Today marks thirty days since my surgery. My surgeon told me it takes thirty days to get back to a semi-normal physical life, and the thing I've been looking forward to most is getting back into the ocean.

The first week out of the hospital, I was pumped to restart my life. Monday: the dads' coffee. Tuesday: cold plunge with the crew — I only waded in and had a coffee. Wednesday: The Odyssey at the IMAX with a group of guys. Thursday: a 35-minute walk with Henning. Friday: lunch with Tina to celebrate 29 years of dating. By the weekend I was tosta mista. I did nothing Saturday and Sunday.

Then Dena arrived from Iowa, and I inched back into the world — not pushing it like the week before, because the pain had settled in. Not from the wounds. From my lower back. The incision cut through my three-pack abs and my abdominal wall, so my lower back got called up for double duty, and it let me know. I mentioned it to the nurse who visits the house twice a week, and she asked the doctor for a prescription for tramadol. It's helped.

Walking is supposed to be the number one way to recover, so after Dena flew home I got back to it. Twice this week I did four miles on the trails behind the house. Stronger every time, and the back is complaining less.

I'm healing faster than most. I'd read horror stories about CRS+HIPEC recoveries, so I didn't know what to expect. And the pain hasn't been the whole story. My bowels went on strike the moment the surgery ended. The strike is officially over, but some of the players haven't fully committed to the new terms. They're slowly coming around.

The bonus of the week: our cold plunge group threw a beach party for Wednesday's solar eclipse. Nobody dipped — red flag day, wind howling — but it was a great excuse to get out and see the crew. Not that I could have dipped anyway. My main incision is healing nicely, but the two holes left behind by the drainage tubes are slower, and the nurses keep me in fresh bandages. Those two holes are what's standing between me and the ocean.

Speaking of bandages — the vacuum-sealed dressing on my main incision has left me with a minimal scar. I was expecting staples and a rope scar. I'd even started planning a tattoo to incorporate the rope. In the hospital, I asked my nurse how new this vacuum-sealing technology was, and she looked at me like it was a dumb question — it's been around as long as she's been a nurse. And yet everyone I've told about it is hearing it for the first time, same as me. I don't know whether they closed the incision with stitches, glue, or something else, but the vacuum seal did the trick.

The next milestones are thirty days out. The surgeon's other rule was nothing strenuous for the first sixty days — no sport, as the Portuguese say, which covers working out. So in thirty more days I can get back in the gym with Daniel and Evan. The plan from there: tennis, long walks, and getting my body ready for a week-long hike next summer in the Dolomites of Italy.

That same mark brings my first post-op imaging — a CT scan to see if I'm still clear of cancer. Fingers and toes crossed.

I started this blog for two reasons. First, it was a place to update y'all on my progress, so I didn't have to answer a multitude of WhatsApp messages. Second, it was a place to put my research into. I kept asking AI the same questions and figured a website was somewhere I could write things down, refer to, and maybe help someone in the same way. What I didn't know was that the writing and research would become a therapeutic release. Thank you for following my journey.

I don't expect to post much going forward — no research or updates needed for a while, I hope. I'm focused on finishing my memoir and self-publishing it by December.