Month: May 2025

My wife’s aunt suggested that I could take reader questions about my ostomy or whatever else I’ve written about thus far. I think that sounds great, so if you have a question you’d like me to write about in a future post, you can:

• message me on Facebook or Instagram
• leave a comment on this post
• send a letter via electronic mail (e-mail, they’re calling it) to npfehr [at] gmail [dot] com
• or I guess just ask me in person!

One thing Aunt Bev had wanted to know herself was about dietary requirements these days. Were there definite do’s and don’ts, or had they changed since before having a colostomy? I looked back on this blog and it looks like I wrote about some stuff we were trying in the weeks after I got home, but not much after that.

Generally speaking I am still working with the advice my dietitian gave me last year; avoid heavily processed or cured meats due to nitrates and their link to increased colorectal cancer risk. Red meats are a ‘sometimes’ food, so as a household we are still in the habit of mostly eating chicken or plant-based proteins, but I’ll definitely have a hamburger here and there.

Post-surgery we had read a lot of advice about different kinds of foods to focus on or avoid with an ostomy, but it turned out that was a bit of overachieving on our part. When I spoke about this to the Ostomy Program nurse, I was told that a lot of online dietary advice is for people with Ileostomies rather than Colostomies. An Ileostomy is higher up, exiting from the small intestine instead, and I’m told they are more finicky and difficult to manage. The intestines have had much less time to do their intestiney things when food exits. The nurse reassured me that following the ileostomy dietary restrictions would certainly not harm me, but it probably wasn’t necessary in the long term.

Turned out they were right; looking back I think it mostly just took time for my guts to heal and settle down from major surgery, rather than reacting to any specific thing I was eating or drinking. That said, the things that upset my tummy before, like large quantities of onions, dairy, or watermelon (as it turns out this week) will still upset me now. For the most part, these days I do not worry about what I put in my body beyond my general health and the cancer risk guidelines I mentioned earlier.

I will admit — Sorry Kim! — that the dietary advice to avoid things with increased cancer risk seemed like too little too late at times. I only got this advice after I was already diagnosed, and wouldn’t it have been more beneficial ten years earlier? Why am I trying to mitigate my cancer risk when I’ve already been diagnosed? Why close the barn door after the horses have already escaped, to coin a phrase? The rationale at that time was that we were giving my body its best fighting chance, instead of continuing to pile on the things that had gotten me in trouble in the first place. I didn’t always feel like it, but I went with it.

Continuing to follow these guidelines still feels a little silly, because now I’m like: “yeah, but I already DID the whole cancer thing, and we fixed it.” As though there’s no way that particular problem could ever come back. As though cancer has a Double Jeopardy rule and the same kind won’t harm the same person twice.

I know this isn’t rational to think, and I’m going to keep trying to do right by this body of mine. But, I’m sure I’m not alone in getting through a difficult medical situation and feeling as though that particular problem is done and dusted forever.

I’ve had this colostomy deal for three whole months now and, as far as I can tell, I haven’t written about farting at all. That ends today >:(

Rude content warning: this post is about farts.

So, yes, I still get gas and I still fart. But (hehe), there are two major differences now. The first is that the expelled gas and smells get captured by my colostomy bag. The bags I currently use have a small charcoal-filtered vent at the top, which helps to keep the bag from ballooning up and ensures that no smells emanate from it. It works pretty well, but occasionally it can’t keep up and the bag balloons up anyway. This feels weird and not nice, so it’s necessary to vent the bag.

That’s done by opening the ‘drain’ end of the bag, holding it up so nothing else gets out, and kinda squeezing the excess air out. And honestly, the smell is brutal. It is punishing, and it lingers. This makes sense when you consider that venting a bag is actually like farting four or five times simultaneously. I try never to do it when anybody’s around; otherwise I’ll find a well-ventilated but enclosed space (like a bathroom) or, now that the weather’s nicer, just go outside for a moment. Once, Lori walked into the living room at least ten minutes after I’d vented and asked me if one of the pets had pooped behind a couch or something.

That’s the first major difference between farting before and now. The other major difference is that I no longer have control of when or how they happen. The typical human exit point for gas has a muscle to work with, and my stoma does not. As a result, I no longer have the option to hold things or otherwise be discreet; my stoma can and will interrupt my day with fart sounds as loudly and as frequently as it wants. At times I can feel a fart coming just before it happens, but otherwise my stoma seems to have a mind and comedic timing all its own.

(Yes, I can make dietary changes or use over-the-counter drugs to mitigate the gassiness; generally it actually hasn’t been so bad or embarrassing just yet. On the other hand, that one customer service worker renewing my driver’s licence is probably still wondering if I completely soiled myself in front of him. Neither of us commented on the horrible fart sound when it happened, and to his credit, he kept a completely straight face)

My plan going forward is to simply apologise and say “I have a medical condition” in most situations, and leave it at that. If I’m in the prolonged company of people who don’t know me so well, as I was last Tuesday, I’ve rehearsed a slightly longer explanation that should serve to get ahead of the awkwardness. Actually, that particular night, my stoma was well-behaved and only quietly burbled a few times. However, I wanted to make a good impression and felt it wise to just take a moment and address things. Part of my longer explanation is also to say a.) that it’s not a taboo subject for me and b.) folks are very unlikely to offend me with questions or jokes.

(I hedge a little there because people are creative and I’m sure someone could find new ways to hurt my feelings about this issue, if they really tried. I do not want them to try.)

The ostomy program nurses warned me about all of this, but it’s another thing again to experience it. Oh, actually hang on, I just wrote that it hadn’t really been embarrassing, but my stoma did get a little rowdy during a play we went to in Winnipeg. It was mid-show and not really the moment to explain myself so I just tried to smother it in layers of clothing plus a jacket. That felt bad. It quieted down, but I spent the rest of the show ready to bolt for the door if I felt the pressure build again.

Overall I’m still grateful to be here, even if it means my body will randomly make rude noises. And I’m grateful that most people have responded with good humour, because we’re all human and farts…are pretty funny.

A Guest Post by Lori Fehr

A little while ago, Nathan asked me if I would do a guest blog post. Since then, I have debated what I would write about. I thought I could share about what it’s like to walk alongside someone through a difficult time when you are used to walking together. There are certain parts of this journey that Nathan and I experienced very differently. Like walking in the same forest on the same path, and then suddenly being forced to walk on separate, but parallel paths.

Or, I could share about how Nathan and I cope differently in stressful times. I cope by ruminating over all possible scenarios (usually dwelling on the worst case) and preparing for them all. Compared to Nathan, who says he’d rather hope for the best and cross the more difficult bridges only if we get to that point. 

I thought maybe someone would want to read about what it has been like to navigate this last year with young children. Or what I’ve learnt about trying to manage the things I can control and letting go of the rest (still a work in progress). Or maybe about learning to be present in the good and more challenging moments, and finding sacred moments in ordinary situations. 

However, the thing I have been reflecting the most about lately is: what do you do when emergency measures are over and we are told that we can go back to “normal“? What does “normal” look like now?

I was thinking about backup power generators. This might seem like a jump, but hang in there, I will explain. When the power goes off at a hospital, for example, there are backup generators that kick in fairly quickly. But just because we have power from the generator doesn’t mean that we are using all the power at full capacity. When the backup generator is used, power is limited and diverted intentionally to the essential areas. For example the lights are dimmer, and only a fraction of the outlets have power, just to name a few of the differences. 

That is how the last year has felt. We have been in survival mode, conserving our energy, time, and brain space for appointments, treatments, keeping the household running, and the bare essentials. Now we are being told that the power is back on (so to speak). We’ve been in conservation mode for so long that it’s hard to remember where we used to use all that extra brain space, energy, and time. And now we have a choice of where to redirect some of this newfound energy. This is a bit overwhelming sometimes. When the power has been off for a while and suddenly returns…you become very aware of how bright those lights are, and how noisy the fans and appliances are when they are on full power and working order. 

After a life changing event, it’s normal to wonder who you are now that ______ [fill in the blank] is a part of your story. And I think that is the work I get to do now. As an introvert, it is easy for me to get used to survival mode. There is comfort in just hunkering down and riding out a storm. It’s not necessarily healthy for me to stay in the storm cellar just in case another storm comes along. At some point I have to emerge after the storm, assess the damages, and do the work of rebuilding.

Another way of looking at it is to think about trees. Mighty trees lie dormant in the winter, though not because they’ve given up. It’s because they know that they need to stop, rest, and conserve their energy and nutrients in order to thrive in their next growing season. When winter is over, they continue to grow.

We have just emerged from a season of being in survival mode.  So I expect this next season of life to be one of growth, stretching, and change, as we cautiously step out into this “new normal” for our family. One that can never be the same as it was before, but one that I hope to experience with curiosity, intentional presence, and an open hand.

Thanks from the bottom of my heart for all your support this last year. We could not have done it without a community surrounding us with love, encouragement, good food, listening ears, and prayers. No words can ever express our gratitude!

Today is the one-year anniversary of getting my diagnosis. One year since the colonoscopy that we thought would be routine, but which showed a rude surprise. One year since Lori and myself took a moment to cry in the car outside the hospital, and afterward going for Subway before starting the drive home. A year since I stood in the kitchen and made myself say aloud “I have cancer.”

Today has been a very different day than that day, and thank the Lord for that.

Today I played music, ate a delicious cinnamon bun, watched Howl’s Moving Castle (as planned) and had a nice supper at the home of friends. Spirits are much higher, as you might expect. And, on the advice of my counsellor, I took a moment with my family to acknowledge aloud that we all worked hard at getting through the last year, and that was worth noticing and celebrating.

Another thing I discussed with my counsellor was identity. I did mention last week that I’d write about this, and here we are! I described an experience I’d recently had where someone from church asked how I had been doing lately, and I felt like I blanked. I didn’t have any recent treatment news to talk about anymore, nor anything in the immediate future. Outside of that, I also couldn’t think of anything else about myself to say. Later, I got into my own head as one does, and wondered to myself and later to Lori…who am I now? I’m physically not the same person as before I started, and I’m sure that extends to the emotional and spiritual parts of me as well. So…what am I like now?

My counsellor assured me that this was an extremely common thing to go through, post-cancer. To paraphrase her, I’ve assumed the identity of Cancer Patient for the past year and now that’s gone. It’s very normal to wonder exactly what I’m wondering, and there’s no quick path out of it. I had already started keeping a list in the notes app on my phone about things (and people) that I love; she told me to keep doing that. Some folks in my position apparently work through a list of suggestions, and use this as inspiration to try new things and surprise themselves.

I’m not planning to completely reinvent myself. I think most of what matters to me is fairly consistent from the before-times. I still want to be open to new experiences, but for instance I’m not suddenly super interested in learning to drive a motorcycle. However, it occurred to me this morning that maybe my experiences in the past year can help me be more confident, authentic, and at ease in the world.

A few days ago I listened to an interview with a comedian. She talked about how, despite being well-established and successful, she’d found herself doing a show in a comedy club that was getting absolutely no laughs at all. She said the whole thing suddenly seemed so hilarious to her — she’d had successful shows in much bigger venues, and certainly wasn’t new at the comedy scene anymore. She described climbing down from the stage mid-show to sit with some audience members at a front table and actually workshop, in the moment, what was and what was not working for them and the rest of the audience. Somehow this got the room on her side, and the rest proceeded well.

Reader, I was astonished. First, at her ability to laugh at the absurdity of it all. To step outside of herself and the situation, and say wow, this is really going poorly, and that is very funny. Then secondly, the humility that it takes to own a failure like that, and the freedom that comes from it. She didn’t blame the audience for not ‘getting it’, she didn’t deflect and say it was an ‘off night’, she didn’t get angry at the perceived disrespect. She calmly sat down and examined the situation with genuine curiosity and interest, and eventually it got better. I’m certain she didn’t spend the following days beating herself up over such a rocky start to the performance.

I’m afraid of making mistakes, and I’m even more afraid of upsetting anyone and harming my connection to them. So many times I’ve held back my authentic self, or my true opinions, because I’ve decided to prioritize comfort and safety. What if I was able to just sit in discomfort, knowing that I’ve lived through much worse? Maybe I could actually believe that I can’t please everyone, that mistakes will happen, and that I’m able to take up space and speak my mind, because no matter what happens as a result it probably won’t be worse than having cancer.

I want that to be a part of who I am, going forward. I think it will still take a long time for me to get there. I also think it is worth pursuing. Fortunately, my counsellor reminded me that there’s no timeline or due date on self-discovery. I look forward to the journey onward.

^{just kidding, I’m speed-running all of this and will have attained self-actualization by next week! Should be easy!}