On July 28, 2022, I had a colonoscopy after the worsening of rectal bleeding symptoms for the prior year and a half. The clinic was running behind, so after a long 24 hours of prep, my procedure began late in the day. I awoke from the anesthesia to my husband sitting next to me. Shortly after a few crackers and some ginger ale, my doctor entered the room with a large packet in her hands. Robotically, she showed me pictures of the likely malignant tumor, 2 centimeters in size, that was in my rectum.

She apologized and walked me through all the phone numbers I would need to call the next day for scans and initial appointments. I don’t remember leaving the hospital campus, or the car ride home. I remember the numbness and my husband’s embrace and the pink dusky glow of the summer sunset as we arrived home.

A late-night call the next day confirmed that I had cancer, and I would need to schedule an MRI and a CT scan. I made appointments, and my husband came with me to every single appointment. Within a week, I knew I had stage III rectal cancer. My 42nd birthday was the end cap to that long week, and we were far too scared to celebrate. I participated in a clinical trial where a device was placed on my abdomen after the tumor removal surgery to record bowel sounds that could potentially reveal how quickly the bowel was healing.