Okay, so here's my little PSA --- colon cancer does NOT only happen to older adults. Since my diagnosis, I've joined a facebook group and met a whole host of people in their thirties and forties that are reeling with the same shock I've been dealing with.
So... if you're worried, get screened!
Now, way too much information is coming, so if you don't want to know, don't keep reading. Just be your own advocate and get screened!
I remember going to the doctor when I was 36, just after Brooklynn was born and talking to her about my family history of colon cancer. I asked her when I should have a colonoscopy. She gave me the same answer that the doctors I spoke to last year gave me. Screening is recommended at 50, or ten years younger than your nearest relatives diagnosis. Well, my Mom was diagnosed at 60, so that makes my screening age... 50. I was okay with that because, you know, I'm invincible. I should have pushed harder. My body couldn't wait until 50. On the plus side, my brothers and my children now get to tell their doctors that their nearest relative was diagnosed at 41, so their magic number is 31. Both of my brothers, who are nowhere near 50 themselves, have made appointments for screening based on me, so for that, itself, this is worth it. I also heard that one of my cousins is going to have a colonoscopy now, too. I'm very proud of her!
So... what symptoms did I ignore? Turns out, a hell of a lot! And, in my defense, I didn't totally ignore it. I was more "in denial" and coming up with every other possible explanation for what my body was doing to me. Because it couldn't possibly be cancer. I have four kids, for god's sake, I don't have time for cancer.
Things started getting lousy right around my fortieth birthday. But it was subtle and easy to think that it was all in my head. I suddenly went from being a night owl to being someone with no energy to even make it to the children's bedtime without wanting to curl up with a blanket. I was irritable, depressed, unethusiastic about all the things that usually made me happy (like scrapbooking) and I avoided them. This went on for several months and affected me at home as well as at work. I was burnt out! I was picking fights with my husband. I had no patience for the volunteer work that I used to be so passionate about. I was forgetful and disorganized. And I couldn't cope. I remember last winter having an emotional breakdown in my office and sobbing to my boss that I thought I was going crazy. The next day she sent me an article about "Peri-Menopause," to which I of course replied, "No effing way I'm old enough for that." But after reading it, well, it kind of made sense, so figured that was as good as an explanation as anything. And it was a relief because it actually explained a lot.
I lost twenty-three pounds last year, between January and August. Not a symptom, because I totally wanted to lose the weight. And I was kind of half-heartedly trying, but it did come off remarkably easy. But as my pants got looser, my shirts got tighter. And the baby fat that I've been carrying around since become a Mom was not going anywhere. I looked pregnant. As was pointed out to me. "Oh, when are you due?" Umm, four and a half freakin' years ago, thank you very much! And so I watched my stomach get bigger and bigger while people said, "You've lost weight!" And instead of enjoying the compliments about my weightloss, I was embarassed and depressed because all I could see was this volleyball sized gut that I was growing.
And there was other stuff, too. Girl stuff that suggested that my reproductive system was going hayire. Things were happening more frequently and with a lot more intensity. But if you google peri-menopause, that's normal for people my age, so I totally ignored that. Completely ignored it, actually. When the surgeon told me that there was a tumour on my ovary, I was blind-sided. Now, looking back, there's a lot that makes sense.
But here is what I really want you to take away. And where you might want to stop reading if you don't want to know too much about my pooping habits. Around January, I started to be keenly aware that my bathroom abilities had very subtly started to change. Without being overly descriptive, let's just say there was more urgency, but far less satisfaction. You know... when you know you've done a thorough job, you feel pretty good about yourself. It sets the tone for your whole day. And I used to be really good at emptying my bowels. Until last year. I started to get urgent cramps that in no way matched my output. I would visit the bathroom and leave thinking, "Well, that wasn't worth the effort. There's gotta be more in there than that." It's was a little disheartening.
But I ignored that one. Because really, that's embarassing. And we don't talk about it. Everyone poops but no one admits it. And it started so subtly that I assumed it was my imagination. And it wasn't until later on in the year that it got to the point where I started thinking, "Okay, this really isn't all in my head."
At first the cramping only happened right before I went to the bathroom. But right around the summer time, it took on a whole new level of pain. It wasn't just a few stomach cramps that went away after using the bathroom, it was like being in freaking labour. It's the only way to explain it. Doubled over for a few seconds, then reprieve for a few minutes, then doubled over again. The first episode lasted about six hours. And then I was good for a couple of weeks. Well, okay, not good, but certainly not bad. I was able to go about my days relatively easily, only having to breathe through the "contractions" a few times a day. Then in September it happened again, only it lasted longer, this time I was doubled over for a couple of days before the pain subsided. And then it was kind of just constanly there, a teaser that I was able to ignore for the most part.
So I went to the doctor. I'm not a complete idiot. I know stomach pain is not a good thing. And she ordered bloodwork and an x-ray, and a stool sample that was recalled the day after I did that traumatic act of collection. And I got a couple of diagnoses that made sense. One was iron-deficiency and the other was constipation. The iron deficiency made a world of sense. It was as if a light-bulb went on and as soon as I got that one, I felt so much better! There was an explanation for my brain-fog, my depression, and my exhaustion after all. The constipation diagnoses I was less convinced of. But I was willing to try anything to stop the pain, so for the next three months I lived off of WAY too many laxatives. At one point the doctor had me on four doses a day. And I will admit, I wasn't having stomach pain. But I wasn't having fun, either. And when the blood appeared, I backed off of those laxatives of my own accord, which only served to bring back the pain with a vengeance.
In October I got the referral I'd been seeking! Yay, I was about to have my first colonoscopy --- oh happy day! I was on the waiting list and due to be called in for January. It took some work, but I had convinced them to screen me a decade earlier than the textbooks recommend. Now all I had to do was make it through Christmas and there was light on the other side of the tunnel. This was a relief. I knew that I would get some answers
But the pain returned, with a vengeance, after I detoxed from the laxatives that were scraping my colon raw (so, here you go, anytime you see blood in the toilet, get yourself to the hospital stat, I don't care if it's a fissure or a hemorroid, or you ate beets yesterday and forgot, it is better to be safe than sorry). So... back on the fibre I went. But the pain just got worse and my production level went down. And suddenly those classic "pencil-thin stools" that every website about colon cancer warns you about... they were there. And that was scary. January's scope couldn't come fast enough for me.
On December 17th, on a Sunday morning, after a particularly painful weekend where my stomach was grumbling so loudly my children could hear it across the house (that's not an exaggeration) and there had been NOTHING coming out for days, I went to the emergency room and said, "I think I have a blockage." I was sent home with different laxatives to try because, "if you had a blockage you'd be vomiting", an anti-inflamatory to shut up my vocal stomach, and a prescription for a pro-biotic. Okay. This is where anyone other than me would have argued. But I've never been my own best advocate. So I went home, frustrated, and I drank the syrupy drink that was supposed to clear me out. And I popped the anti-inflammatories that were to ease the pain. And by 3pm that day, I was vomiting. And vomiting. And then for good measure, I vomited a little more. All afternoon. All evening. And all night. Those new meds didn't stand a chance because they weren't staying in my stomach.
Monday morning I phoned the clinic and got an emergency appointment. I hugged my kids a little tighter as I watched them leave for school, told them I loved them, and just had a really bad feeling that my day wasn't going to end well. We went up to the clinic and I met with a doctor who had never seen me before, but when you call at 8am on a Monday morning for an emergency appointment, you take whoever will see you. And she specializes in colons. And she saved my life. I told her I was sure I had a blockage and I couldn't take anymore laxatives, the blood was too scary and I really couldn't wait until January for the colonoscopy. And she believed me. And sent me to the hospital for an emergency x-ray which showed... a complete blockage!
On December 18th my healing journey started. I spent 12 days in the hospital, 8 weeks recovering from a massive surgery (I'll blog about that later), and now the next six months will be taken up with me blasting my body with chemotherapy. We caught the cancer at stage 4, colon cancer that has metastasized to another organ (my right ovary, may she rest in peace) which sucks, but what can I say, I've always been an overachiever. Go big or go home, right? And at least I'm here to talk about it. Because blockages are serious. They could rupture and poison you. Mine didn't. But apparently, which I didn't know, my Great-Grandma's did. Yikes.
And those are the signs I (almost) ignored. So don't you ignore them! Please! Don't be like me and think "I'm a hypochondriac," or "I'm just imagining this," or "my bowel movements are too embarassing to talk about." If it seems odd, it probably is. Better to be safe than sorry. Don't wait until you are in pain to mention your concerns to the doctor. Please. Especially if you are one of my family members on Mom's side. I'm officially a fourth generation colon cancer patient. Me, Mom, Grandpa, and Great-Grandma. If I can get it, then our whole family can. Use me as an example as to why you should not wait until you are fifty.
That's all!
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