It’s late February, and I’ve got about six more weeks to go before I can finally be done with cancer surgeries, bags, and the general inability to use a toilet like most people in this world. It’s been a hell of a year— and that’s putting it lightly.

Lately, I find myself staring at my healing incisions every morning, studying them like they might answer a question I haven’t quite figured out how to ask. I wonder what kind of scars I’ll be left with. I’m not worried about them from a vanity standpoint. I’m more curious about the story they’ll tell. What conversations might they start if they’re ever visible to the outside world? That probably won’t happen often, but still, I think about it.

In some of the Reddit forums I’ve been reading about cancer survivorship, someone wrote that scars are a reminder that cancer was there—and that it never really lets you forget it could come back. Scars aren’t “goodbyes.” They’re more like, “Don’t forget about me.”

I don’t know yet if that’s where my mind will go once I get some distance from all of this. I hope not. I hope I’ll be strong enough to look at those scars and think something more like: I know cancer fancies me, but that doesn’t mean the asshole gets to dance with me. (That could’ve been a cancer pun, but it wasn’t this time.)

Still, I’m trying to brace myself for the moments that will inevitably come—the random ache, the strange pain, the odd feeling that makes my stomach drop and my mind race. The “what if it’s back?” moments. I don’t yet know exactly how to combat that fear.

What I do know is this: the best defense I have is the mindset I’ve been building this year—the belief that today is a gift. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. None of us do. But right now, in this moment, I can choose to fully engage with whatever is in front of me. Big things. Small things. Ordinary things. I don’t want to look back someday—whether cancer ever tries to cut in again or not—and wonder why I didn’t take advantage of the time I had.

It’s easier said than done. Living like every day matters sounds great on paper. In practice, it takes intention. It takes reminding myself over and over again.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned through all of this, it’s that no one grows during the easy seasons. Growth comes from the stretch, the discomfort, the uncertainty. So by that measure, I must have grown a ton this past year.

I’m not entirely sure yet where or how.

But I will

This has been an oddly hard week.

I’m laying in bed at a Westin inside the Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport, staring at the ceiling and waiting for tomorrow morning’s flight. I haven’t been in Detroit in a little over a year. The last time I was here, I technically went home knowing something was very wrong. It was the first real indicator that I was sick. A few weeks later, I would get my diagnosis.

I wasn’t hesitant to come back. I don’t really think the location itself had anything to do with what happened over the last year. But coming back cancer free did feel surreal, like revisiting the scene of an accident you somehow walked away from. A friend of mine even sent me a shirt that said, “Round two Detroit! You hit like a bitch!” and genuinely expected me to wear it while I was here. Self-preservation—and the good sense not to tempt fate—kept me from even bringing it, but it did make me laugh.

Earlier this week, James Van Der Beek died of nearly the exact same diagnosis I had, as far as I can tell. We were nearly the same age. For reasons I can’t fully explain, that shook me. I don’t know if his treatment didn’t work, or if it came back, or if his situation was completely different. But it’s impossible not to make comparisons. Impossible not to wonder if somewhere down the road, I could end up in the same place.

I know that’s not logical. No two cases are the same. But logic doesn’t have much authority when fear decides to show up.

By Wednesday, those thoughts had mostly quieted down. I had a scheduled phone checkup with my doctor, and I’d been looking forward to it. Healing, at least physically, seems to be going well. The pain that’s been with me since surgery has faded a little more every day, and as of now, I’m mostly pain free. Some of the wounds still have a lot of healing left to do, but she was happy with my progress.

We scheduled the reversal of my ileostomy bag for March 24th.

Six weeks.

Six weeks until I get back to some version of normal.

She was quick to remind me, though, that “normal” is going to be a moving target. She explained that there will be bad days. Probably a lot of them. There’s no way to predict how my intestinal tract will behave without a colon, and accidents aren’t just possible—they’re likely, especially early on. That part sucked the celebration out of the good news a bit.

I’d like to believe my streak of beating expectations will continue here too. But it’s hard not to imagine the alternative. The idea that adult diapers might become part of my daily life is still something my brain refuses to fully process.

This is where the internet becomes both a blessing and a curse. If you go looking, you’ll find plenty of stories from people who adapted, who found their rhythm again, who live normal lives. You’ll also find stories from people who didn’t. I suspect the people who ended up okay are more willing to talk about it than those who are literally shitting the bed every day. Either way, eventually I’ll find out which group I belong to.

Today did not inspire confidence.

I was in the bathroom at work here in Detroit, emptying my bag, when it slipped as I opened it. What followed was less of an accident and more of a crime scene. Floor. Wall. My very, very white shoes. Everywhere.

For a visual reference—if you’re sick enough to want one—there’s a bathroom scene in the movie Desperado involving Antonio Banderas and Quentin Tarantino. It wasn’t exactly that, but spiritually, it was in the same neighborhood.

White leather, thankfully, doesn’t stain easily. Small victories.

I did my best to clean myself up, then went and sat through a three-hour workshop with my new boss and my new team, hoping to God there wasn’t any lingering smell or visible evidence of the war crime that had taken place one floor below. There were several moments during that workshop where I briefly considered whether jumping out of a fourth-floor window would be an overreaction. Thankfully, I chose restraint.

Still, it was another reminder that even though I’m cancer free, I’m nowhere near back to normal. That dignity, at least the version of it I used to know, might be gone for good.

I wish I could have talked to James Van Der Beek. I’d want to know if he dealt with things like this too. If he had moments where his body betrayed him in public. If he ever sat in a room full of people, pretending everything was fine while silently praying no one noticed something was very much not fine. I’d want to know what he learned. What he feared. What he would have done differently—if anything.

Not so I could avoid it. Just so I could understand.

Either way, this week sucked.

Detroit does not, in fact, hit like a bitch.

Doctors are both incredible and terrible at the same time.

And no matter what, always wear black pants when traveling for work. Just in case the bag decides to commit suicide while you’re meeting your new boss.

These are lessons I really wish I never needed to learn.

Oh well.

I’m almost home.

I’m laying on my couch, watching mildly ridiculous YouTube videos about surviving in the Alaskan bush during insane weather. I hate the cold, so this is a skill set I will almost certainly never need. But after the last year, I’ve learned not to rule anything out.

Physically, I think I’m healing pretty well. At least, what I can see on the outside looks good. The inside is a mystery. I have no real idea how my intestines are doing, and that’s occasionally nerve-racking. Still, as unsettling as that is, it’s nothing compared to this newest chapter in the saga.

The ileostomy bag.

I really thought radiation would be the hardest part. Or chemo. Or surgery. Or the anxiety that cancer might come roaring back the way it did with my dad. Surely one of those would be the worst thing.

Nope.

It’s the bag.

This is my second type of ostomy, and I assumed it wouldn’t be much different than the first. I had already learned that system. I’d adapted. I’d figured it out. How hard could Version 2 be?

Very hard, apparently.

Because this one sits much higher in the digestive process, everything moves through at warp speed. It fills up fast. Really fast. The contents are either liquid or applesauce consistency and, mercifully, mostly odorless. That last part is a blessing. Everything else is… not.

When I change the bag—which is usually every two or three days—I do it right before a shower. With the old bag, I could more or less time things. I had a system. I could remove it, shower, clean up, put the new one on, and walk away with minimal drama.

This one does not believe in systems.

This one believes in chaos.

I have absolutely no idea when it’s “safe” to take it off. There is no predictable rhythm. No warning. No courtesy knock.

So there I am, in the shower, trying to scrape off the stubborn remains of medical adhesive that apparently has been engineered by NASA to survive reentry. And at some point, without consultation or consent, my stoma—this little piece of intestine sticking out of my stomach—just decides:

Now.

Now is the time.

And it proceeds to spew.

I know this sounds vile. It is vile. But I’ve never shied away from embarrassing details before, so why start now?

There is something uniquely demoralizing about sitting naked in a shower while a part of your body you no longer control calmly defecates onto the floor. You can’t rush it. You can’t stop it. You can’t negotiate with it. You just… wait.

Sometimes for up to forty-five minutes.

Forty-five.

In those very long showers, you have a lot of time to think.

First, you briefly consider burning the bathroom down afterward as the only reasonable form of sanitation. That idea quickly runs into reality—mainly that you don’t own the place and arson is expensive.

So Plan B becomes Clorox.

A lot of Clorox.

I scrub that shower floor like I’m performing an exorcism. And honestly, it feels appropriate.

But before any of that—before the bleach, before the cleanup—I’m just standing there, trying not to cry, trying not to lose my mind, trying very hard not to get anything on my feet. Repeating to myself: This is temporary. This is temporary. Just a few more weeks.

Which helps.

A little.

But not much.

Because nothing really prepares you for this particular indignity. Not the scans. Not the surgeries. Not the hospital rooms. Not the needles. Not the fear.

Nothing prepares you for watching bodily functions happen in front of you, beyond your control, while you wait it out in a shower.

I was warned that the last mile of the cancer journey is often the hardest. I understand that now. There’s no “bright side” to moments like this. There’s no inspirational quote that fits. It’s just gross and exhausting and deeply humbling.

It has also given me a whole new level of respect for people who live this way permanently.

My heart breaks for them.

I’ve been proud of how I’ve handled this past year. And I should be. It’s been brutal. But standing in that shower, on my worst days, I realize how small my struggle is compared to people who don’t get an end date. Who don’t get a reversal. Who don’t get “temporary.”

Their strength is staggering.

So I do what I can.

I endure.

I laugh when possible.

I marvel at the absurdity of my life.

And I focus very carefully on not getting shit on my toes.

Five more weeks of this.

I think.

I can do that.