here’s this YouTube clip I saw — I think it was stolen from a movie with Morgan Freeman — where someone asks: When you pray for strength, do you think God just gives you strength, or does He give you the opportunity to develop strength? I don’t know the answer to that question. Probably won’t for certain until this life is over. But I like the idea all the same. I bring this up because this week, more than any other, I’ve needed that idea to be true. I’ve needed this week to mean something — to be something. And I’m hoping all of it is exactly that: an opportunity to build strength, and trust, and faith in God.
Let me start with the good news: Round five of chemo went well. Like, really well. No symptoms during treatment, no side effects after. So that part? Great. But here’s where that strength-and-trust prayer kicks in.
Without being too graphic (but let’s be real, I have colon cancer — there’s no such thing as too graphic anymore), the whole “food goes in, food comes out” system is kind of…failing me. In the past two weeks, I’ve used the restroom twice. Twice. I’ll let you imagine what that’s like without getting into more detail. Or maybe don’t imagine it — you’re welcome either way.
Last week I had an MRI and CT scan. I thought I understood what the doctors said at the time, but apparently I didn’t — which, in my defense, is understandable considering I was being anally probed by three women while they were explaining things. Multitasking has never been my strong suit, especially when it involves literal ass work.
Turns out, the tumor hasn’t shrunk at all. Big suck. But, the chemo is doing what it’s supposed to: it’s keeping the cancer from spreading. That’s the job right now — and the doctors weren’t expecting shrinkage (pause for Seinfeld reference) this early in the process anyway. Still, I didn’t catch that the first time. Probably because again: three women, one rectum. You try focusing.
So, here’s where it all leads: Unless there’s a miracle, I’m heading toward a colostomy bag — even if just temporarily, maybe for three months or so. And yeah, I know, in the grand scheme of things, that’s not that long. People live decades with colostomy bags. People thrive with them. And I’m lucky to even have options like this. But psychologically? That shit is hard.
I can’t wrap my head around having a bag of crap hanging off the outside of my body. How do I sleep with that? Exercise? Go out in public? Sure, maybe it can be hidden — but I’ll still feel it. I’ll still know it’s there. And the worst part? I don’t even know how to make a joke about it yet.
That is when I know I’m not dealing with something well — when I can’t make light of it. Humor is usually my default, my safety valve. And right now, even the jokes feel stuck. Just like, well… everything else.
But — and this is important — I’ll get there. I always do. I just don’t know when or how, and that’s the hard part. So if you ask me how I’m doing and I say “shitty,” know that I’m trying to laugh about all this shit, but I’m not quite there yet.
All in all, I’m still doing fine. I just wish God had chosen a slightly less shitty way to give me the chance to develop more strength and trust. (That was a good joke… I think.) Sorry for all the cussing, Mom. =)
And who knows — maybe the fact that I managed to make this many jokes in one post is a sign I’m finally starting to deal with it. One step at a time.