Detours

You have my apologies for the lack of posts over the last few weeks.  There hasn’t been much news to share, and life has been pleasantly busy. Casa Dewaele is open for the summer season, and in the 12 days since my last radiation / chemo treatment, we’ve had friends and family visiting from Thailand, Hawaii, and Massachusetts.  The house is empty until Saturday, when we look forward to more family visiting from the West Coast and the Northeast.  I’m thankful that my cancer is not interfering with all of this.  I’m happiest when my house is full of the people I love.  An added bonus is that as each day passes, I feel a little bit better.  I’m no longer in significant pain.  I still have moments, but for the most part, I’m only experiencing tolerable discomfort. 

With everything moving in such a positive direction, I’d begun to think that the worst of this experience was behind me (no pun intended).  I’m sorry to say, I met with my surgeon today and learned this is not the case.  Be warned, there is no polite way to explain what’s going to happen next.  Squeamish readers should continue at their own risk.

I walked into the doctor’s office hoping to hear words like “laparoscopic”, “minimally invasive”, and “quick recovery”.  Unfortunately, Dr. Cifello’s vocabulary was much less pleasant.  Here’s the plan…

In September, I will literally “kiss my ass, goodbye”.  Dr. C. will surgically remove the tumor along with my entire rectum.  That’s right…the whole damn thing.  He explained that this was the best course of action to avoid a recurrence.  Then he will “create” a new rectum from the lower part of my large intestine.  As he explained this, I heard the theme music from the Six Million Dollar Man playing in my head, and I couldn’t help but think, “I’m going to have a bionic ass.”

The most unsettling part of this whole thing comes after the surgery.  It’s going to take time for both my colon and my new and improved rectum to heal. This means they will be temporarily out of order, and my body’s waste will require a different exit.   This disturbing detour is called an ileostomy.  For anyone who may be wondering, an ileostomy is an opening in the abdominal wall, and the end of the ileum (the lowest part of the small intestine) comes through this opening to form a stoma, usually on the lower right side of the abdomen. Digestive contents leave the body through the stoma. The drainage collects in a pouch that sticks to the skin around the stoma.  This is truly a special kind of EEEWWWWW!!!

Normally, the surgeon will reverse the ileostomy in a month or two, once the colon and rectum have healed.  However, as usual, I’m far from normal.  A month after surgery, I start my next round of chemotherapy.  Dr. C. doesn’t want to reconnect everything until my chemo is finished, so I’m looking at about 6 months of living with a poop pouch stuck to my stomach. 

Of course, the key word in the previous sentence is living.  I’m holding tight to the notion that every mortifying moment of this experience is necessary to save my life.  No matter how gross and undignified it may be, if this is what it takes to see my kids grow up and live a long, happy life with Gregg, I say bring it.