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I’ve been away from the newsletter for a few weeks due to some medical issues, and I wanted to reveal more about that today. Long story short: I found out in April I had Stage 4 cancer.
I went in for a routine colonoscopy in the spring because I was 46 years old and my doctor said 45 is now the suggested age at which to begin getting colonoscopies. I went in for it, and within five minutes of waking up, the colonoscopy doctor came in and said he’d found a rectal tumor. A few weeks later, scans showed the cancer had already spread to my liver.
Those were some dark days, because my oncologist ended up putting my chances of survival somewhere in the 60-70 percent range. Now, 70 percent is a pretty good chance… but it ain’t 100.
I had a few days where I wallowed in my situation. I wasn’t so much worried about dying—I was worried mostly about how unpleasant the next year of my life was going to be. I was supposed to start six rounds of chemo in May, and then they thought I’d need a rough surgery to remove both tumors, and then I’d need six more rounds of chemo in the fall. Perhaps the most jarring detail was that after the surgery, they assumed they’d need to reroute my entire digestive track into an ostomy bag. I don’t know why, but that detail single-handedly haunted the entire diagnosis. I felt like I could deal with anything but a porta-potty bag coming out of my body.
During those weeks where I wallowed in it, I had occasional thoughts about picking up drugs or alcohol again. Not significant thoughts. I never came close. But I would catch myself once or twice a week saying to myself, “Hey, if you’re going to be doing chemotherapy and whittling away and then getting an ostomy bag, why not pick up something to boost your spirits and ease the physical pain?”
Luckily, I had much louder voices in my head telling me to double down on getting to meetings and staying connected with sober people. I started getting to about five meetings a week, including chairing a few. I’m so glad I did. I found myself leaning into the dark humor of the situation, and I made a lot of hay out of the joke that if you knew anything about how immature I am as a person, you had to find it hilarious that I might die because my ass fell off.
During chemo, I found my spirits rising every day without any kind of mood-altering substance. People rallied around me, both in and out of my recovery circles, and I found myself ready to rumble every day. Chemo had unpleasant moments, but I made it through six rounds without much drama. I’d even get to meetings sometimes with a pack injecting me with chemo every few minutes.
On Sept. 25, I had surgery to remove both tumors, which had shrunk quite a bit from the chemo. The surgery went well, but it was very painful and I spent eight days in the hospital. Those were some of the darkest days of my life—I had some complications and the pain was really breaking my spirit, especially at night. It’s hard to describe exactly why nights at a hospital are so debilitating, but it’s a combination of weird lighting, bad sleep environment, significant pain and a lack of support staff. I just felt alone with my pain, and that’s never good.
Luckily, though, I had amazing loved ones supporting me, and as much as I wanted to just lay in my hospital bed, some sober friends insisted on visiting me and hosting several meetings for me. Like I said, I would have rather just silently sat in my room, but my recovery friends wouldn’t allow it.
And here was the thing that again jumped out at me: Sober people who have a good recovery program do not sulk, complain, whine or shake their fist at tough situations. They show empathy. They’ll cry with you. And there’s a lot of laughter, a lot of optimism and energy devoted to what the next right action might be. And that is contagious. That’s who I want to be.
Recovery from the surgery has been tough. I’m in quite a bit of pain, and it’s taking longer than I had hoped. I wanted to be back running around within a week or two, and that just hasn’t been possible. It’s been a grind, with ups and downs every week, sometimes every day. But it’s also one day at a time, which I have some familiarity with, obviously.
I start chemo again on Oct. 30, which feels too soon. But it’s the next right thing to eliminate any cancer cells left—and my doctors are saying they can’t see any right now. That’s great news, of course, but the chemo will be tough. My midsection still feels like 50 UFC fighters took turns giving me body shots, so if I sneeze or cough, I am in agony. Hell, if I laugh really hard, it hurts, physically. But spiritually? The laughter is getting me through. So as much as it hurts, I’m going to do it anyway.
This newsletter is a place of joy and laughter about the deadly serious business of sobriety. So, as I will often do, let me close with a joke:
HEARD AT MEETINGS…
"Sobriety is no laughing matter, but laughing matters when you're sober."
(CREDIT: Grapevine, February 2009, by Denny C. of Atoka, Tennessee)
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