satisfying, and defiant bite, before they took it away from me.
It was a fleeting pleasure. Overall, the constant fever and inability to sleep had me in the shadows of my darkest days on earth. To wit, the times I'd be wheeled on a bed/gurney through the hospital hallways, into elevators, and through swinging doors, were some of the few enjoyable moments of my hospital stay. The rush of air from being pushed, combined with the air-conditioning vents we passed, gave me a reprieve from my feverish spells and static room. The gurney trip for this particular ct-scan however, ended with me lying in my bed-on-wheels in a hallway outside the scanning room, with a few other patients, waiting and waiting and waiting my turn during some type of ct-scan rush hour gurney traffic.
I was hot/cold from the fever. My bag was starting to get too full of bowel browns. I was left basically unattended. Although the doctors (in spite of my recovering troubles) had been telling me that the operation was a perfect success, the results of this scan could be serious news. My mood in that dimly lit hallway was dark. When it came my turn, as they were preparing me for my scan, I had to ask a nurse to empty my bag for me. I knew it was her job, but not her usual one, so it felt like a horrible favor to ask of anyone.
(Going back, the very first time my bag was ready to empty, the “bag expert nurse” showed me how it worked and how to dump it, and most importantly, how I would not only empty its contents, but I’d be expected to change the bag itself at home every four to five days when I left the hospital. When the expert nurse showed me how to remove the bag, and then glue/tape-on a new one, I decided that my whole ordeal with the bag would involve me dumping and cleaning it, if I must, but never involve me changing it myself. It was too important to me that it didn’t leak, tyvm. I did learn the tricky-but-doable procedure in case of emergency, but I immediately started researching what type of home-nurse-house-calls could be set-up to replace my bag every four or five days for six weeks once I was back home. I'm not a rich man, but I was willing to pay anything to have this done. As it turned out, my health insurance covered and provided these house calls. Relief is not a strong enough word.)
The results from my ct-scan showed that an abscess (sack of fluid) had formed near my bladder and the surgery site, so a second surgery would be required to drain the abscess. In the hours leading up to my second surgery, I did a lot of flashing back to my first surgery. The second was far less serious but still worrisome. Once again I enjoyed the cool breezes on the gurney ride from my room to the operating room. Once again I was parked outside the swinging doors to the O. R., and just like the first time around a team of specialists did some initial prep work on me. The lights were extra bright in these areas and shined a sobering light on my health tragedy.
I would try to breathe deeply and slowly to control my anxiety at pinnacle moments. It's hard to determine my own bravery compared with others, but I was truly scared out of my mind entering the O. R. on both occasions. Once inside the room, quite a few hands gathered and lift me from my gurney to the operating table once again. Like the first go-round, I remember the thin table, them sticking monitoring devices around my chest area, and not much after that.
My surgeon explained to me that he'd made a decision during my first operation, not to place drainage tubes that would keep an abscess from developing. He said about half the time this is the case. He told me my operation went so very well, that he determined I would not require the drainage tubes be placed during the initial lower anterior resection surgery. Unfortunately, he figured wrong, and this second operation was required to insert the drainage tubes.
The better news about my first operation was the found-success of the radiation and chemo treatments. I'd been told the colorectal tumor might shrink to half of its relatively large size, but there was nothing more than a nub left at surgery time, they said, which increased the odds of a full recovery.
My second surgery brought new things to deal with. In order to drain the abscess, two tubes were now coming out of my pubic hair region. Each of these tubes had about a three foot tether that emptied into a plastic holding container about the size and shape of an egg. These containers were drained when needed. So now, my already slow, tedious, struggling move to get out of bed, included gathering my egg/tubes and safety pinning them to my gown in just the right spot so they’d be out of my way when I did the “walk of the recovering patients” around the nurses stations.
“The walk” was required three times a day. The simple things in life that I'd took for granted, like getting out of bed and walking around, were now major struggles. Finding joy in the day and hope for a good future was still a major challenge.
My walks around the nurse’s stations started on the third or fourth day. At first, the pulling tightness of my scarred abdominal region kept me from standing fully erect. This, combined with having to pull my I. V.-on-wheels around wherever I went, had me feeling like a feeble old man using a walker. That said, anytime out of the confinement of my hospital bed was welcome and rejuvenating. The slow circling walk of the un-dead around the nurses stations were often sad ones, because of the sympathy inspiring patients I'd pass on my going nowhere journey, but I did have the hope building feeling that I was walking forward in my recovery.
I knew my new drainage tubes would keep me in the hospital for at least another six days. I'd been told that my hospital stay would last between five to seven days. I figured they said five just to give me false hope, and I'd planned for the full seven. The aftermath of the second surgery turned mine into a fifteen day event.
I never had the window bed in my rooms, so the only glimpse of the outside world I saw was through a window at the end of the hallway. On my three-times-a-day walk I'd look out at the trees that always seemed to be swaying in a strong breeze, and I would often be struck by the feeling that my whole world was inside this floor of the hospital now, and the regular outside world was far away and unreal.
On the fifth day I was moved to a different room. Later that day my third roommate arrived. The second guy had been in and out without event. Just prior to entering my room, a friend of mine said they overheard someone outside the room say that my new roomy had just been shot--at a wedding! It turned out he'd been stabbed. I would have many conversations with Englebert through my closed curtain. He was a good natured twenty year old Mexican immigrant and/but he was a member of a local gang. He never said the words, but it was obviously implied.
After hearing his story about coming to America, by himself at age fifteen, to escape poverty and an abusive father, I understood how he could get caught up in gang life. What would I do at fifteen years old, in a foreign country, without family? He said he had been at a wedding that morning and a friend of his got into a fight right outside the church, so he ran up to the action to see what was happening. As he neared, a man turned and stabbed him in the belly with a knife.
We shared a bond out of mutual sympathy for each other’s plight. We would joke about “racing” (slowly) around the nurse’s area while pulling our I. V.-on-wheels behind. One day I was trying to explain to him, without the use of hand gestures (closed curtains and all), that I was a woodcarver/artist, and at that very moment a “How To” show came on the television we shared… about how to carve wooden duck decoys, just the way I'd been trying to explain!
The most intriguing conversation of the Engelbert days was the conversation I overheard between him and the Dr. who performed his surgery. Prior to their talk, Engelbert told me that he didn't really know what was done to him during his operation, and he was calling his surgeon in to ask about it. The surgeon told him he was lucky to be alive. When he was stabbed, the knife blade had punctured five vital organs, and he was close to death during the operation. This news had a sobering effect on Engelbert, and he later said to me that his lifestyle was not worth dying for, and seemed intent on reforming himself.
With my fever finally broken by the continued draining of my abscess, the last few days in the hospital were not as bad. Still, varying degrees of bad were all I had at that point. The nurses were still dumping my bag for me when it filled, but the days when I'd be dealing with my new bowel draining arrangement at home, and in public, were nearing. I spent a lot of time with my eyes closed, sleepless, and worrying.
An angry, and sadly demented elderly women, provided something other than the voices in my head to listen to during one two-day stretch. She was heartbreaking to listen to, but with very little physical activity, thinking and listening were the only things that I could do. I would become aware of her pending rants when her ankle bracelet/alarm would sound off anytime she left her room during her escape attempts, which she did five or six times over her two day stay. I would hear a nurse or two gather outside my room and attempt to talk her down from her escape and back into her room. They’d succeed, but first, they'd get an earful of her story.
Same story nearly word for word each time; “I'm not supposed to be here. I'm supposed to go to my sister’s house. You kidnapped me and brought me here against my will. I'm leaving and you can't stop me.” The nurses would calmly tell her that her son brought her to the hospital and she had to stay until she was healed. But she had spunk to spare. She’d insist, “You're trying to hurt me. I'm getting out of here”, and after that, “I hope they burn this place down!”
She would always end it with that dreadful hope. My main goal in life matched hers; I also wanted to get out of that hospital, so I could not help but smile, and try not to laugh (because it hurt to laugh and it was wrong) about the thing’s she’d say. Note: I was not on board for leaving ashes in our wake, but if granny was leading the charge… in spirit I was right behind her!
One day, about two thirds of the way through my hospital stay, I went into the bathroom to shave. I hadn't seen myself in the mirror in a few days and I was stunned by my gaunt reflection. All the days of ice-chips-only, combined with little muscle exercise, had my cheeks hollowed out and my chest muscles caved in. I finally looked like the cancer victims I'd seen on television over the years. I didn't recognize the face I was shaving, and that gave me the creeps. I went into the hospital at a lean 6' 2”, 195 lbs. My first day back home I would weigh in at 165 lbs.
**
On the twelfth day I had an unexpected explosion of extreme pain that had me gasping for air for what seemed like ten minutes. My surgeon had come into my room to remove my drainage tubes. He said the technique to remove them was simple; he'd simply take a firm grip and yank each one out. He warned, “This may hurt a little”, and started counting. He did the ol’, count to three but pull on two, trick. The shock of pain the grip-and-yank caused felt like it lifted my entire body up off of my bed. It was explained to me afterwards, that the drainage tubes had been inside me long enough to mix with and sort of grab hold of my innards, thus making the tube removal much worse than the doctor expected.
In spite of the rough time in the hospital after surgery, I'm thoroughly grateful for my surgeons work. By all accounts from other health care pros who’ve examined me, he gets high grades for a job well done. The mistaken judgment call of not putting drainage tubes in during the first surgery to prevent an abscess, and his failure to give me fairer warning of the brutal tube removal, were immediately forgiven by me… although my dad was none too thrilled. I also felt lucky and I’m forever thankful to have good and caring nurses. It takes a uniquely caring person to work with sick patients every day. I have the deepest appreciation for everybody who worked on me. I know they were just doing their jobs, but they were all good to me in my time of need. From the veteran nurses who knew what I wanted before I even asked, to the one very young nurse, who was so nervous and timid as she inserted my I. V. that I had to calm her down with assurances that she was doing fine. I wish them all good fortune for their good deeds.
As soon as my tube wounds healed I was released from the hospital. Once home, where I could stand and stare at myself in the mirror, naked-with-bag, it was hard to believe what I was going through. It was highly abnormal. The ileostomy bag was attached about four inches right of my belly button, it was four inches wide, and it hung down twelve inches to where it touched against my upper thigh. The hard bottom edge rubbed a sore on my leg until I learned to protect it.
The empty bag was thin and lay flat against me, but it expanded and became heavier as it filled. In the beginning, the bag would fill with mostly dark watery fluid, due to the fact I wasn't eating many solid foods in the hospital. After two weeks, the consistency grew thicker. In order to dump/empty the bag, I would have to get on my knees in front of a toilet, unfurl the rolled-up-and-Velcro-sealed bottom few inches, and aim the bag-o-poo opening carefully mid-toilet-water to release the contents. Oh the horror of having to watch splashdown to make sure aim is correct. It was a, gotta do what you gotta do situation, too many times a day.
I could have sat on the toilet and done the do-do, but getting on my knees in front was easier and cleaner for me. Once the bag was emptied, I'd use many single-ply’s, from a stack of paper towels I’d pre-torn, to wipe clean the inside of ‘the bag’s’ bottom few inches, so I could fold it back up cleaned and Velcro-seal it closed again.
The bag would begin to fill without warning at random times. Sometimes I would just be finishing a “bag movement” and I’d stand up, fix my clothes—and the bag would refill immediately, putting me right back on my knees for more extreme yuckiness. To booty-boot, during the six ‘bag weeks’, I had to get on my knees in front of toilets in public restrooms, more often than... well, trust me, once is too often.
**
I wasn't able to sleep through the night until my third night home, ending the seventeen consecutive stress filled days without. Sleeping created the new problem of waking up at times to find my bag full, to the point of near burst. Thankfully, very thankfully, I never did suffer a bursting, or even any leakage, which I was told it, might very well happen.
When fully clothed the bag was not easy to hide, unless I wore layers of loose fitting clothes. Luckily, I did not have to go out in public too often during my recovery. It would have been miserably embarrassing to function at a public job during that time. The bag made random gassy-gurgling noises, and there was some odor involved. The fact that any future problems with my rectum could require the need for a permanent bag… worries me enormously to this day.
Every four or five days during the six weeks of bag-on-me, a nurse arrived at my home and would knock on my door downstairs. From my bed on the second story, I would yell for her to let herself in and come up to my room, where I'd be laying in my bed ready for my bag change. She'd kneel beside my bed to do the work. First she'd pry my current bag free and remove it. At this point, when I chose to, I could look at the stoma.
The stoma was my rerouted intestine pulled up through a hole in my stomach. It stuck up about an inch above my skin a few inches right of my (inny) belly button. The weird little salmon-pink volcano, which one two occasions “erupted” during the change (gross? hopefully, you have no idea), was a uniquely hideous sight. What a bizarre thing it was to look at my insides sticking up out of me.
After removing and trashing the old bag, the nurse would clean the stoma area to prevent infection before applying a circle of “glue” around the stoma, where the replacement bag would be set in place over the stoma. The ileostomy bags have peal-and-stick tape along the edges to supplement the glue hold. The whole bag-change-job would take only ten minutes or so, and the revolving nurses were all very nice and professional, but it was always a peculiar house call that challenged humiliation containment.
Somehow, someway, I made it through those six weeks without keeling over dead from the shear disgust of having to hand-operate the usual job of my colon and rectum. Now it was time for my third surgery; the removal of my bag and the reattachment of my severed intestines. It would only be a two or three day hospital stay this time, but the prospect of going back to that house of healing horrors, haunted my dreams for many days prior.
Aside from more nervous moments under the bright lights pre-surgery, I don't recall much about the reattachment operation. I do remember not feeling very well afterward and running another post surgery fever. My first roommate of this second major hospital visit had me smiling at the oddity of her and her husband’s attitude. They seemed as though they were on vacation at a hotel resort. One time, I walked past their side of the room on the other side of the curtain, and saw they were BOTH in the one hospital bed together, eating a meal and watching television with wide content grins. I'm sure two-to-a-bed was against hospital rules, but I didn't care and they looked so happy.
Even though my fever dissipated, I did vomit on the second day and I felt awful, but my final roommate inspired me to leave before my third night. He was an elderly man who arrived my second night and spoke only Spanish in the morning. Through interpreters, I could hear him lobbying to be sent home that day even though he'd just been admitted, and operated on, in the middle of the night before… and had some sort of brain surgery! When I saw how old he looked, with his head wrapped in gauze that blood stains were seeping through, I told myself; if he goes home today, so do I! I was amazed to hear him talk his way into being released that very day and I immediately told the nurses I was ready to leave if that guy was. I went home that day as well.
The first few days home after being put back together were uncomfortable. The first day, I wondered if I should have stayed in the hospital one more day. I seemed to be recovering well, except I kept running a fever. My home thermometer became my enemy. Once I started experiencing more severe hot and cold spells, (one night my teeth chattered so uncontrollably on my way from bed to bathroom, that I thought surely I’d suffer some dental damage) I contacted my surgeon to question why. My surgeon said my body was battling inner-issues, leading to fever, and we'd give it some time to work itself out. My thermometer continued to disappoint me, and soon enough I was back in a local hospital getting another ct-scan.
Another abscess had developed near the surgery area, and I'd need another surgery to drain it. This time it would be a quick procedure and I'd be home the same day. A few days later, when I endured and woke up from the scheduled surgery, I was told that my abscess had somehow dissolved and drained itself, so there was nothing there to drain when they got inside. It wasn't bad news, but through bad timing or bad luck, and with no blame, it turned out to be unnecessary surgery prep and a forced sleep for no reason.
Six weeks after my reconnection surgery, and my now you see it now you don’t abscess, I started my post-operative and final chemotherapy treatments. I would not go back to my ball and chain PICC line. I was to show up at the Cancer Center one five-day-week a month for four months. I would sit in a comfy chair while a nurse injected/infused chemo juice into my arm. Mine was a fast treatment; about fifteen minutes or so, depending on how long it took to get the needle into my arm.
Two syringes full would be very slowly injected into my vein. The first would contain anti-nausea medication amongst other things. The second would be the healing, cell killing, chemo juice. I always felt bad for the other patients in their comfy chairs. Most were much older than I. They would be there when I walked in for infusion, and not only would most of them still be there for hours after I left, the entire time I was there, the nurses would be trying and failing to find a vein good enough to insert the needle into some of the poor souls.
It only really hurts when the needle is being inserted, and these older people, already suffering through cancer, have thinner veins, so they suffer a longer lasting insertion procedure. Hard as that was to witness, I'm sure it must be more difficult to see children having to deal with cancer. I’ve only viewed young cancer on TV, could not have dealt well with it then, but hope to devote time to it one day, now that I’m ready.
After the fourth month of these final treatments, I walked away from the Cancer Center feeling proud of my triumph, and fearful for my future health. I didn't know for sure that my new bowel system would function properly enough (it did/does), or if my cancer would recur (it has not). I'd also been told much about future problems I may incur due to the high amounts of radiation to which I'd been exposed. (Still no real bad word on that front)
In the first few months clear of my ordeal I did have to make a few rushed trips to the bathroom, but my system gradually got used to the idea that my rectum area (my waste holding tank) would always be much smaller. My approximately 9” of ‘tank’ had been surgically cut down to about 1 ½. My bowels normalized toward its ultimate degree over the weeks, and I slowly began to increase my physical activity.
However, on the very day I was finally able to match my pre-cancer workout routine, I noticed a small swelling on the left side of my belly-button-to-weenis scar area. I super-feared it was surgery or cancer related. It turned out that I'd exercised myself into a hernia. I wasn't using weights, only doing push-ups and other simple exercises. I was very upset and depressed that I would be forced back to inactivity after finally gaining my physical normalcy. The recovery rules from the hernia surgery, my fifth and final slice-and-dice, involved not lifting anything over ten pounds for, of course, six weeks. I did as I was told, and I survived.
I'm now officially labeled a Cancer Survivor. I feel like I was a wounded and captured animal who's been healed by more intelligent beings and turned loose back into the wild. I've been tagged, and I'll be monitored to see how a damaged and repaired member of the pack will survive thrown back in with its peers.
I've passed all the required blood and colonoscopy tests over these survivor years, and my prognosis for the future is as relatively good as anybody’s. All things considered (crippled but wiser, still alive and less fearful of an already faced death), I believe I’m a lucky man and these are my bonus years. That's my cancer story, and I'm stuck with it.
IT'S YOUR ADORABLE BEHIND:
GOT ONE DAY TO INSURE IT?
Essay #2
Give cancer one day, and give your life a break, or live impaired as I do. I’m speaking specifically about getting a colonoscopy to make sure your bowels are cancer free. I implied that it’s a one day deal, but truth is, it’s a lot less and little more. If you know you should get a colonoscopy, stop reading now and make an appointment. Bye and good luck! If you’re still with me, read and react appropriately; or not, it’s your life, it’s your time, its’ your adorable and fully functioning behind. Got one day to insure it?
The actual bum-probe procedure really does seem like a one second deal, in that, you’re listening to an anesthesiologist one second, and to your minds conscious state of being, you wake up a second later. The good doctors and nurses, in real time, are actually working for—it doesn’t factor! It’s a one second deal I’m telling you! And I would know. I’ve had 8 to 10 of these non-alien-abduction related anal probes. I’ll not research the exact number, tyvm. Please forgive me for not wanting to rehash those browns. My eighteen month ordeal ran me the whole-nine-yards, from chemo to lower anterior resection to more chemo, so trust me, I would know. For doubters, I have two words—ileostomy bag. Google it.
Truth be told, this small tale of my tails trails, is aimed at someone I know well, but this is not a tattletale, so he shall remain unnamed (hint: I got his hand-me-downs). He knows who he is. And I’m sure he knows he’s at the age and has the family history that should urge him urgently to his doctor for the old glove-and-shove. See: the last five words of the last sentence, for one of the understandable reasons that nobody wants to get a colonoscopy.
If you’re in the category of the-unnamed-fool (hint: not my big sister, but my___ _______), I feel your fear, but I’m about to get up in your rear—your face! I’m getting in your face as though you are the-unnamed-fool (hint: I’m honorable son#2).
“Can you hear me?! My face is close to yours, and I just drank a vanilla-shake flavored Ensure (the drink of survivors!), so I know you can smell me and my breath’s not too bad! Listen up dangerous-mystery butt! Am I talking too loud?! Is some of my yell-spit getting on your face?! Deal with it! Deal with me, or maybe, possibly, seven heavens forbid… deal with the big-C. And I’m not talkin’ ‘bout Charlie Brown. Good grief.”
Good grief? The colorectal tumor that was re-gifted to me, from my grandma’s genes, caused me heinous anus grief and still does. So there was and is nothing good, grief or otherwise, about the tumor-removing surgery that was performed on me in Saint Joseph’s hospital in Stockton, Ca. on April 8th of ‘08, at age 42.
“Do I have your attention yet maggot!?” Ha, sorry, I got carried away with this drill sergeant bit. I’ll compose myself, but you should remain in a slight panic; it may save your life, and to subjective degrees of equal importance… it may save your ass. Mine was saved, but juuust barely. Eight inches of my rectum was removed, along with the cancerous tumor that was growing therein. I said goodbye to thirteen inches of my colon as well. That said and done, and although I am crippled by it, I’m living well, so feel free to save your prayers and best wishes for the even less fortunate.
What symptoms did I notice in ‘07 that let me know I should run to the doctor with my hand and tail between my legs? I’ll tell you, but first I’m getting back up in your grill with more of my laugh-in-the-face-of-cancer persona, and this time I’m Dirty Harry, and I’m whispering menacingly:
“Listen good, when it comes to colorectal cancers, by the time you notice any symptoms, it’s already too late. You listenin’ pardner? You can’t wait for blood in your stool or some kind of rump pain. If you’re anywhere near fifty years old or have a family history of cancer, you gotta realize that it’s a numbers game, and know that, even though many cancer bullets are fired everyday and the chances that one is currently lodged inside you without your knowledge, is very slim… but you gotta ask yourself one question… do I feel lucky? Well do ya… punk!?”
My unnamed (hint: same mommy) acquaintance is a punk who feels lucky. Says he feels like he doesn’t need to get a colonoscopy, because… All of his reasons for not having gotten a colonoscopy yet are too stupid to print. And so are yours, if you’re in his category. The category of; could have cancer, could find it early, could save his own arse, and could get a colonoscopy, but doesn’t because he’s a fraidy-cat.
Let’s go over what he’s skird of. Here’s what colonoscopy’s deal is: You’re given an appointment and a sheet of paper with instructions to follow. The day before the scope-a-doo-dle is a, liquids-only ingested and laxative-induced ejected ordeal. No lies, it’s no fun, but, living without the majority of my long lost rectum, is permanently no-fun, so… get that, and get it done! Get the test.
The day of your candid-camera experience is not too bad. You’ll undress at the hospital and put your clothes in a bag; kind of fun if there are mirrors and you have a cute butt. Hey, I was younger at the time! You’ll cozy-up on a gurney and wait for a nurse to insert an IV. That ‘poke-and-tube’ is not overly pleasant, but it might be the worst part of the short hospital visit, so that’s not bad. The warm blanket they provide is comforting. A teddy-bear would be nice too. Hey, I was young! Well, I guess I wasn’t a toddler, so, um, never-mind about the blanket and bear thing.
You may have to wait in the bed until their ready for you for a spell, and that’s always irritating to a degree, but once you get wheeled on the gurney, or walk to get the procedure done, it’s over fast. They tell you a thing or two about why you can’t sue them if something goes wrong with the anesthesia before they gas you up with it—and then you wake up, seemingly one second later, and shake it off and go home.
Of course, hearing the results of the smelly camerawork is the emotional moment of truth, and I’m sure the possible undesirable results of the test factor heavily into the reluctance of the unnamed (hint: my brother) and maybe yourself. But potential victims (all humans) must, for their very own good, look into a mirror and get into their own faces. Give yourself hell and send yourself in for a booty test, or you’re taking too big a chance of joining me in a “manageable hell”, that is a hell-form nonetheless.
This is the point where I should tell you what it’s like to be me, mostly sans rectum, but I believe the words “sans rectum” should suffice. Get… it... done. Note; public restrooms are not the #1 cleanest enclosures for making #2. Get the test and avoid the too-often need for them.
For the record and to whom it may concern, my symptoms were as follows, in order of occurrence, and with apologies for TMI and yuckiness:
*For the first time in my, 42 years at the time, life, I experienced a sweaty/wet anus area. BTW- It led to my first doctor visit, and I was sent away without so much as a finger-insertion check. I say the un-diagnosis was due to my too-young for CC age, and ignorance of my family history. My grandmother on my mom’s side had colon-cancer in her early 40’s as well. If I’d mentioned my granny’s cancer on a form or to that first doctor, I’d have been tested more thoroughly and probably/maybe more of my rectum would have been retained.
*A dull throbbing pain near my tailbone. (the tumor)
*Night sweats. I’d occasionally wake up sweat-soaked from head to toe.
*Blood in my stool, noticed in the toilet pre-flush. Check your poo-poo occasionally. Make it fun! Pretend you’re searching for signs of red life on Planet Brown. Note 1: Bright red blood, maybe okay news (possibly hemorrhoids) Dark red blood= not good. Note 2: All of this is from my survivor’s point of view and memories only. I am not a doctor. Although, my mom says I’d look good as one on a cereal box.
*Accidental sharts.
Gross fun/ironic/Jawsy note: The blood and the circling sharts were during the same time period.
You might conclude that my little tale told was all over the place. Look around, you’ll see that cancer is all over the place as well. And if it’s where the sun-don’t-shine, it’s up to you to expose it. Get… It… Done! Get the test. Get a colonoscopy or modern tech’s best equivalent. That means you bro. Concerning my attempts to be funny, I mean no disrespect to anybody connected in any way with the serious issue of cancer, so I hope you don’t mind that I infused humor into my tale—ouch. I simply and strongly believe that laughter is a medicine.
Well, that’s my story and I’m stuck with it. Thank you for listening leniently. Don’t get stuck with a story like mine. If you should get a colonoscopy, get it done. It’s best that you get it done—Mark!
CANCER? WHY NOT YOU?Essay #3
No, no, no… not; Why me? That’s a cancer question that has no reasonable answer. Why not you? Now that’s a sensible big-C question. Why not you? Why can’t you be a cancer survivor, who not only bounces back and thrives, but trampolines to a higher place and enjoys a better life than ever? And not in spite of cancer, because of it! You’re not special because you got cancer, but it can motivate you to be exceptional.
I’m just one example of course, and it’s true that I am special, in that I rarely tie my backless gowns and I wear spectacular undergarments, so you may say it’s easier for me than others to survive with aplomb. But consider the stage why-me colorectal tumor I endured, the foot of colon and majority of my rectum that I had removed, not to mention the ileostomy bag I wore for six weeks, and you may realize that… you can excel post cancer if I did! Why not you?
So, you may be wondering, why is yours truly, Mr. Mightcraphispantsatanygivenmoment, so uppity about my current life and the prospects for your survivor days? Three words--The sun rises. And if the sun rises, then life on earth continues, and the prospects of our minds capabilities can be explored once again.
Thanks to cancer, yes, thanks to it, in the years since my April ’08 lower anterior resection, the need to work from home has made me learn to be a writer well. Hmm, maybe I’m still a work in progress, but I did recently complete my debut novel. The 98,000+ words of fiction, conjured and two-finger typed, surpasses any accomplishment that pre-tumor-me was ever inspired to complete.
Thanks to cancer, yes, thanks to it, the deeper and more involved human relationships I’ve kindled and flamed, due to my fear of fighting any possible recurrences as a lonely man, are feeding my heart well, have enriched my spiritual being, are soothing my emotional beasts, and have turned my solitaire games into poker-party nights.
The slap-in-the-face realization, that life will indeed for-realsies end, is an epiphany garnered only by those who legitimately face death’s face, and it can be the most beautiful of stinging blows. If you’re driven forward by cancer’s hits, you’ll thank it one day, as this slap-happy survivor does.
Thanks to cancer; I float above the once sweated over small-stuff. Why not you? Cancer may invade your body, for a spell, but it is your thought process. And if my thought process succeeded, yours probably will. Why? I’m most likely not very smart compared to you. High school drop-outs please raise your right hand. Mine’s held high, and yet still I’m mighty! Why not you?! I’m not better than you, but I’d bet my cancer ordeal bests most others, as far as degree of difficulty, and look how fun I still am! So… why not you?!
Don’t get me wrong. I know cancer is and should be your enemy while you fight it. I’m just throwing me out there to let you know that your fears of darkness in the aftermath, while understandable, and perhaps not entirely avoidable, should be tempered by, if you don’t mind me bragging… me. Call me braggart or idiot, both would have some merit, and I know you can’t see how good I look in my spectacular under-garb, but… look at me dancing my happy-survivor dance! Why not you?!
Humans fear change as a general rule. Cancer doesn’t fear change, it intends on it. Beware: Its unpleasant intent may change you for the better. It will take patience, but you’ll have time to correctly answer the better question; Why not you?
No, no, no… not; Why me? That’s a cancer question that has no reasonable answer. Why not you? Now that’s a sensible big-C question. Why not you? Why can’t you be a cancer survivor, who not only bounces back and thrives, but trampolines to a higher place and enjoys a better life than ever? And not in spite of cancer, because of it! You’re not special because you got cancer, but it can motivate you to be exceptional.
I’m just one example of course, and it’s true that I am special, in that I rarely tie my backless gowns and I wear spectacular undergarments, so you may say it’s easier for me than others to survive with aplomb. But consider the stage why-me colorectal tumor I endured, the foot of colon and majority of my rectum that I had removed, not to mention the ileostomy bag I wore for six weeks, and you may realize that… you can excel post cancer if I did! Why not you?
So, you may be wondering, why is yours truly, Mr. Mightcraphispantsatanygivenmoment, so uppity about my current life and the prospects for your survivor days? Three words--The sun rises. And if the sun rises, then life on earth continues, and the prospects of our minds capabilities can be explored once again.
Thanks to cancer, yes, thanks to it, in the years since my April ’08 lower anterior resection, the need to work from home has made me learn to be a writer well. Hmm, maybe I’m still a work in progress, but I did recently complete my debut novel. The 98,000+ words of fiction, conjured and two-finger typed, surpasses any accomplishment that pre-tumor-me was ever inspired to complete.
Thanks to cancer, yes, thanks to it, the deeper and more involved human relationships I’ve kindled and flamed, due to my fear of fighting any possible recurrences as a lonely man, are feeding my heart well, have enriched my spiritual being, are soothing my emotional beasts, and have turned my solitaire games into poker-party nights.
The slap-in-the-face realization, that life will indeed for-realsies end, is an epiphany garnered only by those who legitimately face death’s face, and it can be the most beautiful of stinging blows. If you’re driven forward by cancer’s hits, you’ll thank it one day, as this slap-happy survivor does.
Thanks to cancer; I float above the once sweated over small-stuff. Why not you? Cancer may invade your body, for a spell, but it is your thought process. And if my thought process succeeded, yours probably will. Why? I’m most likely not very smart compared to you. High school drop-outs please raise your right hand. Mine’s held high, and yet still I’m mighty! Why not you?! I’m not better than you, but I’d bet my cancer ordeal bests most others, as far as degree of difficulty, and look how fun I still am! So… why not you?!
Don’t get me wrong. I know cancer is and should be your enemy while you fight it. I’m just throwing me out there to let you know that your fears of darkness in the aftermath, while understandable, and perhaps not entirely avoidable, should be tempered by, if you don’t mind me bragging… me. Call me braggart or idiot, both would have some merit, and I know you can’t see how good I look in my spectacular under-garb, but… look at me dancing my happy-survivor dance! Why not you?!
Humans fear change as a general rule. Cancer doesn’t fear change, it intends on it. Beware: Its unpleasant intent may change you for the better. It will take patience, but you’ll have time to correctly answer the better question; Why not you?
I LAUGH AT CANCER & YOU SHOULD TOO
Essay #4
Cancer is very not funny, and that’s why we must laugh; if not with it, then at it, or near it. A cute lady porcupine walks into a bar—too soon? You want my earned-the-right-to-joke-about-cancer credentials first? Read ‘em and weep (in paragraph three) then reap the rewards of knowing it’s not just okay to laugh about cancer, it’s wise.
Laughter is the best medicine. Don’t laugh, it is. Okay, laugh, we all know that chemo and radiation are the best C-meds, but try thriving during your treatments without some yucks. I’m kidding, don’t try that. Try this: So, this horny male porcupine walks into the same bar as—how dare I joke laugh about cancer, you say? How dare anybody not, I say. The big-C will test a human’s tolerance for sadness and despair. The afflicted must seek out humor, or beware the depressing consequences, and depression is no joke.
As I was saying; while I was at this watering hole before one of my chemotherapy infusion sessions, a cute lady porcupine walked into the bar at the very same time a horny male porcupine walked in… which one of us three got “just a little poke” first? Get it? You see, right before they stick the chemo-needle in your arm, they say, “just a little—“ Oh never mind, if I have to explain a joke…
Back to my weepy C-creds; it started with crazy eights. On April 8th of ’08, 8 inches of my rectum was removed. I have 1 ½”-ish of rectum remaining, which is juuust enough to function without the need for a permanent colostomy bag-o-poo, that I’d have to wear and deal with for the rest of my life. So, after the lower anterior resection surgery that removed most of my rectum, the tumor therein, and oh by the way, thirteen inches of my colon as well, I wore an ileostomy bag-o-poo on the outside of me (near the belly button) for six weeks. Those few C-cred details alone give me the right to joke about it and ought to tell you why victims and survivors need more than just chemotherapy infusions. We need infusions of laughter as well. As many as possible and ASAP!
Here, this quote gives a better example of why a good sense of humor must be kept throughout the duration of a cancer sentence: “You’re young and healthy, so you probably won’t have to lose your rectum.” Those are the first words said to me after I was informed that I had a cancerous tumor in my bum’s colorectal region. I could have used some laughter right then! I’m sure I would have freaked out a tiny bit less, and probably made the doctor blush (or rightfully smack me) if I’d have thought to joke with this play on words, “The last time I saw some young and healthy buns… you might say I wrecked ‘em.”
Whoa Sean, let’s keep it respectable. No, let’s not, that would fly in the face of the point I’m trying to make here. Forget respecting cancer’s intent to make us sad and serious. Even on my drive home from hearing the bad news, and the disturbing details that I failed to fully comprehend, and through tears of enormous anguish, the funny image of my post cancer self looking like a Ken Doll, sans poo-hole, percolated enough chuckles out of me to keep my sanity. That helped, because I arrived home to the arduous once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of telling my loved ones that I had cancer in my butt. Btw and for the record, in case you’re as ignorant as I was; your rectum is the “storage area” for your doody at the bottom end of your colon, and your anus is the hole the doody escapes from.
I’ll get serious for a sec, and less gross, and admit there may be some days or weeks when laughter is impossible. The post lower-anterior-resection surgery complications that turned my predicted six days of hospital stay into a hellish fifteen days left me humorless, I must admit. So I’m talking about the days when the “best medicine” of laughter is feasible and appropriate. On those days, and those are most of the days, you should not only be open to humor, you should seek it out.
For instance; during my first week’s home from the hospital, post-surgery, sleeping through the night was a rare occasion. The full-season DVD’s I watched of my favorite comedies in the wee hours of the morning kept me in touch with the joyful side of life’s foibles, and kept intact whatever mind I hadn’t completely lost at that point.
For another instance, sadness should prevail when I’m out and about and need to use a public restroom. Way too many times I’ve even had to sit/poo in those dreaded green plastic port-o-potties. If not for my always-on-the-lookout-for-humor state of being, the gruesome time I’m forced to spend public-toilet-touching does not overwhelm my pursuit of happiness. I try to focus on the graffiti reading material in these banes of my new/survivor existence, and that keeps a chuckle in my soul, if not in my trying-not-to-inhale mouth.
Truth is, I’ve never been a very serious person, for reason’s I’ll not pay a shrink to help me understand, so maybe my advice to stay on the sunny side of the road where questioned chickens cross, is easy for me to say and may not apply easily for others.
Perhaps my own words of wisdom and plain dumb are directed at myself as a keep-on-keepin’-on motivational speech type of thing. Perhaps the Cyclops chickens crossed the road to get to each other’s eye… I don’t know. But I do know that if you can’t laugh at yourself, you’ll struggle mightily through tragedies. They say that tragedy plus time equals comedy. I say; if tragedy strikes, the time for comedy is now.
Is it disgusting that I suddenly have to run while typing about my butt? No, it’s funny, because I have to go get the bread I put in the toaster a minute ago. I have to run and get it before it burns, because… I say, because ever since my big butt surgery, I’m… wait for it… wait for it… I’m black-toast intolerant! If you need some healing humor, don’t wait for ‘er, get-er-done.
I'M NOT "ALL THAT" ANYMORE:
AND THAT'S OK, NOBODY IS
Essay #5
I used to be “all that” and “a bag” of chips on my shoulder. By “all that”, I mean I used to have, all of my rectum and all of my colon and the pride that comes with ownership. And for awhile, “a bag”, meant the ileostomy-bag I was sidled with for six weeks after the lower anterior resection surgery I endured, which removed a cancerous tumor and said bowels. The chips on my shoulder came from feeling at least equal to enough people to be content with, confident about, and proud of, the person I was; maybe sprinkled with a little arrogant-Americanism. Cancer took “all that” away from me… and that’s okay.
I realize now, nine years survived, that I never was “all-that” in the first place, because nobody is. Life is too short to be all anything. There are countless things I’ll never be able to be, or accomplish or enjoy now, because of cancer. But the reality is; the same would be true if my long lost innards were still within my shapely booty. Even in my cancer-changed state, there are millions of me/occupations/lifestyles/hobbies/etc. that I can explore and/or excel at. That’s the reality and that’s that.
Thinking our pre-cancer selves and lives were “all that”, or simply better due to better health, is just a self-dug mind trap that cancer survivors fall into. If we can’t be the way we were before the disease damaged us, we assume incorrectly or give into the idea that we will be a lesser being than we were, or live a lesser life than before. It’s understandable. With new obstacles to overcome in order to rise to the level of “normal” each day, and the energy expended just to reach “normal” before we engage or try to blend in with the world, it’s natural to think that an inferior life awaits the permanently affected survivor like me. But I’ve realized that’s just more self inflicted damage of the small minded small thinking sort.
I’m not saying I’m a “think big” go-getter type either. My fledgling writing career may not jump far from this computer paper nest, or ever fly out of my yard and win prizes away from these California foothills, but I’m certain that it’s possible I can excel as the “new me”; if not through literary pursuits, than through the aforementioned millions of other things. For instance, I’ve never tried selling hemorrhoid creams door-to-door. That could be right up my alley, if you will. More seriously, an at-home working career as an oil painter holds grandiose promise. My mom used to hang my paintings on her fridge when I was young, so I obviously have some natural talent there.
Hope and possibilities are strong components in our overall pursuits of happiness. The very second a person hears the news that they have cancer, the strength that hope and possibility provides, temporarily vanishes. It was up to me to restore those strong components. It took time and it wasn’t easy, but I’ve figured out how to cope well. Knowledge of possibility was a key factor.
I’ve been obsessing on “that” when the unique part of my cancer story was “that bag”. That ileostomy “bag” that hung taped and glued near my bellybutton and substituted for my rectum for six weeks; that “bag” that I had to self-dump stool from; that “bag” that Velcro closed and opened at the bottom; that “bag”, in its disgusting way, shut the door on my belief that I was “all-that”. But it opened the door to the myriad possibilities that life on earth provides beyond all that. These were possibilities I didn’t need to look into prior to becoming merely “that”. So what, I’m no longer “#1”. So what, I’m now an expert at “#2”. I live on planet #3 and I’ve lived to be 51. I’ll take those numbers any big-C life.
All that said, I still suffer great fear and worry for my future. I am literally crippled by what cancer did to me, but I’m crippled on the inside, so people don’t know to give-me-a-break unless I ask them to. There are many jobs and plays that I simply cannot perform because of the way my new bowels perform, so I no longer enjoy the fruits of the illusion that I’m “all-that”… and that sucks, because I reveled in that illusion. But that’s more than okay. I triumph in accepting the knowledge that the “that” that I am, is the “is” that it is, and that’s that. And you know what? That can be great.
THE LEGEND OF BAG-IN-MY-PANTS
Essay #6
From the day The Bag was first mentioned by my doctor, to the days when my surgeon explained the in-lieu-of-rectum contraption that I “might” have to wear for six weeks after my lower anterior resection surgery took place… the legend grew.
I don’t believe in Bigfoot, Ghosts, or the Loch Ness Monster, and I didn’t believe I’d have a hole cut into my stomach a few inches right of my belly button, to allow my intestines to be snipped and pulled out through said hole. And I didn’t believe I’d have to deal with any kind of “Bag” I’d never heard of before or ever seen hanging on the outside of anybody else’s body. Mr. Ileostomy Bag O’Poo in my pants? Who? What? Microsoft Office Word ’07 doesn’t even recognize the word ileostomy, and neither did I. I’m looking at the red squiggly line under the word right now. It makes me wonder if The Bag ever existed; you know?
The reason things become “legends”, is because they truly were or are extraordinary to epic degrees. Bigfoot, Ghosts, Nessy, and Will Smith, have earned the moniker of “legend” for different reasons, but all are worthy. That’s why I didn’t believe in Bag in my Pants and didn’t want to acknowledge its existence; the weird plastic pouch wasn’t worthy. On April 8th of ’08 however, I saw the monster with my own two wide eyes. Seeing was indeed, believing. It was extraordinary. It was epic. It was a legend; my legend. I was indeed epically extraordinary (like Matt Damon in the Bagger golf movie) for acknowledging the existence of this “caddy”.
My “cart’s backside” was broken. But thanks to the invention of my legend, and the trial and error of preceding doctors, nurses, and the like, I was hooked up with a poop-caddy I named Mr. Bag, who traveled in my pants… and the legend of Bag in my Pants became real... to a degree.
**
I “played through” for the rounds of those extraordinary, embarrassing, and epic six weeks, with my head held mostly high, because I was confident that Mr. Bag was on my side and on my team. Like all player-caddie relationships however, there was a learning curve. We had to learn each other’s style of play. Our first time out on the course was not bogey free.
I was picked up at the St. Joseph’s hospital, which is directly across the street from a huge graveyard (convenient). My predicted six day stay in the hospital was complicated into a fifteen day torture extravaganza, so during the ride home my head was happily out the car window like a dog stuck in the back seat with a box of soap.
I played the first few holes (miles home) as though I didn’t have a caddie. I was just winging it without checking with him at all. I was tired of checking with people; “Nurse, is it okay if I do this? Doctor, is it okay if I do that?” I’d just escaped a prison-like sentence. I was a free man who would do as he pleased! Plus, I was not used to playing with a caddie. I’d been making my own decisions on life’s course since the day I left the comfort of my mommy’s home when I was 18. Or maybe I was 40? Point is; I moved out eventually and became independent-ish. Halfway home, a one hour drive from the city hospital to my rural abode, I finally put my hand on Bag’s shoulder to see if he had any input at that point in the proceedings. Did he ever! The stool that was input into Bag’s expandable-to-a-point pouch was nearing too much. The balloon was about to pop--and it wasn’t filled with water!
No public restrooms were in sight or would be anytime soon. “Pull over now!” I insisted with appropriate panic. I ran through some weeds to separate myself and what was about to happen from any cars that might pass by our way. Twenty scrambling steps from the car I went knees-to-dirt under the shade of a large oak tree and fumbled with my belt to free “the legend”. My mind raced to remember the instructions the “bag nurse” had given me the numerous times she’d emptied Bag’s contents into a wash tub at my hospital bedside.
I disengaged the hold of Bag’s Velcro seal, unfolded the bottom few inches quickly, and obliterated an anthill with the pouch’s hideous entirety. I’d wisely, you could say due to Mr. bag’s wordless advice, grabbed a handful of paper-towels and shoved them in my pocket before leaving the car, so I had the wiping tools necessary to clean the bottom inside-end of the pouch in order to roll it back up to where it Velcro sealed closed again. I pulled my publicly-dropped pants back up. The bottom of the empty pouch tucked into my pants, while the top end was covered from public view by any shirt that draped lower than my waist.
Bag-in-my-Pants and I struggled to optimize our situation on that first fairway drive home, but we were determined to win our particular survivor game, so we improved over time with experience and grit. I learned to trust Bag’s advice. When its weight pulled on me, I knew to make a move that would relieve the pressure. When it was empty of angst and light in demeanor, I knew I was okay to play more vigorously and with less stress. And yet, I still didn’t entirely believe in the legend of Bag in my Pants.
I believe in things that are logical. They said The Bag made it possible for me to go without having a bowel-movement out of my “real butt” for six weeks. That’s not very logical. They said The Bag gave my rectum a chance to heal and me a chance to live without a permanent bag; Ileostomy’s lower hanging cousin, Colostomy Bag. That was hard to believe. Yes, I could obviously feel and see Mr. Bag, but I did not fully believe in it.
Cut to the day my incised intestines were stitched back together and I no longer had a stoma protruding outside of my body, and The Bag in my Pants was removed. As soon as it was gone I acknowledged it and committed to believing. Much like the laughable footage of Bigfoot long-striding through the forest, as soon as the image was no longer in view, the legend of it took over and it became a more logical thing. Much like Patrick Swayze’s Ghost, my dreams of wet clay and Demi Moore… um, I’d better skip that one. Much like the blurry photos of the Loch Ness Monster, when Bag in my Pants was first viewed, it was clearly unusual in form and fascinating, but once the picture was removed from sight, the legend of it grew and the awe it inspired was replaced by good feelings and hopes for a future of amazing wonder.
Cut to now, nine years cancer survived, I tell this tale of the legend that helped save my exposed tail, with full belief that legends do exist, and that all legends come from the human mind, in one form or another. I hope I never encounter The Bag or his sort again, but if I do, I’ll respect the legends and be thankful they exist.
I BORROWED GOD TO FIGHT CANCER:
YOU SHOULD AS WELL
Essay #7
I was baptized Catholic (if that’s even how you say it) or so I’m told. I knew little and cared even less for religion at the age of 41 in ’08, when a doctor informed me that I had a cancerous colorectal tumor that would require a major surgery… and an ileostomy bag more than the whole-nine-yards of treatments to survive it. I’m not saying the shockwaves of the bad news catapulted me into the nearest church pew or confessional, but the waves did wet my feet to my first ever real conversations, with any spirit or the like, that might be in charge of the proceedings here on earth. I borrowed God, and I recommend it.
Advancing from zero to positive faith in sixty seconds helped me immensely during my eighteen month ordeal. How I would have fared without “third party faith” during the six weeks I was strapped with an ileostomy bag-o-poo, while my surgically repaired and mostly removed rectum healed… I do not know. The healing conversations I had with a hoped-for-almighty were immeasurable in terms of their effectiveness. Some say they offered nothing more than false hope, but the conversations were real and the hope garnered was as real as the current smile on my face, nine years survived. Amen to that.
I referred to a higher power as being “in charge” and not “responsible” for the goings-on here on planet #3, because I wasn’t looking for a God to accuse of smiting me with cancer. I just selfishly wanted to save my, possibly-about-to-die, post life ass. You know; juuust in case there actually was a God or an afterlife where some such super-being would judge me and my life, I wanted to apologize for some things I’d done, and explain some others.
A great thing happened when I started having my inner conversations with an outer power; I found a serenity that was much needed in my time of crisis. At the time, my health and future were in full reliance on my own decisions and those of the health care professionals who were gallantly helping me. The mere idea that a third party could be called upon, provable to my mind or not, was a miraculous tool that helped me in the most important spiritual aspect of cancer survival; positive thinking. Or one could accurately call it; positive faith.
I feel like I should apologize to real people of faith for stepping into their world for my own personal gain, only to shy back to my agnostic ways now that I’ve gotten what I prayed for. I’m sorry, but I’ll ask that you leave the church door open and consider letting me join your belief once more… God forbid that I’ll require it.
Do I still have blind trust in a lord? When I need it it’s there. Has my faith grown because of my experience? I am not actively religious, but I still converse with He who might be and give Him thanks when I think of my doctors and nurses. Even if you don’t believe, believe that God worked for me.
KNOW TO BLAME GRANDMA AND PREVENT COLON CANCER
Essay #8
Sorry Grammy Dordy, I’m throwing you under the bus. You’re to blame for the cancerous colorectal tumor that changed my life. Don’t worry, she can’t hear me and she won’t feel the bus. Sadly, she passed many years ago. RIP grandma, I love you. I’m just throwing her under to throw this out there; if I’d had known some of my early symptoms might be re-gifts of cancer from my sweet Grammy, perhaps better tests would have caught my tumor earlier and more of my rectum could have been saved. Know the health history of your family, especially on your mother’s side.
You need to bone-up on your family’s flesh and bone history, because colorectal cancer kills in abundance, approximately 50,000 souls a year, due to the lack of noticeable symptoms. By the time a person notices some of the main tale-tale bad tail signs of; difficult bowel movements, blood in their stool or pain from a tumor, the cancer is at a progressive stage and degrees of damage have already been done. Such was the case with me. Had I known about Grammy Dordy, I would have had earlier tests that could have saved more of my rectum from being infected by the sneaky disease. Here’s a list of my symptoms and such:
I experienced a sweaty/wet anus area. It led to my first doctor visit, but I was unfortunately sent away with just a finger-insertion check that detected nothing, because the tumor was out of his reach. I say that un-diagnosis was due to my too-young for CC age, but it was mostly, of course, due to ignorance of my family history.
Night sweats. I’d occasionally wake up sweat-soaked from head to toe.
Accidental sharts (see; Philip Seymour Hoffman’s—R.I.P., definition thereof, in the movie Along Came Polly).
Also, during my shart days, a Saint Patty Day green-turd appeared. Really, it was really green. Hey! I dropped it! You only have to read about it.
The impossible to ignore symptom was blood in my stool, noticed in the toilet pre-flush. Check your poo-poo occasionally.
Make it fun! Pretend you’re playing “Where’s Waldo”, Waldo being blood in this case.
Note: All of this is from one survivor’s point of view and memories only; I am not a doctor. There you have it and now you know… what you don’t know may cripple you. Knowledge is power. Know your family health history… someday it may save your ass.
HAVE MORE WILL THAN WON'T
Essay #9
I was you, sitting in a cancer center waiting room. Are you like me? A- Relieved that it’s not a “regular” medical office, so there’s less fear of picking up a magazine to read, because cancer is not contagious. And/or, B- Weirded out by waiting in an enclosed space with other suffering people who may be knocking even harder on the reaper’s door. One thing we share for sure, we’ve both picked up the Cure.
No, not “the cure for cancer”, heaven forbid (for some reason)… I mean Cure magazine. Why not? It makes the same sense as reading a Sports Illustrated before a sporting event. The knowledge and inspiration gained in the Cure are apropos appetizers for the main course of talking to your oncologist/expert.
Hmm, maybe food analogies are best left out of the nausea-zone you may be reading in. I’ll change my main-course completely, and tell unto you as I’d have liked told unto me, when I was in your uncomfortable shoes and seat. That is, I’ll highlight the good-will instead of the bad-won’t.
I won’t tell you about my colorectal tumor in ’08 (it was bloody boring). I’ll tell you that the dull pain it created near my tailbone caused me to buy a comfy new couch! I’m still enjoying that seat in ’17. What are you enjoying Mr. Tumor?! Nothing!
I won’t tell you about the six weeks of chemo and radiation treatments I fought through. I’ll tell you that I’m a winner for having done so, and the championship belt I wear, proves that I can hold up to anything that ever needs to be endured. (It holds up my pants as well)
I won’t tell you about the lower anterior resection I had, which removed my tumor, thirteen inches of colon, and the majority of my rectum. I’ll tell you that the surgical removal of said innards makes me, technically and literally, less of an asshole now, tyvm.
I won’t tell you about the ileostomy bag-o-crap I wore for six weeks after the big surgery. I’ll tell you I started wearing baggie and more comfortable clothes during those weeks, to conceal the hideous bag. I’ve kept the style and comfort reigns supreme! Plus, the ladies have stopped ogling my formerly tightly clad and delightfully rounded buttocks. My eyes are up here, and they see that now.
I won’t tell you about my four months of post cancer-apocalypse chemo treatments, or the abscesses, hernia, and surgeries that followed. I’ll sum up by admitting to you, that cancer can indeed be all-that-bad and a bag of chemo juice, but it’s not all bad. Some good things do come from it. The wonderful nurses alone are a good reward. Seeing the work they endure, and knowing they signed up voluntarily for the job, proves to me that my fellow humans are remarkable beings capable of great deeds… and that’s a very good thing to learn.
I was you, and I was put through the C-treatment ringer, yet my half-full cup still holds more good than bad. May the good be with you, and may they call you in soon… to the smaller waiting room. That would be good.
THE SONG ENDS WITH M 'N THAT'S OK
Essay #10
I can feel you sitting there, fighting to stay positive, with your half-full blank stare. I was once you, nose in the Cure, working on big-C knowledge, knowing nothing for sure. I wonder now; is there a cure in an essay of poetic song? Let’s find out. If you know the words, please sing along.
~~ We are human, we’re not perfect,
We’re not cancers only sure fit,
We’re just how it sometimes goes,
Wilting yes, but we’re still the rose,
We get knocked down we get back up,
We get knocked back down again,
We get back up,
We climb back on,
Bring it on, we’re gonna win,
Our candles in the wind are infinite,
Cancer is the one that’s in-for-it,
Look out behind you big C,
That’s right it’s chemotherapy,
Look out in front of you C too,
Radiation beams its smile on you,
I’m a survivor, I’m a tiger,
Rocky’s got nothin’ on my eye,
We’re survivors without rival,
Human beings you and I,
We do while cancer tries,
Our eyes are on the prize,
Let only love metastasize. ~~
Oh yes I did end a cancer song with the M-word! Let us not fear words. Let us play with their meanings as we see fit, and turn them into song as we pass cancer by. Let the M-words, Mother and Marilyn Monroe, master the marauder-made malodorous updrafts in your muddled meandering mind. Let all your songs end as you please. The M-word, like ‘em C birds, will fly away with fleeing disease.
HOW THIS DEF GHI MUTED THE BIG C
Essay #11
It truly was Pearl Harbor Day ’07 and I was 41 years old. The bad news dropped on me, was a colon cancer bomb, along with the unforgettable caveat, “You’re young and healthy, so you probably won’t have to lose your rectum.” Now then, I was anatomy-ignorant at the time and thought a rectum and an anus were the very same bung-holy-cow-pie-hole at the end of my butt-crack’s rainbow. Hmm, now that I say that out loud, I crack-up, but I wonder if maybe the removal of thirteen inches of my colon and most of my rectum (I didn’t lose all of it) was actually a deserved punishment for being such a dumb-ass about the exact part-names of my soul’s only vessel. Apropos apologies for joking about a tragic day, but I should joke and do, and you should too. Cancer has to be funny.
If you’re not actively seeking humor and laughter during your cancer ordeal, you will suffer more than I did during mine, period. And good luck beating my tales of woe-Nelly—that tumor is rearin’ a big ugly head in my booty! In other words; my big C was huge, and it’s always behind me, but I’m still a DEF GHI. If HBO’s Def Comedy Jam still existed, and the word guy was spelled with a big HI, and you’re thinking alphabet, the title of this essay would actually very nearly make sense. But, my self-given title of Soothsaying Silly Seeking Cancer Survivor doesn’t make much sense either… or does it?
It does because, we must infuse humor into all things cancer related… like chemo into a patient--as often as necessary and sometimes too much, just to make sure. You may ask, “Jeepers Sean” (or you may begin your query less dorky), “Golly Sean, how do you keep your sense of humor in spite of the whole-nine-yards of syringes and worry you were drugged and drug through, and the fact that your lower anterior resection surgery crippled your bowels and your lifestyle to drastic degrees?” I say, because I wanted the heavy tears and the down-pulling temporary insanity I knew I’d face, to be balanced with the lightness of laughter, or at least some healthy smiles underscoring the bile.
Don’t tell my dog, but I’m going to admit that I’m human, so naturally I struggled mightily with my attitude during and after my battle with stage-WTF colon cancer. Dude, my attitude was… oh, what’s the word… bad. Wolverines looked at me and said, “Lighten up and hold your head higher.” Oscar the Grouch—didn’t say anything; he’s a freakin’ Muppet, not a real talking animal! Don Rickles called, and we had a nice chat. What I’m saying is; the fears caused by and the harsh reality of my cancer situation made me an angry young-ish man. What helped the most to bring me out of my funk was humor. In other words, have F’n fun with C or it’ll F with your fun capital.
In better words, keep laughing and you’ll be a DEF GHI soon, with the big-C behind you. In more understandable words, search out seemly humor to combat your disease. Or is it, they reamed out my tumor when I got on my knees? No matter, I think you’ll be fine. Unless, you don’t have a sense of humor, in which case, you’re screwed. Nah, you’ll be fine.
Contact Sean by Email at: sean@seanpresleywrites.com © Copyright 2017 Sean Presley - All Rights Reserved
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