I’m sitting in my hotel room at the Intercontinental Hotel, staring out the window at MD Anderson and wondering if tomorrow, they’ll be telling me whether or not they can save my life. This is a surreal moment—almost certainly a seminal moment in my life—and as good a place to start this story as any other.
A month ago—April 2nd—I was most concerned with applying for internal cybersecurity jobs at my company while trying to get through my most recent grad school class. Then I had a colonoscopy, and all those things faded into the background of life, like strangers’ conversations in a coffee shop.
Cancer is a strange thing to hear you have—though technically, I didn’t get told I had cancer. No, I got handed a piece of paper while getting into a car, still coming down from anesthesia, that said, “full obstruction in the colon.” That’s still the thing I’m most upset about, at least so far. I could go on a rant here, but I just don’t have the energy this evening.
In the next couple of weeks, I had visits with a surgeon who was awesome—even after he put things up my ass while I lay on an exam table in the fetal position. I had CT scans and MRIs. I met with oncologists who spoke in a near-foreign language that I still don’t see the need for. For as expensive as medical care is, you’d think they’d dumb it down to the most common language possible for the customer.
Instead, I needed my brother, who’s also a doctor, to act as a translator. He explained the pathology report said I had stage 2 cancer, which at the time was somehow good news. I would have thought good news meant hearing they made a terrible mistake and confused my medical records with some terrible human being who deserved this kind of news. But I guess there are degrees of good news when it comes to cancer.
One thing I did know was definitely good news: the cancer was nowhere near the egress hole—I’m trying out new ways to describe the asshole that sound more polite, to keep my mom from getting upset at my language—which meant it was unlikely I’d need a colostomy bag as a result of what was coming. That was in fact good news!
Eventually, after meeting with a team in Austin, my older brother wanted a second opinion and was able to work with friends to help get an appointment at MD Anderson. I don’t know if they’ll tell me anything different. I hope they do, but if not—or if the news is worse—I’ll find a way to make do and keep moving forward.
Looking back on everything that’s happened since I got the bad news, the hardest part by far was telling my mom. She went through enough cancer horrors with my dad—her husband—in the 80s, and the fear of opening old scars weighed heavily on me. A family friend, one of the great doctors we’re lucky enough to call lifelong friends, reminded me in a text that my mom is way stronger than I was giving her credit for. He was right. But still, there’s something about the idea that my mom might have to bury one of her kids that makes it hard not to cry at night—when it’s just me and Tugboat.
(Tugboat is my corgi, for those who don’t know him.)
There are a few things I take comfort in each day. One is that I’ve always believed in God. That statement can be divisive—I get why—but for me, I’ve been asking God for a way to show my faith more easily. I’m not sure this is exactly what I meant, but if this is how God wants it—I have to assume it is—then so be it.
Second, this has made it really easy to tell people I love them, and that alone is a beautiful thing.
I’m clearly not private or shy. I’ll try to update this story as it unfolds. For now, it’s 11 p.m., and tomorrow morning I get to take an enema before getting a scope stuck in me. That seems like as good a place to sign off as any.