AN EXCERPT FROM SPIRALING UPWARD:

I like April Fool’s Day as much as the next person, but in 2018, that day ended up being no laughing matter. That year, it also happened to fall on Easter Sunday—a day of celebration for Christians around the world. It’s not uncommon for parents to work up a sweat hiding Easter eggs in Houston at that time of year, but the temperature only reached eighty-one degrees that day, making it a relatively cool Easter.

We planned a visit with Kristyn’s family in The Woodlands, an upscale community north of Houston. Our kids loved that we stayed in our RV, almost as if we were camping. Internally, I celebrated three months of sobriety and having control over my medication.

I’ll warn you now that my story forces me to share things not normally discussed in public, and I certainly don’t intend for them to seem untoward. A couple of weeks prior to Easter, I noticed abnormal, meager bowel movements followed by constipation. Medically speaking, we all “go” about the same time once per day, but I had no such luck with the daily constitutional. By Easter, speaking frankly, I was backed up in a major way. I made a run to the drug store, searching for that magic elixir—a laxative.

The family gathered for dinner, but I excused myself as the pain took away any appetite I had. Fear set in. I’d done plenty to my body in the past and knew how to treat a number of ailments, but this was new territory. Kristyn wanted to take me to the hospital, but a little bit of denial mixed with a sleeping pill knocked me out for the night.

The next morning remains somewhat of a blur as Kristyn rushed me to the hospital while the kids stayed with her dad. What I do remember is that I couldn’t have my normal morning cigarette due to the abdominal pain. I remember every excruciating moment of that torment. When someone describes an affliction, the words can seem inadequate.

We’ve all had a splitting headache, stubbed a toe, or cut a finger, but those don’t near the level I’m describing. Still, I’ll try to describe this all-consuming pain. I couldn’t think of anything else but a sharp, twisting wretchedness. I doubled over, rocked back, and otherwise squirmed in my car seat, trying to find a hint of relief. I lacked peripheral vision and could only see glimpses of the surrounding landscape. My mind and my heart begged for God to offer relief. Kristyn drove intently while glancing at me and wondering what lay next.

The emergency room presented an eternal wait time. I only wanted to sleep my way through the episode and pretend it wasn’t happening.

A nurse checked my vitals for intake. The pain had caused my blood pressure to spike, so they immediately took me back to a treatment room. A flurry of medical personnel came in and out. They poked and prodded while asking questions I couldn’t answer.

At first, they thought diverticulitis was causing the problem. They administered enemas to flush me out to no avail. Doctors ordered CT scans and X-rays. I remained groggy and confused. A nurse told me that they had me on propofol.

“Isn’t that what killed Michael Jackson?” I joked.

The joking didn’t last long. My doctor arrived with the test results, and his grim demeanor spoke volumes. It’s the first time I heard someone say it. The last thing I wanted to hear.

The doctor crossed his arms. “You may have cancer.”