The bell peppers didn’t survive.
Apparently, that’s an acceptable casualty when your ostomy bag decides to give up on life in the middle of an H-E-B. I didn’t know this until my phone started lighting up with sympathetic (and surprisingly funny) messages from friends. Turns out, people have opinions about how to handle a grocery-store bag explosion.
That day went straight to hell, so I did the responsible thing and made an appointment at the Ostomy Center for the following morning. When I showed up, the nurses — who are always absurdly kind — looked at me like they were trying to figure out if this was a bad rerun. One of them finally said, “Didn’t we just see you last week?”
Yes. Yes, you did.
I started listing my problems, one by one, and as I spoke I could see their faces shift between horror, amusement, and the kind of confusion that makes people blink twice before responding. Eventually, we all reached the same conclusion: either I was the problem, or radiation and chemo had melted whatever part of my brain controls common sense. Honestly, it could be either. Or both.
After I told them the whole embarrassing saga, they decided my situation wasn’t a big deal and immediately jumped into solution mode — which, for the record, was both comforting and terrifying. (Foreshadowing.)
If you’ve read my earlier posts, you know I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve said goodbye to dignity. At this point, dignity is a luxury item — like a vacation home or a working metabolism. So I shouldn’t have been surprised to find myself lying on a hospital table with my stoma (which, if you’re new here, is the medical term for stomach butthole) on full display while a nurse removed the old bag and started cleaning the area.
Reading that doesn’t sound that bad, right? Still gross, but manageable. Except for when the stoma decides to “work” mid-cleaning — and the nurse reacts like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Meanwhile, I’m silently begging for divine intervention. Something quick and painless. Maybe a tiny, hyper-targeted meteor strike that only hits me and spares everyone else. Anything, really.
But no — the stomach butthole just kept doing its thing while I stared at the ceiling, wondering where exactly my life had gone wrong. Eventually, the nurse cleaned up and started walking me through some “new solutions” that might keep the bag from falling off again.
Her first idea? Caulk. Yes, you read that right — actual caulk. The kind used to seal toilets to sewer pipes. Nothing says self-esteem like hearing the phrase “you and your toilet have similar sealing needs.”
I watched as she pulled out a syringe, filled it with this medical-grade plumber’s putty, and carefully applied it around my stoma before pressing the new bag down. She held it there for three minutes to make sure it sealed — and the entire time, she tried to make small talk. Normally, I’d be all in for small talk. But at that moment, my brain was blaring the Super Mario Bros. theme on repeat. I couldn’t focus on a single word she said. Just “doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo” echoing in my skull while this poor woman politely pretended I wasn’t a human plumbing project.
When the plumber’s caulk was set, she introduced me to Phase Two: the giant plastic shield. It’s basically an extra ring that goes around the bag’s adhesive seal, like armor plating for your abdomen. The original seal is maybe four inches wide — this thing felt like it covered half my torso. Manufacturers could easily just make the bag this size to begin with, but apparently, that would make too much sense. So there I was, lying on the table, half praying for that tiny meteor strike right to my head only, while being fitted with what looked like a futuristic Tupperware lid over my stomach.
In case you want to visualize this masterpiece of modern engineering, here’s what I’m talking about — the Convex Ostomy Bag and those lovely Barrier Strips that go with it. They sound innocent enough — but in the moment, they feel like industrial-strength punishment. Still, I have to admit: it’s working. It’s been a full day since installation, and everything’s holding steady. No leaks, no disasters. I’ll take the win.
There was one more thing — a belt. Apparently, the bag has little clips on the sides where you can attach a thin elastic strap for “extra support.” Which is a polite way of saying, “Here’s one more thing to make you feel ridiculous.” I wore it for about 45 minutes before deciding it was unnecessary. Also, it made me look like I was wearing a medical cummerbund. Not a good look.
All jokes aside, the nurses at MD Anderson are unbelievable. I don’t think people realize how much light they bring into some of the darkest moments of other people’s lives. It’s not just the nurses I see for treatment, either. I met another nurse at the dog park before heading back to Austin — a really sweet blonde Asian woman who works in a completely different cancer unit and also has diabetes. We ended up talking for a long time about books, food, stupid diabetes, and even stupider cancer. She had the same humor and kindness that all the nurses there seem to share. It’s uncanny — like they’re all built from the same combination of compassion and resilience that most people only aspire to.
Honestly, they’re a big part of why I can still laugh about all this. If they didn’t approach their jobs with so much empathy and lightness, these stories would be a lot darker to tell.
So here we are — 24 hours post–plumber’s caulk installation, no leaks in sight, and a tiny flicker of optimism returning. Tomorrow I’ll see if this new contraption can survive a workout. I’ve been slacking, and it’s time to move again.
It’s weird, but days like this — the messy, humiliating, absurd ones — have a way of making me grateful. Grateful for the people who show up with humor instead of pity. Grateful that my body, despite everything, is still trying. Grateful that somehow, through all of it, I can still laugh.
Because when life turns into plumbing, sometimes the only thing left to do is grab the caulk and keep going.