Anally Raped by a Jackhammer?

I'd had rectal pain and bleeding for years, before I moved to California. In fact, back in 1995, I had read a book called Why Christians Get Sick and decided to radically change my diet, in order to prevent cancer, or to reverse cancer I felt sure I may already have. I'll write more about that later, but the information in that book and more is all available at www.hacres.com.

In 2007, rectal pain and bleeding became frequent and severe. I went for a colonoscopy and was tested for many possible issues. I was told I was fine. In fall of 2008, I moved to California, leaving my car behind. I would ride public transportation everywhere. On the city's buses, I would be in excruciating pain. I thought the buses were horribly engineered to cause pain and suffering. I felt like I was being anally raped with a jackhammer, every time I sat on a bus. Rectal bleeding increased to the point where there would be bright red clouds of blood in the toilet after a bowel movement.

After several months, as pain and bleeding continued to worsen, I began to fear that I had colon or rectal cancer, and I could hardly wait until I had health insurance through my job, which finally happened, late in 2009. I had met a nurse on the bus, before I had insurance, who had said that the recession was resulting in many deaths among patients at her practice. She said a lot of people who lost their jobs and had no insurance were waiting too long to see the doctor about their symptoms, and by the time they came in, the cancer was so advanced that they could not be saved. She worked in a gastroenterology office.

I made an appointment with my newly selected primary care physician, and I told her my symptoms. She exclaimed, "Oh, my GOd, I hope it's not too late!" And then she calmed a bit and said, "Forgive me, but you could have, I'm sorry, CANCER." She requested an authorization for a visit to a gastroenterologist. I saw Dr. Fisher. He said he'd request an authorization for a colonoscopy. Meanwhile, the bleeding increased.

I called the insurance company to inquire why it was taking so long to approve my authorization. The process seemed to drag on and on. I remember shouting at the person on the phone that I was sure I had cancer and that they were endangering my life by delay.

Finally, the authorization came through. And then it took a while for the gastroenterologist's assistant to schedule me for the procedure.

Nick of time

So the supplies came today. Just in the nick of time. I have horrible diarrhea. It's bloody, and it smells strangely sweet, not at all "poopy"... maybe because everything is moving through so fast that it cannot ferment... although there's lots of gas. Why am I writing this "too much information" in my blog? Because nobody reads it. I'm the only one reading my blog.

I did sign up for Relay for Life today, and I listed my blog on my profile. So there's a chance someone on the Relay for Life website might see it and start reading my blog. If you are such a person, please forgive the absence of personal boundaries. I am likely to share almost anything.

I received a card in the mail from Relay for Life, inviting me to have breakfast this Sunday, June 4th, at Dillon's Irish Pub, in my neighborhood. It said I should RSVP by either calling or emailing one of two people or at the website relayforlife.org/hollywoodca. I went to the website but didn't see any information about the breakfast. I guess I'll have to email or call someone.

It felt a little strange... the card says they want to celebrate cancer survivors as inspirational heroes. I don't feel like an inspirational hero.

I wonder how I can make my cancer stories inspiring.

Look, if you have anal cancer, I'm not here to inspire you with heartwarming stories. I will tell you that if your doctor says you need a colostomy, you should get one. Get the cancer cut out of your body. Stop eating junk and stay away from smokers, and if you smoke, quit.

Chemo, radiation, and surgery all are horrific, in different ways. Living with an ostomy isn't fun.

Tomorrow is my birthday. Maybe that's why I'm invited to breakfast. The back of the card says "American Cancer Society -- The Official Sponsor of Birthdays. We save lives and create more birthdays by helping you stay well, helping you get well, by finding cures, and by fighting back."

My friend Donnie is over. He argued with me a bit about allopathic medicine. He doesn't believe in it. So I had the big spiel about how I used to spurn doctors and health insurance in favor of a mostly raw, vegan diet, lots of fresh carrot juice, and supplements as a cure for cancer, and how, before that, I was a "word of faith" Christian, believing that God would heal everyone who asks, if they have enough faith. But now, having been told I had cancer, and having had discussions with the doctors about how my death would have occurred, if I didn't submit to the surgery... I opted to have the doctors work their "magic" and let God choose to do a miracle if He wants to, but not to leave anything undone that might bring about my survival...

I realize I'm going to die someday, of something, as will everyone else on this planet. But for now, I'm doing everything I can do to postpone the inevitable and to live without the horrible pain and discomfort that plagued me while the cancer was still in my body.

Now... if I can just figure out how to stop the cycle of constipation, diarrhea, constipation, diarrhea...

So much for ordering supplies in plenty of time

I ordered new ostomy supplies last week. They promised I'd have them by Tuesday, at the latest. This is Tuesday night. No bags were delivered. I will have to call tomorrow and find out when I can expect delivery. I'm down to just a few adhesive "wafers" and about ten bags. That will last a few days, but I don't want to run out.

I wonder if my insurance company declined to approve the shipment. Those stupid jerks. I hate them.

And I have horrible back pain today. I took a Percocet a while ago, so the back feels a tad better.

Donnie came to visit today. He got rained off the beach last night.

Now he has keys to our apartment, so that if he has weather issues again, he can come and stay here, until it clears up.

Maybe this is stupid.

But it was very nice to see him. I'm probably really high on the painkiller at the moment, but... I think I'll still be glad, tomorrow, that I know he has a safe place to land if life as a homeless guy gets too scary, cold, wet, or lonely.

Now... back to the job search tomorrow.

I have an agenda. Can't stay awake to write it down at the moment. But I should recall it all, tomorrow. Good night.

Did I say that here?

I know that somewhere on the vast blogosphere, I wrote, the other day, that I rather liked constipation, because it kept me from using too many bags. Insurance companies limit the amount they'll cover per month. I guess they decide how fast your body will break down the adhesive or how many bags you'll fill in a month's time. And my body uses more than the allowed limits.

I should stop eating.

But here's the thing... I should not have said I preferred constipation, because no sooner was that thought "out there" in the universe, than I became so extremely constipated that nothing could enter my intestines from the stomach. I writhed in pain for most of yesterday afternoon and evening, until I began vomiting, which happened a few times over the course of a few hours. I finally slept and then at four in the morning, I awakened and found a little squirt bottle, which I filled with warm water and used for an enema. I didn't get much water in... and not much came out... but the slow, sluggish pace that is usual for my intestines did resume.

Tonight, i drank a cup of chocolate laxative tea. It has had no effect whatsoever.

But at least I don't have the extreme cramping and vomiting.

I do not like the way my body works anymore.

When I have the kind of cramping that sends most people running to the toilet, I cannot go there. SOmetimes I do, anyway, but there is no point, except, perhaps, a bit of psychological relief. I have no anus. Nothing will ever exit from that orifice again. There is no orifice there, at all. Just a lump of scar tissue. The shop is closed. And very little moves through the newer hole on my abdomen. ANd when it moves, it must empty into a bag, which I must then empty and clean.

Some days I remove the bag dozens of times and clean out tiny little amounts of stool, over and over and over again, cleaning the bag until it's spotless, only to take it off and do it again, when another little morsel enters the bag. It's an obsession, at times. I have better days... days when I don't mind that the bag is filling under my clothes. Those are usually days when the stool is soft, almost liquid, and it flows easily into the lower part of the bag, instead of lumping up around the snap ring, making a pyramid on my belly.

I cannot figure out how to make my body produce the right consistency of excrement. Soft, hard, liquid, solid... it cannot make up its mind. Diet doesn't seem to affect it. Or does it? I think I ate more salads on the days when it was soft. Tomorrow, I'll eat a big salad for lunch, and another for dinner.

Shakespeare for Ostomates

I am here, in Hollywood, California, out of a job, nearly out of unemployment benefits, and I'm acting in a play. I've done several plays here. Currently, I'm Lady Capulet in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet.

I was a bit worried, last night, that the bag was filling too fast. I thought it might fill up, get too heavy for the adhesive, and pull off my belly while I was performing. Of course, had that happened, my underwear and tights and the long, tight tank shirt I wore under my costume would have held it in place. But what if it overflowed?

I couldn't risk it. I had to go around in front of the theatre, in costume, sneak past a couple of audience members lingering on the sidewalk, and dash up to the theatre offices to use the bathroom. The bag was nowhere near full. I wrapped it carefully in a disposal bag and buried it under all the paper towels in the wastebasket, hoping someone would empty the wastebasket long before any odor could emanate from it.

I got through the performance without giving another thought to the bag. Or did I? I think I felt for it every time I was offstage. I also worried that I might have forgotten to close the end of the fresh bag, so I kept trying to feel for the closure, but since it just rolls and closes with very thin velcro, I couldn't really be sure I had sealed it...

But... at least whenever I was ON the stage, I was completely immersed in being Lady Capulet. Lady Capulet, the ostomate.

Now, if I could only get an important producer or agent to come and see me.

Maybe I'll send out a bunch of headshots and resumes with cards about next weeks performance, tomorrow. For now, I'm going to church, and then to shop, and when I come home I'm making dinner for my cousin.

She'll be here at six. Time flies.

My doctor "ripped me a new one".

I've often heard people say, "The thing about assholes is, everybody's got one." Well it isn't true. I don't have one. I used to, but my doctor cut it out and sewed it up. He "ripped me a new one," as it were, but it's on my abdomen. It also has a parastomal hernia. It looks like he sewed a softball into my belly. And the stoma, the bit of intestine that protrudes from the middle of the hernia, is a big, red, wrinkly lump. It looks like I have a third breast, under my belt. It sticks out as far. I wonder if, when I lose more weight, it will protrude just as far, or if there is fat over the bulging peritoneum, which will go away when I am thinner. I would like to think it would disappear on its own, if I can just work off a few pounds. But despite daily walks or hikes or yoga, my weight remains stable.

Initially, after the surgery, I lost quite a bit of weight. I gained about ten pounds back, when my appetite returned. I want to lose them again.

It seems, often, that I am dehydrated and constipated. I like to be constipated, because it doesn't require as many bag changes, and the solid excrement doesn't break down the adhesive the way softer, more liquid stools do.

I have a bit of a problem with what other ostomates call "pancaking". The adhesive barrier has a plastic ring onto which I snap the bags. That ring tends to corral the "poop" as it exits the stoma, and it all just piles up in that circle, until there is so much that it squeezes down into the very commodious bag. But the hump of shit that piles up inside the ring looks ridiculous under my clothes. To me it does, anyway. I was on a film shoot a few weeks ago, and when I learned that the two costume techs, both in their twenties, have had cancer, I told them about mine. I told them about my self-consciousness about the hernia and the bag. The female costume tech said, "I never even noticed, and I dressed you." She didn't actually "dress" me. She simply approved the clothing I put on, after I donned it. So... my 'hump" wasn't noticeable to her at all. After learning of the hump, she told me that I should always buy dresses in that cut, because I looked wonderful in it, and she said I'd also look great in A-line dresses, which would really flatter and camouflage anything below the waist.

She'd had a non-malignant cancer removed from her back. The male costume tech has had cancer all through his major organs and in his bones. they both look so beautiful and healthy that it filled me with hope, althoug I also felt a little sad and a little worried for the young man.

We are all human. We are all prone to diseases of every kind. Anyone can be afflicted with any illness at any time. You can do things to reduce your risk, but you can never eliminate all the risks. And if you could, there are still risks, from accidents, random violence, and natural or manmade disasters. So whether you have cancer or not, you should live every day as if it might be your last. Savor every moment. Treat those around you with love. Be kind. Be wise.

And when you feel the urge to tell someone something offensive, refrain. You never know how deeply it might wound them. And if you are wounded by their words, but you love them, suck it up. Consider that they do not realize they are hurting you, and that if they could feel the pain they are causing you, they would never have inflicted it. Shake off the offense. Find a way to counteract its effects on your psyche. Your emotions have power to affect your health, negatively or positively. Choose to love those who hurt you, and not to retaliate with more hurtful words.

It is certain that there are some who wound us deliberately, in word and in deed.

I wonder what motivates them.

I wonder if they have an emotional cancer that is eating away their souls.

I have resolved to be like the wise person who "studies to answer" instead of the fool who "opens wide his mouth."

I am pondering some remarks from a dear friend. They wounded me. But this friend has many deep and painful wounds. I had inadvertently added to them. I would not, for all the world, wound again, lest the resulting pain be so unbearable that it precipitates a rash and irrevocable response. I wish to heal, not to harm, to build and not tear down, and to love without judgment or criticism.

I don't want to be somebody's asshole. I'm not going to rip anybody a new one.

So I avoid blogging

Every so often I feel a strong urge to blog about the anal cancer or the horrific details of life with an ostomy. But this is not one of those times. Usually when the impulse strikes, it's because something awful has happened, and ... I don't really want to publish the worst things that happen.

Today, I'm just blogging because I'm here, at my desk, late at night, in the quiet, while everyone else is sleeping... and I feel like writing. No passionate treatise on anything important. Just... stuff.

But I'm tired. A quiet night is a wonderful thing. I think I'll go empty the bag again, and get to bed.