Happy Stoma-versary

Last week I had my first post-cancer colonoscopy and I’m very pleased to say that the results are great. Nothing new growing, and the report actually says the words “All good”. I’ve also had two CT scans this year so far and both have said things are stable. And, a few weeks ago, my chemotherapy doctor (who has been regularly reviewing bloodwork and doing phone check-ins) let me know he was closing my file. I have also been able to delete the messaging and results app that CancerCare Manitoba uses from my phone.

Each one of these things came with the feeling that I was letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding in.

You might be wondering if the colonoscopy experience is very different with an ostomy and I’m here to report that, at least in my case: it’s kinda not! You take the same pills and chug the same bit-sweet-bit-salty-vaguely-fruit-flavored drink. In either case, the prep is the hardest part.

Friday, February 20th also marked one year since my major surgery, a good time to check in with myself and reflect on how things have been going. To that end, I’ve been reading over my blog posts and looking at pictures saved on my phone from that time. Some things made me smile, some made me shudder with recognition. This is what stood out to me…

• I definitely don’t feel as uncomfortable about a bit of my guts sticking out of my body

I was super weirded-out by this at first, and made a point of mentioning it on the blog! And I mean, yeah, it is still not a typical way for humans to be. Most of the time, if your intestines become visible, things are going horribly wrong for you. Reading back over that made me smile, a little, because it just isn’t something that’s crossed my mind in a long time. Maybe naming my stoma really did help normalize the whole thing.

Fun Fact: My stoma is named Mister Pigeon. Lots of ostomates name their stoma for various reasons; for some, personifying this gross blob that makes random rude noises helps them cope with the body changes and its uncontrollable nature. You can choose any name you like, though I’ve heard of some great puns like Stoma Simpson or Dolly Fartin’. I couldn’t think of a name I particularly liked, so like a responsible parent I asked my then-8-year-old. She suggested “Mister Pigeon” with no more explanation than “I guess I was thinking about pigeons”. I said no, no thank you, I don’t like it. But, I never came up with anything better AND started using it ironically, which is how it eventually stuck. Every time it makes a rude noise around my 4-year-old boy he grins and scolds “Mister Pigeon!!”

So anyway my point is that naming it probably helped after all. I’ll go thank my daughter.

• I hate my stoma much less often than I did

Just like the discomfort, my anger and disgust has significantly eased off. I had imagined it would, but not this quickly, which is a good thing. I’m sometimes exasperated because of it, and sometimes anxious at trying new things while carrying this disability, but I’m pleased that I resent it pretty rarely these days.

I will say that I was saddened to discover that spa days with my wife are now complex to the point that I’ve given up on them. On the other hand, I’ve heard Thermea in Winnipeg has gone downhill in the past few years anyway lol

• I made some lofty post-cancer life goals that I’m not certain I’ve made any progress toward

“I’m gonna be less afraid and more of myself!” “Kinder, compassionate, and more grateful!” “I’ll never get mad at my precious baby angel children again!!”

Alright, I don’t think I actually claimed that last one. I did do a lot of thinking, privately and on this blog, about how an experience like cancer and a lifestyle change was going to change me. And looking back I saw a lot of optimism toward growing into a better person that I’ve certainly not fully achieved by now, a year later. I don’t think I was wrong to set my intentions high, and as always I’m my own harshest critic, so maybe baby steps are okay too. For now, it’s enough growth to be able to look back at myself at different times and say “that guy was doing his best.” And, crucially, to say “you haven’t achieved your goal but look at the progress you’ve made”, something I’ve historically been very bad at recognizing.

Over the next days I will probably continue thinking about / reliving / talking about my time in hospital. Not on these pages, just around my home, with the people I love and get to continue being with.

Keep going! You got this!