Butt of All Jokes
I am almost a month out of the hospital and feeling perky enough to do some serious blogging. For those of you that have not been keeping up on the misadventures of my gastrointestinal tract, a summary:
On July 29th of last year, I went in for a routine colonoscopy. As per usual, the prep to cleanse my system of any obscuring solids was lengthy and unpleasant. Imagine connecting a high-pressure nozzle to your rectum for the later stages of the process. Being routine, we expected it to show up nothing.
Instead, the doctor found a 2.5 centimeter white spot low in my colon, an adenocarcinoma. We named the malignant little tumor Tommy and plotted his demise.
First came the round of radiation and chemo intended to render the little fellow extra crispy. As I pooped out assorted pink squiggly things at that time, it seemed to be working. Most of my circle of acquaintances did not want to hear those progress reports.
Another invasive examination with a Hasselblad large format camera indicated that there was no evidence of disease. My surgeon was apparently of the “we must destroy the village to save it” temperament. He wanted to do a permanent colostomy and remove and sew up my anus.
My anus is not my favorite organ, but I was attached to it. We fired that doctor and put the chemo-oncologist in charge. She put me on a regimen of infusion chemo that made colonoscopy prep seem like a tea party. The drugs made me feel like I was going through a Timelord regeneration: my voice grew hoarse, my limbs shaked, my tolerances for cold temperatures plummeted. and nothing tasted right
I made a lot of fish custard jokes that no-one seemed to get.
In the end, I had roughly three months of chemo followed by three months of being cancer free. Then the cancer came back. Tommy the Zombie Tumor was to be dealt with severely.
A new surgeon was recruited to do what the original surgeon wanted. On July 20th, the anniversary of the moon landing, they removed the largest crater in my moon. I was discharged July 29th, exactly one year after my initial diagnosis.
Though it all sounds a bit grim, there was a rich vein of awkward new jokes to be made:
The first thing I said when discussing my colostomy was “Papa’s got a brand new bag.”
When faced with overwhelming odds in battle, I will no longer need brown pants.
I have literally become the guy who can’t find his ass with both hands & a road map. I have no idea where it wound up. It either went to the medical incinerator or is in a little jar of Formalin marked “asshole”.
When some jackass parks their expensive car in four parking spaces to avoid scratches, I can poop all over the windshield and doorknobs without dropping trou.
Common parlance describes what I have as a Barbie Butt: a crack, but no hole. I would like to think I more manly than that. Maybe a GI Joe Butt. We could never peel off Major Matt Mason’s pressure suit to see what his butt looked like.
Finally, I’d like to think that I would be infinitely frustrating to aliens. They would abduct me in my sleep per their protocols. With me laid out face-down on the examination couch, they’d pull down my pyjama shorts and find… nothing. I imagine their high-pitched alien voices: “Aw come on! Not another one!”
Weirdmaste!
