I’m currently perched in a small window sill on the 7th floor of MD Anderson’s main building, drinking a below-average iced latte and listening to Blur’s Song 2. Out the window, I’m watching people and traffic pass by, soaking in a small moment of peace before I head in to talk with my colorectal surgeon.
There’s a sticker on my laptop that makes me laugh every time I see it. It says:
“This too shall pass, but like HOLY S**T.”
Honestly, that might be the most accurate mantra I’ve ever encountered.
I didn’t post an update yesterday—not because there wasn’t news, but because I didn’t want to let frustration and anger misrepresent it.
Yesterday included a CT scan, a visit with a geneticist, and then a meeting with my radiation oncologist. Let’s start with the good news: the cancer hasn’t spread and hasn’t ruptured the colon wall. That’s a win. That should have been the headline.
But that wasn’t the only news I got.
I also learned that an ostomy bag is unavoidable. Even if it’s temporary, it’s still a bag attached to the front of my stomach. From a personal and psychological standpoint, that hit me hard. It’s… well, shitty news. (Yes, pun intended.)
Then came the treatment schedule—turns out, I’ve been wildly optimistic. I had pictured myself done with radiation by the end of October, surgery by mid-November, and back to normal life in time for Thanksgiving.
Turns out, I suck at estimations. No surprise to Jeremy or anyone on my team at work who’s seen my feature timelines.
Here’s what the actual plan looks like: surgery for the ostomy bag on September 23, followed by 10 days of recovery, then five and a half weeks of radiation—with chemo during that time. Neither the duration nor the chemo were part of my original mental draft. After that, I’ll need a few weeks to recover before undergoing surgery to remove whatever’s left. And then, likely, eight rounds of harsh chemo to clean up anything hiding elsewhere in my body.
Which means… I’m in this until sometime next year.
So yeah, I didn’t write yesterday because it would’ve been a rambling stream of curse words, a bad pun, and then more swearing. I try to limit the profanity, if only to avoid getting a call from my mom about my language.
So that brings me to today, sitting in this window sill with my latte and my music. Cooler heads have prevailed. The anger’s dulled, and the question now is: what’s next?
Well, now I move forward.
The ostomy bag is coming—I’ll deal with it.
I’ll be staying in Houston for at least the next five or six weeks. Other than my buddy Dave and his son, I won’t be seeing many people in person while I adjust to this “crap bag” (last pun, I swear).
Then comes radiation and chemo, and I’ll get through that too. Because none of this—not cancer, not a bag, not even the damn chemo—gets to dictate how I live my life. No more than diabetes or anything else I’ve faced so far.
As I write this, I can feel my mood already shifting—upward. That happens a lot, especially when I write while listening to some good old rage rock. Korn, Tool, Pantera, Deftones… you get it. It’s shockingly therapeutic for me.
There’ve been some surprising, meaningful moments recently that I’m genuinely proud of.
At work, a senior leader invited me to give a safety message during an all-hands meeting—a big deal kind of event. Naturally, I got up and talked about cancer screening and how important it is. I managed to squeeze in a few jokes and, yes, a couple of curse words. Very professional… for me, anyway.
What followed was overwhelming: messages of love, support, shared stories—and most importantly, people showing me they were getting screened. That meant the world.
If this experience leads to even a handful of people I know (or just met) getting screened and catching something early—or avoiding it altogether—then this shitty process has another silver lining.
Also: my older brother continues to show up in huge ways. Everyone has, truly. But having a sibling who works in genetic oncology and knows how to navigate this mess? That’s been invaluable. He’s helped steer my treatment in ways only an expert can. I’m beyond grateful for that.
Next, I need to find a place to live in Houston—probably in Montrose so Tugboat (my dog) has some stuff to do. I’ll pack up some cookware, pick out the books and video games I want to bring, and try to make the most of the time.
If I’m lucky, I’ll spend it gaming, reading, resting, cooking, maybe even studying a bit. Hopefully not going crazy in a city that still feels kind of alien, alone except for Tugboat.
Normally I’d be excited about living somewhere new—meeting people, trying food and coffee spots—but with the ostomy bag situation, I’m not sure how social I’ll be. We’ll see. Time will tell.
But for now, all I need to do is get through today.
And then see what tomorrow has in store.