My Liver Cancer Blog

My therapist, my oncologist, and lots of nurses have encouraged me to stay physically active. “Movement is medicine,” my therapist likes to say. And one very Russian nurse urged me to walk at least 30 minutes every day, with my bent arms swinging vigorously forward and back with each stride. She brusquely demonstrated the correct movement, marching around the oncologist’s small examination room..

I’m normally pretty active – I go for short, slow runs 2 or 3 times/wk, and also take an online fitness class 2x/wk, which includes squats, lunges, ab work, etc. But since mid March, when the gastritis symptoms began, I’d gotten no exercise. I was just too tired and uncomfortable. But I started up again in July, aiming to just put in my 30 minutes of walking, maybe more.

What I didn’t realize was that antidepressants and liver cancer and chemo can all affect your bowel movements. Early one Saturday, I found myself in a residential neighborhood feeling an urgent need to poop. Luckily, there was a church on the corner. Lamentably, the doors were locked. But it was surrounded by overgrown bushes, large hostas, and a few scrubby trees. I chose a tall, thick bush up against the wall of the church, crouched down behind it, and did what I had to do, wiping myself with pieces of hosta leaves. I thought I had emptied myself out, so I decided to keep going.

About a half mile on, the urge snuck up on me again, this time in a wealthy residential area with no church, no school, no stores — nothing but lush and elegantly landscaped front lawns. I could see only one person outdoors along this block, a middle-aged woman watering her hydrangeas and coral bells. I walked a few feet past her, but turned back. “I have a weird favor to ask, “ I said. “Can I use your washroom?” She looked disconcerted and a little suspicious. She glanced around (was she looking for help? Trying to see if I had a co-conspirator?). I could feel that she wanted to say no. What scam might I be trying to pull?

“Ok, I’m going to be really blunt,” I said. “I have cancer, and some of my medications give me diarrhea, and I really need to go.” I showed her my arms, which are bruised purple and green from all the blood work, chemo, and sedation for this and that procedure. Cancer is a lot of needles. I thought to myself, “Either I’ve just made my case, or she thinks I’m a drug addict and will run away.” She whisked me inside, ran me to the washroom, and left me to it. Rosie! (as her name turned out to be) — my hero! Able to overcome serious misgivings in a single bound!

You might think (or hope) that that would be the end of this particular tale, but no, I had one more intestinal adventure after I left Rosie’s house. This time I managed to hide behind some bushes that were up against the wall of a school. It was now almost mid morning on Saturday, and more people were up and about. Probably a few people saw the top of my head sticking out above the bush, and wondered what the hell I was doing. Nice thing about Canadians, though — they really don’t like to make a fuss unless it’s absolutely necessary. You’ll be relieved to know that after this final outpouring of grief I gave up and went home.

Now I walk with tissues and doggy poop bags, just in case, not that these provide any cover, but at least I can clean up after myself (and yes, I have had cause to use them).. Movement is medicine, and I’m not giving it up unless I have to, and maybe I’ll meet more kind souls like Rosie.