I'm feeling better now which hasn't necessarily been the case for the past month or so. For a few weeks after my last surgery, an ileostomy reversal in late March, I was pretty down and in (again) a lot of pain. After a great February and having near normal (for me) energy levels and even guiding my polar training course, I felt like I was taking a few steps backwards. Mentally, it was even more difficult, I had been knocked down so many times over the past year and a half that I felt like a human punching bag. What's the use of getting back up, I thought, if I'm just going to get knocked back down again.The troughs and roller coaster life of cancer treatment has been wearing more than a little thin.

Honestly, I think my mindset was the real problem. I had gone into my surgery thinking that it was just one last procedure then everything was going to be fine and I would be back to my old self - who I was years before being diagnosed when I never gave my health or body a second thought and pushed in whatever direction I wanted for as long as I wanted. But the reality that set in was much different. First of all, simply recovering from the surgery was / is hard. Even though my 'side hole' (as I affectionately but not so affectionately referred to my stoma) was now closed, it was now a big ping pong ball sized indent in my side that was really sore and painful so much so that I had to get back on oxycodone for a week or so. Bending, reaching, walking, every basic movement ranged from uncomfortable to very painful. After skiing, guiding, camping and more for the month prior to surgery, having severe limitations on my mobility again was difficult. I was also instructed to not pick up anything heavier than 10 pounds. Worse, came the realization that with 14 inches of my colon now removed, my digestion would never be the same again. That was hard and I'm still struggling. For a while, I wished I still had my ileostomy bag, but after a few more weeks, I'm glad it's gone, but it's not easy. 

Without getting into the gory details, I ended up wearing a diaper for several weeks. Compared with many that go through similar surgeries, I was fairly lucky as I didn't have to get my rectum removed so I still have some muscle control (but not a lot). From what I understand now, it takes a couple of months to get in a more manageable digestive rhythm (if you know what I mean) and up to a year or two to become closer to normal (but never actually normal). Like I have so many times throughout all this, I focused on the things I could control like my diet and rest and helped out around the house and with the kids as much as I could. Still, I regularly feel overwhelmed as I am nervous about leaving the house and having an accident. Toilet paper and extra underwear are my constant traveling companions these days. At home, I'll regularly have several hour spans where I am having to go to the bathroom every five to ten minutes. I don't know what I'd do if I wasn't working (well trying to figure out my work) from home. I may look fine on the outside but my insides are still trying to figure all this out. My mind is a different story.

As I've always said that the best way to be successful is to not have another choice, and right now, I have no other choice but to keep moving forward. It would be easy to keep feeling sorry for myself (and I sometimes do), but for better or worse, hope springs eternal and I've picked up a fair bit of resiliency over the years. Still, it has been hard to communicate with friends how I feel. I am definitely happy that I am at the tail end of my cancer treatment (until my next scans in September), but it's still hard and everything doesn't just 'shut off' now that I've had my last surgery. I'm not sure how to square any of this with my psyche right now so I've just reverted to my age old trick of moving forward one step at a time and hoping that a clearer path emerges.

Maria and I talk fairly regularly about this past year and a half and how it affected us, our relationship and family. There were a lot of dark and hard days and our conversations now are a combination of awe (that we managed to get through it) and debrief. We are still processing all that we went through and trying to figure out how to integrate the intense emotional journey with our lives now. Neither one of us has any definitive answers at this point. One thing is for certain however, both of us are forever changed, and while I can't speak for Maria, I am more grateful than anything.

One of the things that triggered a greater awareness that something might be wrong with my body (cancer) was when I broke my collarbone nearly two years ago. After my surgery, I just never felt 'right' which led me down a several month-long path ending in a colonoscopy and cancer diagnosis. To this day, I credit that mountain bike accident with saving my life. For a long time, I didn't really care about the uncomfortable plate screwed into my collarbone as I had much more important medical issues to deal with but as I realized I might be able to live a few more years and eventually work again, I knew I would need to get the plate removed. Initially, I was hoping that I could leave it in and it would be much of a bother, but very quickly, I discovered it was very uncomfortable to the point of not even being able to wear a light day pack. There would be no way I could carry a heavy mountaineering pack or pull a fully laden polar sled with a harness.  I also knew I didn't want to extend my current convalescence any longer than need be, and luckily, I was able to schedule the surgery to remove my collarbone plate just two weeks after my resection surgery. While it may be more difficult to recover from two operations simultaneously, I feel thankful that I'm done (for the time being) with major medical procedures. Let the healing begin!

But at the same time, part of me feels guilty as well, that I made it this far, alive, when so many others don't. My cousin, Jim, died of colon cancer last May right around this time and I think of him nearly every day. I'm not sure how to accept that feeling and unfairness. My worry is that at some point these feelings will become a distant memory and I will lose my hard-won perspectives. While I want to move on, I don't want to forget.

I also have a more comfortable relationship with death now, too which I am also grateful for, and ultimately, creates (for me) a better perspective about friends and family who have died. When I was first diagnosed, I was given only a few years to live which was rough to say the least. I remember staring down at my shoes in the doctor's office while hearing the news - just to try to keep it together. When it came down to it, and this is the straight honest truth, I was more thankful than anything. I had discovered my life's passion and become relatively successful in my weird career. I had also, as an older man, found calmness and acceptance in who I was as a person (which wasn't the case in my 20's and 30's). Most importantly, I found a greater purpose as a father and partner to Maria.  My pragmatic side understood that none of us is cheating death and goodbyes are shitty at any point. But leaving my kids, that was the really, really hard thought. Not being able to spend more time with Merritt and Ellie and seeing them grow up was the singular most difficult aspect of having cancer, and even as I write this, breaks me.   

In Crested Butte, the weather has been warming nicely and there isn't a day that goes by where I'm not grateful to be part of the 'living' world. When you're sick, there is an immediate separation and differentiation that takes place and very quickly you realize that healthy people set the agenda. This time last year, I was neck deep in chemo, struggling on every level. Now, to be able to walk outside, go for a hike, or feel the warm sun on my face, is the greatest of gifts. I am coaching Ellie's soccer team too, which feels a bit like drinking a cool glass of water just as you were dying of thirst. 

I'm not sure if and when I'll write another update. For now, I'm just chugging along feeling a little better every day. I have my next scan and colonoscopy in September, and from what I've heard from other cancer patients, those events can be a source of great stress prior to the procedure. But just like a North Pole expedition where conditions are constantly changing, there is so much uncertainty between now and then that it's hard to make a clearly defined plan or have a straightforward mindset. My mantra on the ice is always, "Let's just go up there and see what happens."

I have found a compassion inside me that I never knew existed and I wanted to reiterate how much I have appreciated the thoughts, kind messages and more. It is no small stretch to say that those were one of the important things that sustained me through the roughest of rough times. To say that life is hard, minimizes the fact that life actually is really hard - for everyone and we are all struggling in one way or another.