I wish I could say I’ve gotten used to this damn bag. I don’t think I have—and I don’t think I ever will.

After the embarrassing mess in Detroit, I’ve been more careful. But accidents still happen. I’ve cleaned the corners of my bathroom with more Clorox wipes in the last few weeks than I used in my entire life before this bag was installed. At this point, I’m not fully convinced fire wouldn’t be a better option. Even with the cost of burning down an entire high-rise complex, it might still be cheaper than what I’m spending on wipes.

What I didn’t realize—what no one really prepares you for—is how often this thing needs to be emptied. I’m probably doing it more than most. I can’t stand the idea of anything just sitting there against me. So I find myself on my knees in front of the toilet, slowly draining the bag, trying not to lose my temper—or worse, my optimism.

And like all my posts, there is a reason for optimism. I’ll get there.

But first, let me say this: I can’t quite come to grips with how consuming this bag is. Because of it, I’ve found myself avoiding going out. That surprises me. After surgery, after being declared cancer-free, I thought I’d be out celebrating my freedom. Instead, I’m calculating bathroom proximity.

The bag keeps you focused on it. On its contents. On where the nearest bathroom is. On whether that bathroom is private and clean. If it’s private but dirty, I can live with that. If it’s clean but not private, that’s a hard no.

There are few things more revolting—or humbling—than kneeling in front of a dirty public toilet while people shuffle in and out, fully aware that some random weirdo is on his knees in the stall. I can only imagine what they’re thinking. None of it can be good. At best, they probably assume I’m doing something illicit involving a toilet seat. I’ll let you fill in the blanks.

Another unexpected development? I now dress like Steve Jobs. Black shirt. Dark jeans. Every day. Not because I’m launching a tech startup—but because any other color shows the outline of the bag. Black hides it. So black it is.

Half the time I feel like I should be giving a TED Talk. Unfortunately, I don’t think an in-person audience would appreciate a live demonstration on ileostomy bag management the way you fine people reading this blog seem to.

So with my humility stripped away, my wardrobe reduced to a minimalist uniform, and far too much time spent on my knees in bathrooms across America, what is there to be optimistic about?

Well, the obvious one: I’m still cancer-free. That cannot be undersold.

But beyond that, I’m 22 days away from having both my chemo port and this final bag removed. Twenty-two days from a shot at something resembling a semi-normal life. Whatever that looks like without this… situation… stuck to my stomach has to be better than this current arrangement.

So no, it’s not hard to be optimistic. I just wish time would move a little faster.

For now, I’m going to call it a night, read a book, and hope this month goes faster than February. Because I am very ready to get this shit over with.

Pun fully intended.