Friday, June 27, 2025 - Day 318

Friday, June 27, 2025

Good morning!

Yesterday, I was reminded of a story from my teen years.

Back in the early ’60s and ’70s, we’d head up north to Camp Jorn, a YMCA camp in Manitowish Waters. We started going as a family, all crammed into a tiny cabin with bunk beds. I think my parents had a separate room for some privacy—though how much privacy you get with eight kids in tow is up for debate. From what I can recall, it was fun. I remember liking the mess hall (I was always hungry), horses, water skiing, and getting a thrill from shooting arrows. There was so much more… but those were the fun activities that stick.

After that first family trip, the eight of us kids would return every summer for a week of adventure. We stayed in cabins with other kids our age and soaked up the camp experience. We learned a little bit of everything—but for me, the best part was canoeing. I loved it.

Over time, as we got older and more skilled, we graduated to overnight canoe trips. That’s also when I was first introduced to stalkers and murderers—courtesy of our camp counselors, who would gather us around the fire after dinner and tell spooky Northwoods tales. I was scarred for life. As far as I was concerned, pure evil lurked just beyond the glow of our tents. Looking back, I think the goal was to scare us into obedience. If so, mission accomplished.

Eventually, we reached the holy grail of Camp Jorn: a trip to the Boundary Waters. That was the pinnacle—at least as we understood it back then. Maybe there were better camps out there, but this was ours. There were probably 8–10 of us on that trip. The true outdoors experience. That meant digging a latrine away from camp, balancing over a fallen log, and exposing your backside to the largest, most aggressive mosquito population in North America. You had to move fast, or you’d walk away with 1,000 bites and a new level of trauma.

One of the guys on our trip was a CIT (counselor-in-training)—probably 18 or 19 years old whose name was Murphy. His claim to fame was this: he flat-out refused to use the latrine. Would not hang his butt over a log, under any circumstances. No one believed he could make it a full week without doing his business. But he did. When we got back to camp, he was so backed up he was either doubled over at the nurse’s station or on his way to the ER. A cautionary tale, folks: holding it in never ends well.

Which brings me to my current situation. Since the feeding tube was inserted on Monday, things have not been moving… at all. Apparently, inflating the stomach for the procedure has a ripple effect on the digestive system—and I can confirm that ripple is very real.

I’ve been trying to eat this week—both by mouth and via the feeding tube. That was the whole point, after all. But it’s not going well. I’ve likely consumed fewer calories this week than at any point since my diagnosis last August. That’s not the direction I was hoping to go. The goal was to bulk up, not fade away. I’m honestly afraid to step on the scale.

So yes, I’ve been backed up since Monday. And with each passing day, I feel more bloated and more uncomfortable. I’m taking more laxatives and softeners than I ever thought possible. I’ve made so many trips to the bathroom this week that my butt cheeks have gone numb. No exaggeration—probably 20 times.

Yesterday brought a flood of suggestions. Thank you, blog readers. Turns out, I’ve already tried most of them. Today’s new experiment will be prunes and prune juice. At this point, I’m open to witchcraft if it’ll help.

Meanwhile, I’ll keep doing what I can to get calories in—both by mouth and by formula—if there’s still room below. It’s uncomfortable, but starving isn’t an option. I can’t afford to dip below 150 pounds. That would be… bad.

I’m expecting a follow-up call from my surgeon’s team this afternoon. Not sure what they’ll say, but I have a sneaking suspicion the answer will be, “Let’s see what happens over the weekend.” Gulp.

On a much brighter note—Nicole is flying in this morning for a quick visit. We’ve got the whole day together, and no matter how I’m feeling physically, I know my spirits will be lifted just being with her.

Have a good Friday, and when you take a seat on the privy, don’t let your mind wander to my plight. I’d hate for this problem to be psychosomatic and pass it on to you.

Love you guys! ❤️