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.
