My attempt to contain or reverse cancer with alternative methods has ended.
It’s been 20 months since I was diagnosed with anal cancer in June of 2014. I’ve eaten a lot of broccoli since then. I’ve travelled to foreign countries and seen alternative practicioners in three states. I’ve sat in saunas, lost weight, tried to connect with my inner child and consumed copious amounts of fresh vegetable juice.
All of which has been a lot of fun, but the efforts didn’t get rid of the cancer. The only side effect was pain from the slowly growing tumor.
Now, I’m on the “traditional” anti-cancer path. I’ll begin a six-week course of radiation March 21. At the same time I’ll take two kinds of chemo.
And I have a colostomy. Yes, a colostomy.
Which is, of course, the subject of this column. (Some topics just lend themselves to vibrant public discussion.)
The doctors tell me the radiation is going to (pretty much) destroy my nether bits and rerouting the digestive system will reduce the risk of infection. The first doctor said the “detour” is temporary. The second doctor said it’s permanent.
Either way, I’ve joined an elite club of people who carry a secret pouch under their clothing.
Well, it’s supposed to be secret anyway. You see, it farts.
Unlike the normal gas valve that people have which can be controlled long enough to make a quick visit to the restroom, a colostomy is simply an opening. An opening that does whatever it wants, whenever it wants.
Lenten services, moment of meditation? “Pppffffffft.”
Family gathered at the dinner table? “Bbbllllllrrrpppffft.”
Lying in bed in the morning, quietly wondering if the loving hubby is awake. “Pweeeeeeeet.”
Perhaps the most ironic part of this new twist in my life is that I am one of those people who does not pass gas under any circumstances. I come from God-fearing, hard-working, German Lutheran people and we do not fart. I am proper. I have manners.
Well, I used to have manners anyway.
Now I think I’m ready to join the happy-go-lucky folks who relish bathroom humor, farting in front of others and all the conversations and behaviors I’ve considered tacky.
Face it, when the diagnosis is “anal cancer” you can laugh or you can cry. When the doctors say, “You’ll need a colostomy” you can laugh or you can cry.
I’m doing both. It helps.