A Trip

It’s been a trip.

I mean that in just about every sense of the word.

A journey, an excursion.

A drug-induced experience.

A blunder, a slip, a stumble.

And now I’ve reached the final station, standing at the edge, ready to dive into the clean, fresh unadulterated waters of my better self. And I may need water-wings.

The circumstances that have led me here are a constant reminder of why my life should change; will change. I no longer smoke. It’s impossible to justify it after cancer has been cut from your insides. I drink less too, a consequence of the discovery that alcohol and chemotherapy drugs do not mix well. And soon I shall eat better.

In 48 hours my little attachment, the poo bag, will be gone. And without putting too fine a point on it, I will once again relish the ability to poo and fart like a normal human being. Eight months of dealing with an artificial protrusion has hindered my confidence and curbed my enthusiasm. As well as the emotional distraction, there is also the inability to eat a range of foods my body could not process. Mushrooms and pineapple are two that spring to mind.

So, no smoking, less drinking, better eating. A perfect plan. The only thing that remains an unknown quantity is my ability to again explore and enjoy the delights of intimate female company. This makes me chuckle because for as long as I’ve been me, this has never been an issue. Always eager to jump at any opportunity, I could be described as (as I have by some friends) a slut. But now, standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror, I see the damage this cancer has caused cosmetically. In a couple of days the bag will be gone, replaced by a less obvious but still, unattractive, scar. This, along with my zipper scar, from diaphragm to pubis, random bumps and cuts and minor wounds, makes me look somewhat like a Frankenstein reject. So now, the guy who once ripped his shirt off faster than a speeding bullet, may find himself at odds with mutual nudity, when in the presence of a new lover.

Being single through this whole journey, in retrospect, was not the ideal situation. Having said that, I wouldn’t wish girlfriend duty on anyone through such a harrowing ordeal. But if I can be self-indulgent for just a moment, I concede that having someone there, to listen, to share, to empathise, and simply to touch, would have made this trip more bearable. But I consider myself a resilient person and somewhat cavalier, so I’m sure the path that leads to intimate moments, whilst tricky, will be completely navigable.

Chemotherapy; the drugs, the pain, the nausea, the fatigue.

Colostomy bag; uncomfortable, annoying, alien and the ridiculousness of it all.

As a new year begins, the one in which I turn 50, a new me is waiting to debut. With positive thoughts come positive results and the challenge ahead fills me with hope and excitement. The strength I called upon to get me through the past 9 months will also get me to the next station in my life.

It’s been a trip, but the train keeps a-rolling.

Houston,...

It’s the week before Christmas and I’m hosting the final trivia night at the London Hotel before the holiday break. Everyone is in high spirits. There's a full house of party hats, reindeer antlers, candy canes and bon-bons. The room is tipsy. I take a moment towards the end of the night, to thank everyone for their support throughout the year and to let them know my plans for 2012.

The microphone is off, the final quiz is in the bag and it’s time for me to pack up. I gather my things and say farewell to the few remaining patrons and bar staff.

And then it hits me; just a whiff that all was not alright. I made a bee-line for the door and once out on the street, reached for my stomach. The now too familiar ring that juts out from my gut - an integral part of my colostomy bag, was no longer where it should have been. I swallowed hard, feared the worst and got to work under my t-shirt - replacing the dislodged bag and snapping it back into place.

But, ultimately, I knew the damage had been done.

Wounded, I struggle to my car. I slide into the driver’s seat and gently lift my cardigan - a lump in my throat. To my horror, my t-shirt is ab-sol-ute-ly soaked. The white cotton heavily stained with what I’m guessing, was my lunch.

I take a deep breath and contemplate my options. One clear image pierces my thoughts; my bathroom! I must make it to the safety of my bathroom. It seems entirely illogical to strap on my seatbelt, so I begin to drive. The irritating cry of the seatbelt alarm a constant reminder that I was in trouble.

I remembered the chux wipes in the glove compartment and laid two carefully across my tummy. These little absorbent pieces of cloth should stop the excess overflow - as I pressed down harder on the accelerator, driving largely to save my car interior. Fortunately it’s a short drive and within minutes I make the garage. I stumble towards the elevator and pray that nobody has to share the ride. What on earth would I say? I smell like a soiled baby’s nappy but without any visual clue to what has befallen me. Luck is with me and I make it to the safe haven of my bathroom. Needless to say, it was ugly, my friends. Messy.

Only 21 days of bag-wearing remain as I prepare for my ‘reversal operation.’

The bag will be gone and once more I will be able to poo and fart with the best of ‘em! Hark the herald angels sing!

The More Loving One

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

That, for all they care, I can go to hell,

But on earth indifference is the least

We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am

Of stars that do not give a damn,

I cannot, now I see them, say

I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,

I should learn to look at an empty sky

And feel its total dark sublime,

Though this might take me a little time.

- W.H. Auden

Telling Mum

Without a doubt, what I feared most, more than the surgery - much, much more than the chemotherapy, was telling my mum. I was petrified of watching her react and perhaps tumble before me. She has always suffered from what seems to me, an exaggerated and unnatural concern for everything. The smallest matter always leads to untold trauma. And, unfortunately for me, her children have always been her prime reason for worry. Her heart is astonishing; full to the brim with goodness and strong with unbridled generosity, yet fragile as a house of cards.

The word cancer does not sit well with my family. Ok, no surprises there. Like a lot of families, cancer has been an unkind and unwelcome visitor; only 2 years ago, taking the life of my beloved first cousin - a young mum with a true zest for life and sunshine in her step.

So to actually have to verbalise the true "C word" again - but this time, in relation to me and my health, seemed an insurmountable hurdle and something which I believed could do actual physical harm to my parents, particularly mum.

Flippant as it may sound, I felt the doctors had everything else under control, and that the marvels of modern medicine would work in my favour restoring my health anew. But the act of telling my mother, that was a far greater predicament.

I decided the first step was to tell my brother. He would at least provide me with the support I needed when it came to conveying this horrible information to my parents. Together we worked a plan, the best possible way to deliver the worst possible news.

On Friday, 6th of May, I went to my parent’s home for dinner. Trembling on the inside, I tried to keep myself composed. I looked into the face of my mother, her expression blithe, knowing I was moments away from destroying her calm.

She suspected nothing, how could she. I visit my parents like clockwork, once a week for dinner. It’s a casual scene, the four of us sitting around the large occasional table in front of the television in a comfortable room with bay windows. My parents ‘live’ in this room; it almost seems a waste of this beautifully expansive, century old apartment. But this is what we do. This is where we meet. This is where we share our news, and this is where we eat.

I decided we should have our dinner first. Let everybody enjoy their food before taking their appetites away. Not that that's much of a concern anymore for my parents who for a few years now, have taken to eating like sparrows.

The room is softly lit by four small lamps and through the white wooden shutters, just a glimpse of a large palm tree can be seen outside. The room is always warm but this night, I struggled to get comfortable. My brother, Peter was looking anxious and his deliberate raising of eyebrows was beginning to bother me. Finally with the plates cleared, mum, dad and Peter settled in their chairs, I knew it was time to speak. The television volume is always up high, mainly for my dad, so it was an ominous sign when I grabbed the remote and lowered the volume.

“I’ve got some news...”.

My mother’s face lost all colour and I knew I had just stepped off the ledge. The next three hours were exhausting. There were tears, there were a thousand questions, there was disbelief, and there was, for me, relief. I had told my parents the prognosis was good. Excellent, in fact. The doctors had told me that they’d caught my cancer early, a routine bowel cancer operation, some chemotherapy and I would be totally back to new. When the tears had dried, the shock had subsided, I said my goodnights and headed home. Unbelievably, I felt totally refreshed; a burden of unmeasurable magnitude had been lifted and I was smiling as I drove the 5 minutes back to my apartment.

Two weeks had passed and here I was, having just shared the news with my parents, staring out my window and craving a cigarette so badly, I almost lit one. But then something odd happened.

I fell to pieces.