It’s been almost two months since I read this great line, formed in the mind of an octopus (yes, an octopus), from Shelby Van Pelt’s unique, emotional, and inspiring novel, Remarkably Bright Creatures. The words leapt off the page at me because just a week earlier a colonoscopy had revealed a likely cancerous mass in my colon. Best and worse case scenarios were discussed. Scans, tests, and surgery were scheduled. Something was there and I was unable to grasp it, both emotionally and physically. It was, indeed, torture.

It was also extremely lucky.

After the surgery, it took a torturous two weeks and two days to get the pathology report. I didn’t sleep well. I walked slowly, holding my belly, from one end of the house to the other. I watched a lot of mindless television (Bravo, Below Deck!). I couldn’t write. I couldn’t read. I could only eat bland, soft, well-cooked foods. I spent a lot of time in the bathroom.

Now, sharing the gory details of my experience feels a bit like bragging—look at me, I’m recovering from laparoscopic surgery to remove a tumor. When I read the pathology results, stage zero cancer, I cried. I wouldn’t need chemotherapy or further treatment—just frequent colonoscopies.

I Tell Everyone  

So, if my story helps one person catch a polyp before it becomes a tumor or even catches it at the same stage as mine, I’m willing to be labeled a braggart.  Colorectal cancer is currently the second leading cause of cancer death in the United States. If caught early, many colon and rectal cancers can be treated successfully. I enthusiastically share my colon health with anyone who asks, “how have you been,” because too many people aren’t getting colonoscopy screening.

My grandmother had colon cancer, so I had my first colonoscopy when I was forty-eight, two years before the American Cancer Society changed their age recommendation from fifty to forty-five (as of May 2021, the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services task force recommendation to screen for colorectal cancer at age 45 instead of age 50, forces insurers to cover preventive procedures such as colonoscopies and stool tests). My gastroenterologist said I had the “colon of a thirty-five-year-old” and advised me to return in five to seven years.

Life got busy (Covid, listing, selling, and packing our house, second child off to college). Even when I had a little bleeding (you know where) I put off scheduling my colonoscopy for another six months. Had it not been for the bleeding (which turned out to be internal hemorrhoids) I may have waited another six months. Had I waited, things could have turned out very different.

The ”C” word

I woke up from my colonoscopy (six years, four months from my first) and was told by a “new” nurse that the doctor had found a mass. I had colon cancer. Perhaps my quick tears made her realize she should fetch my husband and the doctor to give us the details. You think??? Yes, I had a tumor that looked like cancer. I would need surgery.

If I could have kept the news to myself, I might have, but too many people knew I was going for a colonoscopy and the texts were already scrolling in. All good with your colonoscopy? Nope.  

When we got home, I told my kids I might have cancer. I cried and we hugged and then I quickly walked next door to my good friend’s house and collapsed in tears of fear, shock, and anxiety.

That day and for the next few, I texted my friends and family what was going on, warned them I was an emotional mess, and asked everyone to please respect my wish not to contact me. I knew an avalanche of support was about to tumble around me. I’d never felt so vulnerable, and I didn’t like it.

I couldn’t stop crying. All I could think about was being cut open, chemotherapy, not waking up from surgery, and not being around to see who my children would grow to be. At 4:37 a.m., the morning of my surgery, I texted them both—There is no mother in the universe more proud of the kind young adults I’ve been lucky enough to watch you become. Wherever you are and wherever I am, know that I’m in your heart and you are in mine.

On my own

On surgery day, after hugging my husband, as a nurse walked me back to the pre-operation area, I couldn’t squash the sense of aloneness quivering through me. Even with a full list of friends and family happy to listen and help, from the moment the doctor told me about my tumor, I’d never felt so isolated.

This was something only my body and mind could suffer. I’m the proverbial nervous patient who had to lie alone in every test, operating room, and hospital bed. Alone. I knew I had to figure out how to pull it together. I couldn’t hyperventilate in puddles of tears every time I walked into a medical building.

So, I sang. When I needed to lay still (for scans and MRI’s), I sang in my head, but as I waited for them to roll me into surgery I sang quietly, but aloud, all the lyrics I could remember to Five For Fighting’s Superman (It’s Not Easy). When one of the doctors came to wheel me into the operating room, I told her I was singing to calm myself, that I was nervous. To me, she said, “I don’t know that song,” and to a nurse, she said, “Push some Versed.” Yes, please. That’s the last thing I remember.

Recovery Doesn’t Have To Be Lonely

In the last six weeks, I’ve had two colonoscopies, MRI’s, scans, blood tests, an echocardiogram, colorectal surgery, and daily  blood thinner injections for twenty-eight days. I learned to count on myself because I had to.

But I didn’t do it alone. I’m not used to accepting help, no less asking for it, but my husband, parents and sister supported me in ways I hoped to never need—everyone should have such loving and capable hands to hold.

I’m thankful to everyone who texted, called, listened, and visited, and to those who sent cookies, mini bundt cakes, cards, and care packages. And to everyone who cooked, drove, packed, and shopped for me—you know who you are­­—your help was invaluable and immensely appreciated. I’m not just lucky in my prognosis, I’m lucky to have you all in my life.

So, here’s my message—pay attention to your body, get your colorectal cancer screenings, and encourage everyone you know to do the same. Educate yourself, and when you’re ready, let people help you.

*NOTE: As I prepared this blog over the weekend for publication today, a New England Journal of Medicine article came out yesterday. The conclusion of the article was “the risk of colorectal cancer at 10 years was lower among participants who were invited to undergo screening colonoscopy than among those who were assigned to no screening.” BUT – articles written about the study showed headlines like this: “In gold-standard trial, colonoscopy fails to reduce rate of cancer deaths” and “Screening Procedure Fails to Prevent Colon Cancer Deaths in Large Study.” I read both these articles and it proves my point about how important it is to educate yourself. Read the articles, not the headlines, then make your own decision. I’m certain my decision to have a colonoscopy was the right one. 

Thanks, Shelby Van Pelt, this is one great line.

If you can relate to this great line, I’d love to hear from you! Please scroll down and leave a comment.

If you’d like to read more about Remarkably Bright Creatures, click here.

If you’d like to read about me, and why I started this blog, click here.