So this is going to be a total departure from what I usually blog about. I'm not much for talking about my personal life on a writer blog... yeah, I know y'all are mostly on here just to see the dirty little snippets from my stories that I put up, but I think this is too important to ignore.
I've been quiet for a bit, and I'll explain why. The easiest thing would just be to say "health issues", and it's the truth, but I'm going to give more detail. It cumulated in me having to undergo testing for colon cancer.
Everything is about the ass right now. Anal is the new oral in erotic romance. And in real life. So many people are trying it. Many of them really like it. Celebrities get famous for having large, luscious bottoms. Butts are memorialized in pop songs. It's all about the sexual function of the ass, but the thing is, we have to remember that there's more to our permanent vertical smiles than sex. We live or die based on how healthfully things move through there.
Yeah, I'm talking about the original function of asses now. Seriously not sexy. I'd been noticing that I was getting progressively weaker, my appetite was fading (REALLY weird for me), and my digestion was very off. I'd always thought I was vigilant about my bowels, because I've lost family members to colon cancer before, and I know I"m at risk for it. Weirdly enough, when I started to experience warning signs, I initially ignored them. Denial isn't just a river in Egypt. But it got to the point where I couldn't ignore it. I was spending sixteen hours a day asleep, and the other eight curled in the fetal position, moaning in pain and clutching my belly. My life ground to a halt. I couldn't work. Sex (either by myself or with anyone else) was out of the question.
So I went to the doctor, and I had to tell him that I, a person at risk for colon cancer, had been ignoring the fact that there was blood in the toilet after I moved my bowels. After he gave me a stern lecture about not ignoring serious symptoms, we began the testing process. Some bits were so disgusting I can't bring myself to discuss them. As soon as the first results were in, I got booked with the surgeon for the dreaded colonoscopy.
Very few people who are in their thirties expect that they'll need a camera shoved up their ass. I don't imagine that anyone looks forward to it. But as the days dragged by, I found myself wishing time to go faster, so I could get it done. I knew I was sick, but I wanted to know exactly how sick, so I could figure out what to do about it. I was actually eager to get started on the prep, which is pretty much two days of clear liquids and very strong laxatives. Those were probably the two longest days of my life. I staggered back and forth between my bed and the bathroom, never catching more than an hour or two of sleep at a time because once you've taken laxatives you really don't trust yourself to relax all that much.
As I'd been sick for a while anyhow, the preparation was really hard on my body. My darling dad came to town to take care of me, and he had to push me through the hospital in a wheelchair because I was too weak to walk. Then I went into shock when they put the IV in. So I to spend a few hours laying there in pre-op, getting fluids and waiting for my blood pressure to stabilize before I could go in.
By that point, I was utterly convinced I had cancer. I started composing good-bye letters in my head to give to the people I love the most. I sorrowed for the fact that I wouldn't be able to finish the Wildlands series. My brain worked through every mistake I'd ever made, every regret I ever had, and I started to mourn the fact that my life was ending after only 34 years.
When I finally went into the operating room, the doctor asked me if I had any questions, and I asked him how long I would live with cancer. He didn't answer; just told the nurse to give me the sedative. I drifted off lying on my side, as someone was opening the back of my gown so they could insert a six-foot hose into my butt. I remember offering to slip them a fifty if they would grease it well.
When I woke up, the surgeon was standing there, smiling at me. My colon was perfectly normal, except for the fact that I apparently don't eat enough fibre. The GI specialist was called, and after one simple conversation and a look at my medical records, she concluded that my pain and weakness was a reaction to a medication I'd started a few months back, that was apparently doing a number on my digestive system and severely straining my liver.
So I don't have cancer. My dramatic mental preparations for death seem rather silly now. I stopped the drug, and my system is slowly healing. I'm still tired and weak, but I'm sleeping only about 12 hours a day now, and I'm hoping to be able to go back to my 'day' job within another month. The mind fog is clearing, and I've started to write again.
You're probably wondering why I'm telling you all of this. The first reason is as a public service announcement. Colon cancer is a silent, brutal killer. I've watched some of the people I've loved most in the world succomb to it, because the symptoms usually don't show up until it's progressed to the point where it could be too late. And even then, they may have ignored the symptoms out of fear. So if you're over 40, or if you have family history, don't die of embarassment. Talk to your doctor about screening. When it's caught in the early stages, it's not a death sentence. My granddad lived 40 years after his first bout.
The second reason I'm talking about it is that this whole experience has given me a strange new relationship with my body. I underwent some incredibly invasive, humiliating medical procedures, which was something I'd never done before. Having never given birth, I haven't had much cause to have doctors 'down there', except for that quick yearly exam that we all pretend isn't happening. But being probed inside and out has somehow made me more comfortable with my body, with who I am as a person and my place on this earth. It brought me to a new acceptance of the reality of my body, imperfect as it may be. It's mine. It's me.
I've had some weird, freaky sex (not as wild as my characters, but wild enough). I consented to having my body touched in those ways for pleasure. It's a different thing to have people (especially strangers rather than someone you care about and trust) touching you when it feels absolutely horrible, and you know no pleasure is forthcoming. I've never been a fan of pain for pain's sake. But I accepted it, endured it, almost welcomed it, because there was a higher purpose. I wanted to stay alive. So I've come to find a new appreciation for the less comfortable, pleasurable things in life, because the fact remains, I like life. As I try to regain my strength, I've done some simple workouts. After a few months of hardly moving, it hurts like a sonofabitch. But I welcome the pain because I know it's necessary. A bowl of oat bran in the mornings isn't as tasty as a sausage-egg sandwich. But it will help me stay alive longer, make my body work better, and in the long run, I guess that makes it all worth it.
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