It turns out some pains in the ass can kill you. 
 

Back in October, after dealing too long with what I thought were IBS-related issues, I woke up one morning with abdominal pain so severe I had to army crawl my way to the bathroom. As usual, the bathroom offered no relief, except for a cool tile floor upon which I laid like roadkill, groaning and moaning, riding out pain waves and  debating my next move.

My next move was obvious: go to the ER. This wasn’t my first, second or even third date with the bathroom floor. Chalking it up to IBS no longer seemed rational. 

I popped Advil and called into work, waiting for the hellspawn in my belly to calm down before driving myself to the closest ER.

“It‘s IBS-related,“ I told the ER nurses. “I just need to GO POTTY.“ I was embarrassed and just wanted someone to help me achieve success on the shitter so I could at least get in a half-day of work. Uninsured, single and with two boys to care for, I didn’t  gutted this issue out on my way for awhile. teach English at a residential mental health facility for teens and I could not afford to call off one more day on account of this issue.
 

I was a million percent not ready to process what they told me next. I had colon cancer, a tumor …  and the cancer had spread outside of my colon. I feel terrible about this, but I told the doctor then and there to stop talking and leave me alone. I was panicking and