On 3/18 I received my last session of chemotherapy. A month later, some things have changed: I am lifting heavier weights, cycling a little faster, and daring to do more abdominal exercises with minimal fear of ripping stitches or getting a hernia. I am tossing my boys around like the Sachin of old who treated his children like WWE adversaries (They enjoy it I swear. Also it will always be the WWF to me).

I used to regard eating as a vacation, an escape to something indulgent, wrapped in fantastical dreams of animal fat and drink pairings. I regarded myself as some sort of Bourdain-esque eater who loved code-switching between Michelin dining rooms and dimly-lit fried food joints in less savory neighborhoods. This was not daily eating, but if it was, I would simply run an extra mile the next day.

And now? My lunch consists of a bento box of colorful fruits, raw vegetables, hummus, whole grain bread, and some cheese if I’m feeling naughty. Salmon is my boyfriend. Overnight oats make me quiver. Chia seeds? Oh baby. Mind you, I still enjoy the occasional delivery burrito and maybe a quarterly piece of cow flesh, but day-to-day it’s is an entirely new narrative.

Ultimately, as I switch to “natural” deodorant and pomade and install a new water filter in our house, I am left with the same question I have been asking for the last 11 months: Why did I get colon cancer? The go-to answer from all the Google pundits is alcohol and red meat, which although not incorrect, is incomplete. Something else is going on out there, and moreover, on the inside. Ultimately I do not have the bandwidth to over-analyze my external environment. I focus on my gut microbiome, my family, my career. Life goes on.

As a physician working in an operating room, cancer, professionally, is inescapable. Whether it’s a patient under my direct care or someone in the OR down the hallway having a colon resection or a breast reconstruction, I still feel the specter of that day, June 2, 2023. That feeling of the floor falling out from underneath me. It’s so subtle and fleeting in these moments but it’s still there.

But there is also joy, in seeing the faces of co-workers that I honestly had not thought about in almost a year. When the shock gives way to a look of relief and respect. So many people give a shit about me, superficially and deeply. It all counts.

Now I am considered “under surveillance.” The criminals that used to reside in my digestive system are gone but not forgotten. I will receive CT scans of my chest/abdomen/pelvis every three months until September 2025 (two years from date of surgery) and a colonoscopy one year from date of surgery. My hepatic pump and chemoport will stay in place as insurance policies. Recurrence is something I will always think about but I will not let it dictate my life. If it happens then we deal with it. It’s not back to square-one because we are not scared victims. Been there done that.

In the meantime, I await the arrival of my M3 (self-gifting for a literal midlife crisis) as I eat organic blueberries and ponder the endless possibilities of the granola section at the supermarket.

~Sachin