Writing Again?

It’s been a long time since my last post. Honestly, I’m not really sure why it’s taken me so long to come back to Check Your Butt. 

Every now and then I’ll think, “I really should knock out a quick blog post,” and then I’ll find a reason not to. Maybe it’s because I’ve felt like I haven’t had much to share these days; maybe it’s because I’ve wanted to create some space from my adventures of 2020-21; or maybe it’s because some twisted corner of my brain thinks that if I start writing again, I’ll bring the cancer back. Who knows. Either way, I’ll admit that it’s nice to write again.

So, where to start?

Well, it’s been roughly two-and-a-half years since I had my rectum and a few dozen lymph nodes taken out — plus an ileostomy bag put on, then removed. I was unbelievably fortunate to have avoided chemo and radiation, and I suppose that by the typical definition of “cancer free” as reaching the five-years-post-treatment mark without a recurrence, I’m roughly halfway home (knock on wood…there’s that superstitious part of my brain again).

If you’ve read my other posts, you know that I have a bit of a fascination with how the mind works. The human brain is a funny thing. It tells us stories, it can trick us, and it can be a formidable opponent if you tend to consider yourself an overthinker like I do. It can also be a beautiful thing when you make a breakthrough. Finding a way to reframe a problem, or a way to be more of an observer of your thoughts than a victim, or a way to just plain get some perspective — these can be hard-won but enormously satisfying triumphs.

My biggest struggle these last few years (and maybe even particularly the last 12 months or so) has been something of a mental tug-of-war. Yanking one end of the rope is a really annoying and pervasive fear that the cancer is going to come back, that I won’t live out the promise I made to myself to dance with Addie at her wedding, that maybe I’m just one of those people chosen by some higher power to live a shorter-than-average life, and on and on.

At the other end of the rope is this feeling of sheepishness and guilt, that I’m not being nearly appreciative enough of the fact that among a tiny fraction of folks who get cancer in their early thirties, I’m in an even more microscopic subset lucky enough to emerge relatively unscathed; that if I was mentally tougher, I’d just get over it, thank my lucky stars for what was ultimately a Stage 1 diagnosis, and move the hell on with my life. You know, like a normal person would.

That first voice is like, “Don’t get too comfortable, buddy — you never know. You’re already in a select group, so you can’t rule anything out at this point. Statistics clearly don’t apply to you anymore.” Then the second voice volleys back, “Yo…how about a little gratitude?!” And then I’m reminded yet again of all the stories I’ve heard and read of folks in similar situations whose journeys took horribly heartbreaking turns despite toughness and courage far exceeding mine.

I try to let these competing characters flit in and out without giving them too much power, but to be honest, it’s still a daily challenge, even years removed from the thick of battle.

On the one hand, I’m this very lucky guy living a great life with a wonderful family (including a spouse who defies superlatives and a daughter who might end up president), a job and company I love, and financial means that the broke twenty-five-year-old (hell, the broke thirty-year-old) me could’ve never fathomed. And other than the moderate day-to-day inconveniences that come with having a large and mechanically important piece of your butt missing, it can be easy to momentarily forget — in the bigger context of all those remarkable blessings — that cancer was ever even a part of my life.

On the other hand, there’s no going back from the fact that I was statistically struck by lightning. However deeply appreciative I may be of my ensuing good fortune, winning a dubious lottery like that just flat-out messes with your head. I’ve learned it can lead even a (mostly) rational mind to some weird places.

On the physical side, I have to say that I’m blown away by the power of the human body. I had my bag removed in December 2020, and I spent the first half of 2021 running to the bathroom 20-30 times some days (and many nights), wondering if I’d ever approach anything resembling tolerable bowel function. I’d hear people talk about how it can take 2-3 years for your reconnected colon to re-learn its job(s) sans rectum, and I’d be really skeptical. A healing window of 6-12 months was believable, but two years? There’s no way any physical process can take that long. I assumed that whatever progress I’d made in the first year was going to be the extent of it.

But it really has taken two-plus years to heal. I definitely still use the bathroom a lot more than normal people do, but it’s become infinitely more manageable than I could’ve ever imagined back in 2021, or even, say, the first half of 2022.

(Oh, and I can’t recommend the Toto Washlet highly enough. It’s definitely not cheap, but even for those of you with regular bowel habits, it’s worth taking a look. It takes a LOT for me to describe a product as truly life-changing — but this one has been. Alexis surprised me with it when we remodeled our bathroom; see what I mean by “defies superlatives”? If the gift of warm water on your butt isn’t love, I don’t know what is.)

That I’ve meandered off into toilet reviews is probably a sign that it’s time to wrap this one up. But first, one final tidbit: Addie (now four-and-a-half) no longer talks about how I got “cancered”; she now pronounces “cancer” correctly. I’m of course stinking proud of how smart she’s getting — she’ll need those brains in the White House — but I have to admit that “cancered” was pretty cute while it lasted.