One reason I’ve made it to age 65 (and counting) is that I got my “routine” colon cancer screening (colonoscopy) at age 50…
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Poster Child
One reason I’ve made it to age 64 (and counting) is that I got my “routine” colon cancer screening (colonoscopy) at age 50…
Without that “routine” colonoscopy, I would have most certainly not discovered my colon cancer until I became symptomatic. By then it might have been too late. It certainly would have put me on a more torturous path than I’m on now.
Instead, I was one of the lucky ones.
Long story short, my colon cancer was stage 1–confined to my colon with no apparent spread to the neighboring lymph nodes–treated by surgery alone. No chemo or radiation required. My entire ascending and half of my transverse colon removed. Free appendectomy included. Declared cured at the time, although the story became more “interesting” a decade later (more on that in subsequent posts).
In summary, that “routine” colonoscopy saved my life and eliminated years of unnecessary suffering and probable death. I stand before you as a poster child for early detection.
No matter who you are, get your routine colonoscopy at an appropriate age. As of this writing, the current guidance is for those with no personal or family history of cancer and no genetic predispositions to get their first colonoscopy at age 45, but those with a personal or family history of colon cancer or a genetic predisposition should work with their doctors to determine an appropriate age.
Poster child Frank is talking because he knows and sends the following message loud and clear: Get a colonoscopy at an age that suits your particular medical situation.
DO IT no matter how scary it sounds.
DO IT no matter how inconvenient it may be.
DO IT no matter now healthy you think you are.
DO IT for you.
DO IT for your family and friends, too.
Chances are you’ll have no polyps and no evidence of disease… and you will come away with some well-earned peace of mind.
And in the chance that you do have polyps, they will be removed–absolutely painlessly–during the colonoscopy and you will have reduced your risk of colon cancer immensely. And then you can come up with a plan to stay ahead of any future problems.
And in the small chance they do find cancer, early detection gives you a fighting chance where the numbers are all on your side.
So, please just get your colonoscopy… and encourage all your loved ones to get one too.
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“We Found Something”
In my previous post, I may have given the impression that curing what turned out be my stage 1 Colon Cancer was no big deal…
I assure you it was anything but.
As fortuitous as the early detection of my colon cancer was in retrospect, it was just the beginning of a four-month ordeal that began with three horrifying words upon waking up after my “routine” colonoscopy.
It’s a hell of a thing, still groggy from the sedation, to hear the doctor say: “We found something.”
Biopsies sent to lab.
Blood tests ordered.
Referred to a thoracic surgeon.
Surgeon?!
In a single heartbeat, life became deadly serious.
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Surgery Indicated
Hemicolectomy. No other options.
Surgery scheduled three months out. THREE MONTHS.
Ninety-one days to be exact.
My heart sank. I would have signed up to have the surgery performed that very minute.
Three months! Ninety-one stress filled days to think about the worst that could happen.
But before getting too wrapped up in worst that could happen, let’s talk about the best that could happen. I don’t even know what best means. Best for who? For me? For the world? For my family and friends? Best compared to what? I am compelled to ask.
I suspect that most people would automatically consider the best outcome to be a full cure with no further treatment required. I know. I used to be one of them (a deadly serious topic for another day.) But I consider that only the second best thing.
Leaving my thoughts and feelings about what best is, I realized that the best easiest thing that could happen to me was to die on the operating table. An absolutely painless passing into the eternal sleep. No more anxiety. No more nausea. No more insomnia. No more hard decisions. No more agonizing about the meaning and course of my life. Just a peaceful return to the infinite nothingness that preceded my birth.
The worst that could happen includes a long list of horrors: Waking up and learning that my entire colon was removed… that I had a colostomy… that my cancer had spread… that I needed more surgery… that I needed chemo and radiation… that my bowels leaked and needed to fight a lengthy battle with sepsis. Any or all the above could happen.
Of course such rumination isn’t good for my health. All I need to know is that I’m having the surgery and plan to be a good patient, come what may.
Only ninety-one days until hemicolectomy day!
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Stresses and Traumas
Indulge me as I recount the many stresses & traumas accumulated over the course of four months after hearing those three horrifying words…
Trauma #1. Learning that “something” was a mass the size of a flattened golf ball embedded in the hepatic flexure of my large intestine–among the worst places to have a polyp. And, because of its size, shape, and location learning that it was impossible remove endoscopically.
Trauma #2. Actually seeing, not merely knowing about, the horrifying images of the large, ugly mass growing inside of me.
Trauma #3. Waiting for the pathology report from the biopsies taken during my colonoscopy.
Trauma #4. Two weeks of anxiety waiting for my initial consultation with the surgeon who would remove the polyp.
Trauma #5. Reading the pathology saying I have an adenoma, negative for cancer, but the kind that almost always becomes cancer.
Trauma #6. Learning that the negative results were not definitive due the polyp’s large size and the fact that the biopsies were just samples of the lesion.
Trauma #7. Learning that the negative results were a surprise in the sense that most polyps of this size and shape are cancerous.
Trauma #8. The first meeting with my surgeon, expecting to discuss a minimally invasive local excision of the polyp. Surprise! The real plan is the total removal of my ascending colon and half of my transverse colon, along with my appendix and neighboring lymph nodes
Trauma #9. Waiting for blood work in order to measure the levels of colon cancer antigens in my system.
Trauma #10. Getting the test result showing that my colon cancer antigens levels were below the threshold that would indicate cancer. You’d think this would be cause for relief, until you learn that this was a huge surprise to the doctors and the fact that such test is not definitive.
Aside: At my second meeting with the surgeon, they described the surgical procedure–at my request. The plan is to pull my intestines out through an incision just above my belly button and do all the work outside my body, just like repairing a leaky hose, then to shove it all back in. Sounds a lot simpler that I expected. Such surgery considered major, but not high risk, giving me some peace of mind.
Trauma #11. Surgery scheduled three months out. THREE MONTHS. My heart sank. I would have signed up to have the surgery performed that very minute.
Trauma #12. Three months to imagine this big, ugly mass still growing inside of me.
Trauma #13. Three months to agonize about who to tell about my situation… what to tell them… how to tell them… when to tell them… if to tell them.
Trauma #14. Three months stressing about getting my affairs in order, just in case.
Trauma #15. Three months to ruminate about all the things that can go wrong with the surgery and recovery.
Trauma #16. Three more months to freak out about what they might find once they get in there.
Trauma #17. And three months to let my imagination run wild about all the horrible lives I might have to live after surviving the surgery.
How in a million years am I NOT going to ruminate about all the above?
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Coping Behaviors
Three traumatic months of waiting and ruminating–seriously considering that they might be my last…
And as I ponder how I survived that ordeal a dozen years ago, three coping behaviors stand out in my cancer brain memory.
First, walking briskly to the grocery store in the winter air made me feel healthy and alive, at least for a little while each day.
Second, playing piano— the most enjoyable, engaging meditation I am capable of and fortunate to have in my life.
And third, falling asleep on the couch every night while binge watching “Law and Order” reruns (the Vincent D’Onofrio version).
I honestly can’t tell you how I got through the hours that remained without losing hope or going insane. It’s all just a blur now. I suspect I was able to distract myself away from the anxiety, stress, and worry of it all by keeping busy doing those chores and errands required of any other human fortunate enough to live in the developed world.
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Final Wishes, Just in Case
The preparation for my hemicolectomy would not have been complete without the sobering, halting process of getting my affairs in order…
… just in case I don’t survive the surgery or recovery.
It’s a hell of thing to think about and put all your final wishes in writing.
… to arrange for a trusted friend to assume power of attorney should you lose the capacity to speak for yourself.
… to decide who will receive what remains of your money and material possessions when you’re gone.
… to arrange for a trusted executor to assume responsibility for managing your estate.
… and to decide the disposition of your lifeless body for eternity.
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Do Not Resuscitate
Just in case my surgery or recovery goes south…
Do Not Resuscitate!
DNR!
D. N. R.
Please just let me go in peace.
Seriously.
If I wake up and learn that anyone demanded heroic measures to keep me alive because that’s what they wanted, I would never forgive them.
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The Letter
About a month after I heard those three horrible words, I got a letter from the gastroenterology clinic that did my colonoscopy…
It said that they did not find any polyps and recommend I come back in five years for my next “routine” colonoscopy.
WTF?
A cruel joke?
A clerical error?
I was incredulous, of course… and beside myself with anger.
Naturally, I called the clinic to clear things up… to confirm, of course, that there was no reprieve… that I still had to go through with my hemicolectomy.
Anyway, I mention it because it’s just one of many traumatic memories I’ve accumulated over the years… one of many where the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing… and reason to lose confidence in the so-called healthcare system.
Rant complete. I have no more heartbeats to waste on anything that doesn’t align with my life’s purpose. And so, I had to let it go. I shredded the letter and got back to the business of preparing for surgery day.
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Night Before Surgery
Fast forward. Somehow, someway I put a full third of a year of rumination and preparation behind me…
… and I remember feeling remarkably serene the night before my hemicolectomy.
Believe it or not, I was truly at peace. For real. Because I knew I’d done everything I could to maximize my chances of success… and because I did everything I could to minimize the burden I would be on my family and friends.
That evening, I handed hardcopies of my will, final wishes, and power of attorney to my agents… and verbally expressed to them those things that were most important to me should things go wrong.
That night I had the best sleep I’d had since I heard those three horrible words.
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Surgery Day Morning
4:00 am 12 February 2012. Alarm clock shocks me awake…
“Here we go… Today’s the day.”
And I noticed something that totally blew me away: Despite all the stress and anxiety that consumed me over the past four months, I felt remarkably and absolutely at peace.
To this day, I struggle to find the words to describe my state of mind that morning. Everything seemed to happen on autopilot… and yet I was a fully present witness to it all… as if all my self-consciousness disappeared… as if I became a detached observer… neither sad nor afraid… wrapped in absolute serenity.
And so, I went about my business… taking a shower, brushing my teeth, putting on my socks and shoes, driving to the hospital… casually realizing, but not bothered by, the possibility that I may be doing all these simple things for the very last time.
I arrived at the hospital a bit early… and noticed a grand piano in the lobby. A lovely surprise. I sat down, lifted the lid, and quietly played a mutant version of “Take the Long Way Home” as I mumbled the lyrics to myself… Knowing smiles and nods of appreciation from the only two people sitting across the lobby… surely about to have a big day themselves.
I smiled and nodded in return and gently lowered the lid, knowing that this might be the last time I ever got to play. C’est la vie.
And I remember telling myself, as I walked over to check in, that if this was the end, I was going to go down with gratitude, good humor, courage, and dignity. Oddly, I did not feel like a hero.
And so, I made sure to have fun with and to thank everyone I came into contact with that morning. Everyone. The receptionist, nurses, techs, and doctors. To thank them not just for coming to work that day, but for all the time, energy, and discipline they invested in learning how to do what they were all about to do.
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It is Done
Fast forward yet again. Waking up in a typical hospital bed in a typical double room…
Like a time traveler arriving in an unfamiliar world… tubes and wires everywhere… monitors beeping away.
“Wow. I’m still alive.” I dispassionately thought to myself… as I tried to imagine the physical trauma that had just been inflicted upon my innards.
Mercifully, I was immediately advised by the nurses that the surgery went well.
But I was also informed that at least five challenging days in the hospital remained.
Not to mention the full report of what the surgeon discovered. And not to mention the pathology report on whatever was removed.
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Recovery
Having never felt this weak and helpless in my entire life, the recovery process began…
Ticking off each milestone one by one…
Sitting up for the first time.
Removing my nasal cannula.
Standing up for the first time… and dealing with the immediate wave of nausea.
A slow walk to the door of the room and back.
A short trip down the hall with my IV and catheter/urine bag in tow.
Removal of my foley catheter.
First normal urination.
Switching my pain medication from Dilautid to Toradol.
Dealing with an alarming anaphylactic reaction (likely to the Toradol)
Drinking prune juice in order to wake up my GI tract.
First tentative bowel movement, terrified that I would rip out the sutures that reconnected what remained of my large intestine to my small intestine.
First solid food.
Removal of my IV.
Along the way, deriving an enormous amount of strength by looking out the window down at the children’s wing, and feeling that those precious, innocent kids and their parents were all stronger and more courageous than I will ever be.
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Good News
My surgeon came by late afternoon on day four…
Smile on her face… confirming that the lesion was indeed cancerous, only stage one, with no apparent spread to the lymph nodes.
I remember her exact words: “You’re cured, bud.”
I wept right in front of her–four months of anxiety, insomnia, and nausea pouring out of me all at once.
I wish I could say these were tears of joy, but this was no celebration. It was more like the utter collapse of someone who had just gotten a last second reprieve on the gallows.
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Superheroes
No account of my colon cancer surgery would be complete without celebrating the nurses and techs who tended to me round the clock…
Heroes and angels every one.
I owe them all a debt I can never repay. All I do is to pay forward their strength, dedication, and compassion as best I can with my new lease on life.
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A Complication
Fast forward three years after my successful hemicolectomy and being declared cured of colon cancer…
Intermittent pain in the middle of my belly. At first, thinking it nothing more than a strained abdominal muscle that would soon heal itself. Alas, the pain only grew sharper and more persistent. Suspicion of a pulled muscle turned into worry that my cancer had returned.
To make another long, painful story short, the verdict: umbilical hernia. In other words, my intestines were pushing out through my belly button, the same route they followed during my hemicolectomy. Ouch.
More consults. More waiting. More uncertainty. More surgery. More pain. More worry. More money. More precious time and energy lost forever.
But at least my cancer hadn’t returned.
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The Saga Continues
I wish my successful hemicolectomy in 2012 and umbilical hernia repair in 2015 were the end of my Colon Cancer story…
No such luck.
Fast forward to the Spring of 2022 when an eyes to thighs PET scan performed in order to stage my Prostate Cancer and CLL and to monitor me for possible Lynch Syndrome cancers revealed that I had a surprisingly large lesion on my liver that seemed to come out of nowhere.
To make yet another long, traumatic story short, a subsequent liver biopsy revealed that I likely had Metastatic Colon Cancer.
No kidding. Ten years after being declared cured.
But the perplexing thing–based on subsequent colonoscopies, EGDs, blood work, PET scans, and MRIs–is that there is no evidence of a primary GI tract cancer.
And so, the saga continues.
As of November 2, 2025 I am still here and living a meaningful, purposeful life–being treated fairly successfully for advanced Prostate Cancer, advanced Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia, and advanced Colon Cancer, all the while doing surveillance for Lynch Syndrome and having sebaceous lesions excised as needed.
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Frank’s Cancer Story continues… My Lynch Syndrome
Discover more from Frank J. Peter
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