It’s been five days since I last wrote. Healing seems to be going well—especially after The Great Sneezing Incident of 2026, which thankfully did not result in anything dramatic popping open inside my body. Apparently things can just… move around in there post-surgery without immediately killing you. Good to know.
I’m still not sure if that means I’m lucky, or if I’m slowly deteriorating into some kind of polite, articulate zombie and just haven’t noticed yet. Since I’m still cognitive enough to type full sentences, I’m choosing to believe it’s luck.
The biggest improvement over the last few days is mobility. A week ago, getting out of bed or off the couch was an Olympic event. My surgeon did, after all, cut through most of my abdominal wall, so that tracks. But still—every time I needed to get up, it involved rolling onto my side, propping myself on one elbow, sliding my feet out, and performing what can only be described as a slow-motion Turkish get-up. (You might have to Google that. It’s a CrossFit thing. This one’s for you, Ed.)
And since I had to get up roughly twice an hour—to get water, get food, or empty this brand-new level of ostomy-bag hell—I was basically running that event nonstop. It was exhausting. And painful. And humbling.
Thankfully, that part is mostly behind me now. Getting up isn’t easy, but it’s no longer a full production.
What I do have is a spectacular bruise line across my waist, right below my belly button, like I’ve been wearing an invisible championship belt. There’s also a weird bulge that looks and feels… unsettling. I’m choosing to believe it’s just leftover swelling from a 13-hour surgery. If it’s something else, I am in absolutely no hurry to find out.
A lot has changed since surgery. Most notably: no colon, and by extension, no cancer. Hard to beat that.
But one thing remains: the bag.
Well. Technically, a new bag.
They closed the original location and relocated it to the other side of my body. The section of intestine it was attached to got removed, and in order to let everything heal where they reconnected things to my “exit hole,” they had to reroute traffic. So now it’s connected to my small intestine instead.
Enter: the ileostomy.
Going into this, I expected exactly one thing: a literal shit bag attached to my stomach. (Not a metaphor. Just… facts.)
What I did not expect is that it fills completely differently. The contents are more like applesauce, have almost no odor, and somehow manage to be both deeply gross and strangely better than before.
Still: I hate it.
I am counting down the days until it gets reversed and I can regain some semblance of my old life. I would’ve said “normal life,” but I think normal is gone. And honestly, “normal” doesn’t mean much anyway.
I don’t know what my new normal will look like.
I do know I’ll eventually be able to wear something other than black and navy. Light colors show the outline of the bag way too clearly, and my emotional stability can’t handle that yet. So for now, I’m dressed like a depressed minimalist.
Beyond that? It’ll be trial and error. How to eat. How to use the bathroom. How to manage the exciting new anxiety of possibly defecating in my pants as a grown adult.
Yet another square on my 2026 Life Bingo card.
And somehow, it’s only January.
At this point, I’m not even sure what other squares could possibly top the ones I’ve already filled.
But—because this is me, and because every one of these posts eventually turns this way—there is good stuff too.
I’ve been smiling more. Like, genuinely. I’ve been enjoying small things with a level of happiness I don’t remember having as an adult. I feel curious again. About what’s coming. About what’s possible. About what might be waiting just outside my field of view.
I’m already more careful with my time. I don’t want to spend it on things I won’t be able to explain to my future self. “Why did you do that?” is becoming a real filter.
I’m looking forward to opportunities at work to say, “I don’t know,” and then figure it out alongside new friends and colleagues.
I’m looking forward to taking Dean’s Shelby to Antwerp and driving down to Tivat, like Mike, Dov, Dean, and I talked about last year.
That three-piece bespoke suit is getting closer to being real too—though given how much weight I’ve lost, my measurements are now a complete mystery. So that should be an exciting adventure in itself.
All in all, yeah, I’ve still got challenges ahead with this stupid cancer story. Recovery isn’t over. The bag isn’t gone. There’s more work to do.
But I also have more opportunities than I’ve ever felt before.
And I don’t plan to waste them.
It should be a good year.
If nothing else, it’s already started better than last year.
On this exact day last year, I was sitting at the Grey Ghost in Detroit, staring at my favorite burger on the planet, unable to eat more than two bites without getting sick. That was the first real sign that something was wrong.
I’m going back there soon.
I’m finishing that burger.
I’ve been craving it for far too long.