This has been an oddly hard week.
I’m laying in bed at a Westin inside the Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport, staring at the ceiling and waiting for tomorrow morning’s flight. I haven’t been in Detroit in a little over a year. The last time I was here, I technically went home knowing something was very wrong. It was the first real indicator that I was sick. A few weeks later, I would get my diagnosis.
I wasn’t hesitant to come back. I don’t really think the location itself had anything to do with what happened over the last year. But coming back cancer free did feel surreal, like revisiting the scene of an accident you somehow walked away from. A friend of mine even sent me a shirt that said, “Round two Detroit! You hit like a bitch!” and genuinely expected me to wear it while I was here. Self-preservation—and the good sense not to tempt fate—kept me from even bringing it, but it did make me laugh.
Earlier this week, James Van Der Beek died of nearly the exact same diagnosis I had, as far as I can tell. We were nearly the same age. For reasons I can’t fully explain, that shook me. I don’t know if his treatment didn’t work, or if it came back, or if his situation was completely different. But it’s impossible not to make comparisons. Impossible not to wonder if somewhere down the road, I could end up in the same place.
I know that’s not logical. No two cases are the same. But logic doesn’t have much authority when fear decides to show up.
By Wednesday, those thoughts had mostly quieted down. I had a scheduled phone checkup with my doctor, and I’d been looking forward to it. Healing, at least physically, seems to be going well. The pain that’s been with me since surgery has faded a little more every day, and as of now, I’m mostly pain free. Some of the wounds still have a lot of healing left to do, but she was happy with my progress.
We scheduled the reversal of my ileostomy bag for March 24th.
Six weeks.
Six weeks until I get back to some version of normal.
She was quick to remind me, though, that “normal” is going to be a moving target. She explained that there will be bad days. Probably a lot of them. There’s no way to predict how my intestinal tract will behave without a colon, and accidents aren’t just possible—they’re likely, especially early on. That part sucked the celebration out of the good news a bit.
I’d like to believe my streak of beating expectations will continue here too. But it’s hard not to imagine the alternative. The idea that adult diapers might become part of my daily life is still something my brain refuses to fully process.
This is where the internet becomes both a blessing and a curse. If you go looking, you’ll find plenty of stories from people who adapted, who found their rhythm again, who live normal lives. You’ll also find stories from people who didn’t. I suspect the people who ended up okay are more willing to talk about it than those who are literally shitting the bed every day. Either way, eventually I’ll find out which group I belong to.
Today did not inspire confidence.
I was in the bathroom at work here in Detroit, emptying my bag, when it slipped as I opened it. What followed was less of an accident and more of a crime scene. Floor. Wall. My very, very white shoes. Everywhere.
For a visual reference—if you’re sick enough to want one—there’s a bathroom scene in the movie Desperado involving Antonio Banderas and Quentin Tarantino. It wasn’t exactly that, but spiritually, it was in the same neighborhood.
White leather, thankfully, doesn’t stain easily. Small victories.
I did my best to clean myself up, then went and sat through a three-hour workshop with my new boss and my new team, hoping to God there wasn’t any lingering smell or visible evidence of the war crime that had taken place one floor below. There were several moments during that workshop where I briefly considered whether jumping out of a fourth-floor window would be an overreaction. Thankfully, I chose restraint.
Still, it was another reminder that even though I’m cancer free, I’m nowhere near back to normal. That dignity, at least the version of it I used to know, might be gone for good.
I wish I could have talked to James Van Der Beek. I’d want to know if he dealt with things like this too. If he had moments where his body betrayed him in public. If he ever sat in a room full of people, pretending everything was fine while silently praying no one noticed something was very much not fine. I’d want to know what he learned. What he feared. What he would have done differently—if anything.
Not so I could avoid it. Just so I could understand.
Either way, this week sucked.
Detroit does not, in fact, hit like a bitch.
Doctors are both incredible and terrible at the same time.
And no matter what, always wear black pants when traveling for work. Just in case the bag decides to commit suicide while you’re meeting your new boss.
These are lessons I really wish I never needed to learn.
Oh well.
I’m almost home.