It’s Tuesday morning, five days since my ostomy surgery, and I’ve waited until now to post anything. I wanted to be back home, through the initial shock, and—well—“functioning” as normally as someone can when their butthole has been temporarily relocated three inches left of their belly button. Go ahead and laugh at that with me. It took me until yesterday to be able to laugh about it myself, so you might as well join in.
The surgery itself was mostly as expected—about two hours start to finish. I stayed in the hospital until Sunday. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad. Pain was almost nonexistent, which is surprising considering they cut through my abdominal wall, pulled out some intestine, and made a new exit point for my body. You’d think that would hurt more, but it really didn’t.
What did make me smile was ditching that dignity-destroying hospital gown almost immediately and putting on my usual gym clothes. By day two, when the surgeon or a new nurse would come in, they often mistook me for a visitor sitting in the chair rather than the patient. “Wait—you’re the patient? You don’t look like a patient.” I’ll take that compliment, intentional or not.
I’d hoped to get out by Saturday, but anesthesia had my intestinal tract on strike. So, they kept me another day. In the meantime, I took their advice to “move around” a little too seriously—walking to Starbucks or Chipotle, podcasts in my ears. Nurses didn’t love that I’d disappear for three hours at a time. Personally, I thought they should’ve congratulated me. Turns out doctors and I disagree on these things.
Coming home was its own milestone. The first night back, Tugboat did something he’s never done before—he curled up next to me and stayed there the entire night. It was like he knew I needed support, or maybe he thought he needed to stand guard. I’m not sure which, but either way, it was exactly what I needed.
No one warned me about the soundtrack of life with an ostomy. Thursday night, still groggy from anesthesia, I was jolted awake by the loudest, most violent blast of gas I’ve ever experienced—straight from my stomach. The vibration alone made me think something had ruptured and I was doomed. The nurse laughed, assured me it was “normal.”
Normal?! My stomach farted loudly enough to alert patients on other floors. That’s not normal in any world I know of.
Since then, I wouldn’t say I’ve gotten used to it, but I’ve gotten less embarrassed—except when it happens in an elevator with one of my very attractive neighbors. Nothing like a stomach fart at close quarters to kill the vibe. Thankfully, most of them know what’s going on and laugh it off. Me? I want to sprint back home, hunt down those pain meds that knock me out cold, and pretend it never happened. Writing this out probably isn’t helping my case.
From talking with my friend Ramsey (who’s a phenomenal nurse) and YouTube research, I’ve learned there are other “fun surprises” in store—blowouts, leaks, and situations that make me sound more like a bike tire than a person. Apparently, this is all just part of the package deal.
This is definitely a life adjustment, but it’s temporary. Six months, give or take. On Sunday, I head to Houston for radiation treatments that will last until early November. The prep process gave me another entry for my “HOLY SHIT 2025” bingo card—literally.
First, they tattooed me with three tiny dots (below my belly button and on each hip) to line up the radiation lasers. Then, during the simulation the day after surgery, they realized they needed a fourth reference point. Without much warning, the technician slapped a sticker on my butthole. Yes, you read that right.
It wasn’t announced with any buildup. Just: “SURPRISE!” Not the kind of surprise anyone wants. But honestly, by now any shred of dignity I once had has long since packed up and left. Weirdly enough, I didn’t even think it was that strange in the moment. I really hope that mindset resets when this is all over, because that’s not the kind of “new normal” I’m trying to keep.
As of this morning, things are moving again—literally. My intestines have woken up, and I lost seven pounds in one day. I’ll let you do the math on that one.
What I keep coming back to, though, is this: six months isn’t forever. It’s tough, yes, but I’ve surprised myself with the strength I’m finding along the way. I hoped it was there, but until life forces you to prove it, you never really know.
I’ve been through a lot—diabetes, nearly going blind, that car accident, and now cancer. Taking a step back, I’m in awe that I can sit here at my kitchen counter with a bag of shit stuck to my abdomen and still smile about it all. That’s a testament to my mom’s influence, my siblings’ support, my friends’ encouragement (that’s all of you), and ultimately what God knows I’m capable of.
For now, I’ll end this post here.