Cancer could be so much worse

It seems weird that is has been a week since my surgery. On the one hand, I feel great so it seems like a really, really  long time since I woke up in the post-anesthetic care unit. I wouldn't go so far as to say my life has returned to normal (despite the title of my last post), but it does feel pretty wonderful to pet my dog, wear my own clothes, sleep in my own bed, eat real food (more on that a little later), and shower. There are still a few things that have undeniably changed since my surgery; some may change back, but others may just represent a "new normal", the way my life is after dealing with my cancer. That's the other hand. My life has  changed. It changed the moment my surgeon removed most of my rectum, 5cm or so on either side of the site of my tumour. I can remember a time before I was faced with the inevitable outcomes of this surgery, but they are in the past now. A day, a week, a year; I'm not sure that how far they are in the past is really a

I've been home from the hospital for three days now. The original estimate from my surgeon was that today was the earliest I could expect to go home after my surgery, yet I've already been home for seventy-two hours. Seventy-two hours. It never seemed like that long a time period before. Seventy-two hours is a long weekend, a nice break from work maybe or a chance to go somewhere close for a quick getaway, but not enough time to do anything that really  matters. But in those seventy-two hours, I have done a lot of significant things. First off, I have stayed out of the hospital. The risk of postoperative complications is greatest in the first week after surgery. Not too surprisingly, the risk of infection or worse drops off once all of the tissues that have been cut and pulled and spliced and stitched have at least mostly  healed. It's not like I'm completely out of the woods yet and there are still some nasty surprises that could rear their ugly head, but stayin

Postop day three. POD 3. Today is the day that I should transition from a full fluid diet to a general diet after my major abdominal surgery. Except that I already did that. Yesterday morning. And then at lunch my surgeon told me I could go home. That was almost exactly 48 hours after I was wheeled out of the operating room after Mark removed most of my rectum. But before I could go home I had to have my JP (Jackson Pratt) drain removed, have the dressings changed over that drain site as well as four other laparoscopy sites - one of which was my umbilicus, the medical term for my belly button - and the 10 cm incision site across the bottom of my abdomen. I still had two intravenous catheters in my left hand and arm that needed to be removed as well. I had a discharge prescription for pain killers I didn't think I would need but didn't want to be without just in case, as well as a prescription for 28 days of blood thinner injections that would prevent me getting a DVT that

NOTE: This post was written before this one where I explain about being discharged early. All of the things in this post refer to things that happened before  that one though. You don't need to read this one first and it will still make sense if you read it after my other one, but it's important to recognize the context between these posts as you read them. Enjoy ~~~~~ Flatus. It preoccupies me. Passing gas. Wind. Air biscuits. Tooting. Cutting the cheese. Farting. That's what today's blog is about, because that's what postop day 1 and 2 have been about. Whenever a surgeon manipulates the intestines, our bowels tend to lose their rhythm. Quite literally, in fact. As smooth muscle, intestines have a slow, continuous wave-like contraction called peristalsis that happens automatically. Peristalsis helps move the food from our mouth to our stomach, from our stomach through our small intenstine, then from our intestines through our colon to our rectum. Th

Mark came to see me around lunchtime on postop day 2 (the day I am posting this blog). "You're doing great John. When do you want to go home?" "As soon as I'm ready," I said to him. He smiled at me and nodded. "How about right now?" That's right - I have been discharged. I am no longer an inpatient at the hospital. I get to wear my own clothes, sleep in my own bed, and eat my own food. I've still got a bunch of milestones to meet, but there is nothing I need to do that I can't do at home. I'm free!

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. I know - I already used that line on you. But it seems more true for me on the day of my surgery - post-operative day 0, or POD 0 in the vernacular of the surgical world - than it was on any day  before  I went for surgery. It is the first day I know  that I am cancer-free. I was surprised at how relaxed I was as I got ready for my surgery. I reported to the hospital at the time I had been told - 06:00H (or 6AM to most people) - and waited behind a group of about ten people who also  had to register for their surgeries. The registration clerks were efficient and everyone got checked in, their wristbands applied, their paperwork handed over, and instructions given to make our way up to the presurgical admission area. Some of the people were having short procedures and were to be sent home later in the day, while myself and a few others were to be admitted for longer stays. We were called into the waiting area one at a time based on

Wow. Everything happened on schedule. I got to the hospital on time, got to surgical admission on time, and was wheeled into the operating room on time. I got all the way to 97 before my world went black, then I time-travelled almost 8 hours forward to the post-anesthetic care unit where I woke up. The operation went smoothly and my surgeon did not elect to create a diverting ileostomy. I don't have much pain at all, although my mouth was INCREDIBLY dry and I dId have some nausea and vomiting. I am resting comfortably on the ward as I write this. I am tired, but I am through surgery and on to the next phase of my journey.

In a few hours I will go to the hospital. I've been up for a few hours now, doing the second half of my bowel prep prior to surgery. It's not a really unpleasant task, but honestly doing anything to intentionally  cause diarrhea is a little strange. Setting an alarm to do so just seems wrong. And of course I couldn't go back to sleep because I have to go to the toilet every 15 minutes or so to evacuate my bowels for what could be the last time in months. It's not the plan right now, but I do  have a little blue dot on my abdomen that the ET (enterostomy therapy) nurse I've worked with for five years put there, marking where my surgeon can divert my small intestine to give my rectum and bowel a chance to heal. One of the first things I will do when I awake from surgery is feel that spot to see if I have an ileostomy. But before that, in a few hours, I will go to the hospital. There will be almost no traffic at that time of morning. If I were going to the hospital

So simple, right? Here's a little joke for you. How can you tell if there is a pilot in the room with you? You won't have to - they'll tell you. And with that, I am telling you that I am in fact a pilot and in so doing living the punchline of the joke. Like a lot of things I write about, it's a useful metaphor for what I see as a deeper message about my journey. But if I get to brag a bit in the process... well, I'm going to brag. So here it goes. When I was a child, I dreamed of flying. I wanted to become a pilot, to sit at the controls of an airplane and take to the skies, soaring among the clouds. I joined the Royal Canadian Air Cadets at the earliest allowable age. I cut my hair, which was a wildly unpopular thing to do in the 70s. It didn't make me more popular with the kids at school, but honestly I was pretty unpopular anyway so this just gave them a concrete reason to tease me. I put on a heavy and uncomfortable uniform and went to my squadron&

WARNING: this blog deals with a variety of subjects that people might find distasteful. If you find descriptions of poop distasteful, read no further. All right... you've been warned. I went to the preadmission clinic (PAC) at the hospital where I will have surgery earlier this week. Exactly one week before my surgery, to be exact. But I had already had bloodwork (twice), a chest/abdomen/pelvis CT scan with  contrast, a pelvic MRI, and  a physical from my GP. I had met with my surgeon to discuss my surgery, and had already been given a package of information about what would happen when I was admitted. So what possible purpose did my visit to PAC actually  serve? Well, admittedly a lot of what they did was either pointless or was redundant. I got a chest X-Ray (CXR), for example. While I was getting it done I asked the tech what the CXR would show that the CT with contrast didn't. "Nothing," he said. "Some anesthesiologists won't intubate you without

I've been writing another post on how to prepare for a colonoscopy or colon surgery for several days now. Some readers may think that subject is sort of gross... but that won't stop me from writing it. It is  surprisingly technical and that part means that it is taking me longer to write than I expected. If you know me - and let's face it, almost all of you do - then you won't be surprised that I have gotten distracted from this task several times. My latest distraction? Hugs. Lots of hugs. I'm one of those people that love  hugs. There's just something about the mutual vulnerability, the fact that each person is within the personal space of the other, and the physical contact between me and whomever is giving me a hug that makes my heart warm. Any day seems better after a hug, although admittedly some days in my life have been so  bad that while a hug took the edge off the pain, no amount of these magical embraces could possibly make things better. That&#

A dear friend - one of my angels - found the courage to ask me a question today that had been on their mind ever since I told them about my diagnosis. I'm going to paraphrase the conversation; Them: "Does it bother you, knowing that you might still have a tumour inside you?" Me: "Yes. A lot. That's the main reason I am having surgery." Okay, it's not exactly the height of conversation but it took a lot of courage on the part of my friend to overcome their concerns surrounding an upsetting topic for both of us. But it's still a very important question and it all boils down to the word might  in their question. That I might  still have a tumour inside me. Might . One side of a coin with might not  on the other side.  It may seem self evident that I have a greater concern about the possibility of still having remnants of a tumour inside me than I am about the major surgery I am facing. I mean, if I wasn't  concerned about this p