I can say I’ve closed the cancer chapter of my life now. That feels like something I should pause on. Sit with it. Maybe even let it sound profound. But the truth is, the next chapter doesn’t exactly start clean. It starts at 2:30 in the morning, half asleep, trying to figure out if what just happened is gas… or a problem that requires a full shower, fresh clothes, and an immediate load of laundry.
This is the part nobody really writes about. Somewhere along the way, having my colon removed turned basic bodily functions into a nightly guessing game. And when you guess wrong, there’s no snooze button. There’s just the cold reality of being awake, annoyed, and very aware that you are not getting that hour of sleep back.
At one point, I briefly considered solving the problem by just throwing away every pair of boxer briefs involved. Maybe even investing in an incinerator. But that feels like a financially irresponsible response to a medical situation, so for now, laundry it is.
It’s frustrating. It’s inconvenient. It’s humbling in ways I wasn’t prepared for. And yet—somehow—it’s still better than the bag. So I remind myself of that. A lot. Because the bigger picture is that I’m healing. Slowly, but undeniably. Every day gets a little closer to normal, whatever that word even means now. This is what I prayed for. What a lot of people prayed for.
And now that I’m here, I didn’t expect this part: I’m as frustrated as I am grateful. Not because I’m not getting better—but because I am. Because “getting back to normal” comes with this quiet realization that I could very easily slide right back into the same life I had before. Same habits. Same routines. Same patterns. And that feels… like a missed opportunity.
You go through something like this, and you assume there will be clarity on the other side. Some obvious next step. A direction. A calling. Something. But mostly, it’s just you. Same as before. Just with a slightly different operating system and a much more complicated relationship with sleep.
A while back, I heard someone ask: If the version of you ten years from now could talk to you today, what would they say? I’ve always liked that question. You’d think that version of you would know. They’d have perspective. They’d point you somewhere. But if I’m being honest, I don’t hear some clear, life-altering instruction.
I hear Rusty. “Just aim to be 1% better in any one thing, and you’ll be good.” That was his thing. Simple. No drama. No overthinking. Rusty passed away last Tuesday.
And I can’t help but think if I had called him after my last surgery—told him I didn’t know what to do next, told him I felt like I was wasting whatever this second chance is—that’s exactly what he would’ve said. No big speech. No deep philosophy. Just: be a little better tomorrow.
I’ll be telling that story at his wake this Saturday. In front of a room full of people I’ve never met, trying to explain a guy who made things make sense by keeping them simple.
And maybe that’s the answer, at least for now. Not some massive life overhaul. Not some perfectly defined purpose. Just… 1% better. Maybe that honors him. Maybe that’s me listening to God. Maybe that’s exactly what the version of me ten years from now would hope I’d figure out. Or maybe it’s just the best I’ve got right now.
Either way, it feels like enough.
At this point, I’ve been up too long, spent too much time going back and forth between my bed and the bathroom, and Tugboat is officially concerned about my decision-making. So I’m calling it a night. And tomorrow, I’ll take a shot at being 1% better at something. Even if it’s just guessing right.