My buddy at work, Jeremy, always says, “Don’t speak that evil into existence.” It cracks us up every time. He’s a good dude. I never really bought into that kind of superstition… but maybe I should’ve—just a little.
In my last post, I rambled on about how I wasn’t going to subscribe to this whole “new normal” thing. I think I might’ve spoken too soon. This next part might be TMI, but I’m not exactly shy, and honestly, what’s the point of going through all of this if I’m not going to be brutally honest?
Earlier this week, I met with my new nutritionist. We hit it off right away—turns out we’re both from San Antonio and even went to the same high school. Small world. When we got into the nitty-gritty of my chemo diet, she told me I’d need to steer clear of most vegetables, pulpy fruits, and whole grains. Basically, a “fat kid diet” was on the table to help me keep weight on. Apparently, your body burns a crazy number of calories just existing on chemo. Who knew?
When we talked specifics, I mentioned that I’d been randomly craving bean and cheese tacos lately—real-deal, hole-in-the-wall kind of tacos. I was thrilled to find out I could go nuts with those. They’re soft-ish, calorie-dense, high in fat—basically a green light in my current condition. So I went for it. And by “went for it,” I mean nine tacos a day for three days straight. Like a man on a mission.
Now, had I paused for half a second, I might’ve remembered that I hadn’t had tacos in 11 months. I might’ve considered the fact that some of my internal organs don’t have cancer and maybe deserved a little heads-up. But no. Full steam ahead.
By Friday at 11 a.m., I was in a level of pain I didn’t know existed—ping-ponging between praying for relief and contemplating death. Okay, slight exaggeration. But it was really bad. Turns out shoving a mountain of tacos into a body with a partially obstructed intestine isn’t the move.
For the next 10 hours, I lived in some weird zone between agony and regret.
And here comes the real TMI: when the meds finally kicked in, they worked a little too well. I spent the next 14 hours making bathroom trips every 30 minutes like clockwork. From 8 p.m. Friday to 10 a.m. Saturday, I rotated between the bathroom and my bed, with occasional pit stops in a hot bath just to break the cycle. Not sure why baths helped, but they did. And by that point, I was too delirious to care about whether soaking in hot water was making me more dehydrated.
Eventually, the relief came. Not in the form of death, thankfully. Although dying on a toilet did cross my mind, and the thought was both darkly hilarious and wildly depressing. It’s strange where your mind goes when you’re sleep-deprived, dehydrated, and in pain.
So what came out of all this (besides… you know)?
– A ridiculous story
– A 12-pound weight loss in 12 hours (seriously)
– And a newfound respect for Jeremy’s “don’t speak evil” philosophy.
Today’s Sunday, things are more or less back to “normal,” whatever that means. While I was going through all of this—again, pun fully intended—I stumbled across a clip of the comic Matt Rife. Regardless of what you think of his comedy, he said something that stuck with me: “If you can find the light in whatever dark situation you’re going through, and you can laugh at the things that should make you miserable—including yourself sometimes—that’s how you win at life.”
I’m paraphrasing (cutting out some of the cussing for my mom’s sake), but the point made me smile—especially as I sat down to write this. Because the absurdity of it all is funny. Even when it’s not.