Finding My Voice: Living with Esophageal Cancer

It’s 1 a.m. on Tuesday, and I’m back in the hospital. After two days of almost no pain, it came crashing back — a deep, twisting ache in my stomach that made it hard to breathe. I was scared something had gone wrong with the feeding tube or the port. They checked everything: the tube, the incisions, the port site under my collarbone. The doctors said both looked good, that the pain was just part of healing. “Normal,” they said — though nothing about this feels normal.

Last night, one of the incision sites on my stomach started bleeding — a dark, purplish red that made my heart race. It’s strange how a color can make you panic. I messaged the doctor, who told me to use butterfly strips and hold pressure to stop the bleeding, and to watch for new abdominal pressure or lightheadedness. I did exactly what he said, trying to stay calm, breathing slowly, counting each inhale and exhale.

Of course, I looked it up online — and according to Dr. Google, it could be internal bleeding. I know, I know. I shouldn’t check. But it’s hard not to when every twinge feels like it could mean something more.

I’m still only managing one jug of tube food a day, but I’m eating small meals on my own — soups, soft foods, little bites I can handle. It feels good to taste something again, even when I’m not really hungry. My body seems confused — tired but restless, healing but hurting.

Yesterday was my first radiation consult. It’s official now: 23 sessions, Monday through Friday, for five weeks. My first chemotherapy is set for November 12th, and on November 17th I’ll go back for measurements and markings for the radiation machine. They’ll literally draw on my skin where the beams will target with a paint marker. The tech said it won’t wash off but will fade over time. I told her I might as well collect a few — temporary tattoos courtesy of modern medicine.

It’s a strange thing — to know your calendar is full of treatments instead of plans. I used to schedule work meetings and vacations. Now I schedule survival. No more NOLA trip in the spring. No trip home for a while. Just appointments, countdowns, and recovery days.

Still, I’m trying to find rhythm in all of this — the slow progress, the small victories. The bruises are fading, even if the pain lingers. Healing, I’m learning, is messy. It bleeds. It aches. It tests every ounce of patience I have.