The Conspiracy
Dear jo,
The Conspiracy of a stage four colorectal cancer dx at age 45.
School age years — Enter peculiar poo problems, stage right! Forgotten history only remembers the precise whys and hows, but early on I would have a habit to delay defecation—cue to squeeze and hold!—which my poor bowels grew quite competent at achieving, except for the more than occasional accident in those boyish tighty-whities. Compassion reaches out to young Tony, a warm embrace of those probably bewildering tender years. One might say these were the seeds of my maturing tolerance for the digestive and eliminative discomfort that would occasionally haunt my adult life—tolerance that steels one in the short term, but may expose vulnerabilities in the long term.
University years — A palette for the rich and the spicy is born, but so is a sometimes upset stomach and diaherea—congratulations, it’s twins! Memories of rushing to the bathroom before even leaving the restaurant pepper this period, and so developed a notion that my stomach struggled to keep up with my favoring flavours rich and spicy. In middle adulthood, I would discover the salvific relief that Tums afforded, and would occasionally carry them around. Also in my forties, I would learn of irritable bowel syndrome, and half-conclude that I probably struggled with this periodically. But my steely tolerance for discomfort met this consideration with little more than a shrug of surrender.
Post-baccelaurate years — I met whiskey, and we fell in love. Our introduction was via a friend of a friend, the son of a preacher-man (literally), boots-wearing, guitar-playing, sly and charming, and well able to get a girl’s eyes twinkling. Such a cool guy, I thought. He drank Evan Williams, and then I started drinking it. Its frank foulness for the uninitiated gave me something to figure out, to solve, to unlock, to cultivate. Eventually whiskey and I had a breakthrough, and together we’d regularly ride off into the sunset.
My roaring twenties — Everywhere I went, my relationship with whiskey was validated, encouraged, strengthened. Fate would make us close friends. Wise, clever, one might even say admirable folks at the dharma center were cultured whiskey drinkers. Liquor would make me funnier and more expressive, would make me a better dancer at parties, friends would want to get me tipsy because tipsy Tony was fun! Girlfriends would buy me nice bottles of whiskey, and eventually so would my beloved wife. I was the quintessential “happy drunk,” and I could drink daily with no discernible negative effects on my relationships, profession, or ability to live “the good life.” I enjoyed being alone with whiskey’s easy companionship—reading, listening to jazz, blissfully buzzing into the night.
Sobering headaches — I remember them starting while I was living at the dharma center. Maybe once or twice a year there would be a period of time that I would regularly get headaches, often daily or a few times a week, sometimes they’d wake me in the middle of the night. They could get painful enough that I’d have to close my eyes and lay down or stop what I was doing for a while, and I’d learn to try a thing or two that sometimes would avert a headache or shorten its duration. We thought they might be related to desert-living and dehydration. But I noticed that drinking alcohol would sometimes seem to trigger a headache, so I’d often stop drinking for a few weeks or a couple months. For nearly 20 years I endured these annual episodes of headaches, usually lasting 2-4 weeks. It’s striking to me that even though they could be debilitatingly painful, I tolerated years and years of these weeks-long periods of headaches without ever once seeking a medical consultation. Maybe because the headaches would often last only 30-60 minutes, or maybe because I have a temperament with an unusually high tolerance for pain. Whatever the reason, everything changed one very difficult night in May 2022 when I would awaken thrice with these headaches, and for the first time a part of me thought that killing myself might be a way out of the torment. The next morning I was doing internet searches about my symptoms and concluded that I might be suffering from a rare form of headaches called “cluster headaches,” aka “suicide headaches.” Some say they are among the most painful naturally-occurring things a human can experience; how could I have lived with these for twenty years with such little complaint?? Is my pain tolerance really that Hereculean?? Too strong for my own good, I reckon. A few visits with a neurologist and an MRI later that week would confirm the diagnosis. I left the clinic, went back to my apartment, and easily dumped the last of my whiskey down the kitchen sink. June 2025 marked the third anniversary of my sobriety.
An intoxicating sobriety — For years I had been considering stopping drinking, for no other reason than I was doing it regularly but enjoying it less. Finally quitting felt like a revelation! I already had the sense that I was in good health—I prioritized a balanced diet, exercised regularly, even ran a marathon a couple years prior—but getting sober nevertheless felt like a meaningful step toward an even healthier lifestyle. I started meditating more and doing yoga in the evenings. I was reading more and felt clearer, more present. Sobriety was immediately accompanied by a feeling of wholesome freedom. It genuinely felt like I was taking living to the next level! Shockingly, that came to a traumatic halt when less than three months later I was diagnosed with stage four colorectal cancer.
Present time — It’s not fair to blame myself, or any other thing. Cancer always has some mask of mystery, which pediatric cancer ruthlessly demonstrates. I can’t even blame cancer itself. … Scratch that—part of me can and does and will blame cancer. But another part of me also forgives it. And when the sunshine and soft breeze hits my cheek just right, I even have some gratitude for it. The preceding autobiographical chronicling is something that I have been reckoning with, during long hugs of understanding and love.