Since getting back to Austin, I haven’t had much to write about. I expected that, and honestly welcomed it. No news is good news for the next two months. But I kept trying to find something worth writing about—and I really should have watched what I wished for.
This evening I took my friend Emily to Canje, the Caribbean spot in East Austin that I love. We were celebrating her birthday, and it gave me an excuse to go out in public with another human and pretend to be normal. That was the plan anyway. Consider that your foreshadowing.
Two hours before dinner, I switched to a new brand of bag. A decision that, in retrospect, makes me wonder if radiation somehow melted an important part of my brain. I didn’t think much of it when dinner started. We ordered a few of my favorites—coco buns, plantain chips, ox tail empanadas. Not long after the first round of food arrived, I felt the bag inflating from gas. This isn’t something that happens often for me, but there was no denying it. So I excused myself and handled it in the bathroom—“burping the bag,” as my friend Ramsey (an ostomy nurse who lives in my building) kindly informed me it’s called. I wish I could un-know that term.
Once deflated, I came back to the table and was having a genuinely lovely time with Emily. She warms up slowly, but once she gets talking, it’s great. Then the second round of food arrived. I pulled my napkin back into my lap and was immediately met with a wet sensation on my jeans. My heart dropped. I moved my hands discreetly and realized the end of the bag—the velcro closure—wasn’t secured at all. And what I’ll generously call “juice” had leaked out.
I’ve had a lot of unexpected fears enter the chat since getting diagnosed with cancer, but this one shot straight to the top, battling it out with “dying of cancer” for first place. For about two seconds, I genuinely considered taking the table knife and slitting my wrists just to avoid the humiliation of the moment, but cooler heads prevailed—mainly because I didn’t want to traumatize Emily.
I went to the bathroom, cleaned up as best as possible, and prayed the kitchen smells would overpower anything lingering. I have no idea if they did, but Emily didn’t seem to notice. If there’s a silver lining, that’s the one.
I don’t have a positive spin for this beyond hoping that someday, far in the future, this becomes a story I can laugh about—or at least point to as evidence that something about me became stronger. For now, I’m just glad to be home, out of those jeans, and sitting next to Tugoat, who is staring at me like he can smell exactly what happened and is wondering how I’m the one in charge.
Before I sign off, I will say the walker joke at work landed perfectly. I still have two months before I know how effective the radiation was, and outside of the bag fiasco, things are fine.
For now, I’m going to bed and hoping this never happens again