I’m laying on my couch, watching mildly ridiculous YouTube videos about surviving in the Alaskan bush during insane weather. I hate the cold, so this is a skill set I will almost certainly never need. But after the last year, I’ve learned not to rule anything out.
Physically, I think I’m healing pretty well. At least, what I can see on the outside looks good. The inside is a mystery. I have no real idea how my intestines are doing, and that’s occasionally nerve-racking. Still, as unsettling as that is, it’s nothing compared to this newest chapter in the saga.
The ileostomy bag.
I really thought radiation would be the hardest part. Or chemo. Or surgery. Or the anxiety that cancer might come roaring back the way it did with my dad. Surely one of those would be the worst thing.
Nope.
It’s the bag.
This is my second type of ostomy, and I assumed it wouldn’t be much different than the first. I had already learned that system. I’d adapted. I’d figured it out. How hard could Version 2 be?
Very hard, apparently.
Because this one sits much higher in the digestive process, everything moves through at warp speed. It fills up fast. Really fast. The contents are either liquid or applesauce consistency and, mercifully, mostly odorless. That last part is a blessing. Everything else is… not.
When I change the bag—which is usually every two or three days—I do it right before a shower. With the old bag, I could more or less time things. I had a system. I could remove it, shower, clean up, put the new one on, and walk away with minimal drama.
This one does not believe in systems.
This one believes in chaos.
I have absolutely no idea when it’s “safe” to take it off. There is no predictable rhythm. No warning. No courtesy knock.
So there I am, in the shower, trying to scrape off the stubborn remains of medical adhesive that apparently has been engineered by NASA to survive reentry. And at some point, without consultation or consent, my stoma—this little piece of intestine sticking out of my stomach—just decides:
Now.
Now is the time.
And it proceeds to spew.
I know this sounds vile. It is vile. But I’ve never shied away from embarrassing details before, so why start now?
There is something uniquely demoralizing about sitting naked in a shower while a part of your body you no longer control calmly defecates onto the floor. You can’t rush it. You can’t stop it. You can’t negotiate with it. You just… wait.
Sometimes for up to forty-five minutes.
Forty-five.
In those very long showers, you have a lot of time to think.
First, you briefly consider burning the bathroom down afterward as the only reasonable form of sanitation. That idea quickly runs into reality—mainly that you don’t own the place and arson is expensive.
So Plan B becomes Clorox.
A lot of Clorox.
I scrub that shower floor like I’m performing an exorcism. And honestly, it feels appropriate.
But before any of that—before the bleach, before the cleanup—I’m just standing there, trying not to cry, trying not to lose my mind, trying very hard not to get anything on my feet. Repeating to myself: This is temporary. This is temporary. Just a few more weeks.
Which helps.
A little.
But not much.
Because nothing really prepares you for this particular indignity. Not the scans. Not the surgeries. Not the hospital rooms. Not the needles. Not the fear.
Nothing prepares you for watching bodily functions happen in front of you, beyond your control, while you wait it out in a shower.
I was warned that the last mile of the cancer journey is often the hardest. I understand that now. There’s no “bright side” to moments like this. There’s no inspirational quote that fits. It’s just gross and exhausting and deeply humbling.
It has also given me a whole new level of respect for people who live this way permanently.
My heart breaks for them.
I’ve been proud of how I’ve handled this past year. And I should be. It’s been brutal. But standing in that shower, on my worst days, I realize how small my struggle is compared to people who don’t get an end date. Who don’t get a reversal. Who don’t get “temporary.”
Their strength is staggering.
So I do what I can.
I endure.
I laugh when possible.
I marvel at the absurdity of my life.
And I focus very carefully on not getting shit on my toes.
Five more weeks of this.
I think.
I can do that.