Chapter 1: Guts for Survival

I was diagnosed with colon cancer. Just like that. The words hit me like a punch, leaving me frozen for a second—my breath caught, and for a heartbeat, the world just... paused. I let it settle in, let the weight of it fill the space before I could even think about what it really meant.

The words sat heavy on my tongue, like gravel—gritty, impossible to swallow. Even now, I can hear the doctor’s voice in my head, flat and dry, like he was just reading the weather. Not a hint of pity, just business as usual. My mind went blank—just wiped clean, like a chalkboard. I stared at those beige walls, at the faded poster about fiber, and for a split second, I tried to imagine what my life would look like now, with something rotten growing inside me. Nothing came. Just empty.

The old folks around here always say you just need a fresh set of guts to keep on living. That’s what they believe. They say it like it’s gospel.

That’s the kind of thing you hear sitting out on the porch at dusk, when the fireflies start blinking and someone’s halfway through a bottle of Evan Williams. That’s just how it is here. “You swap out the bad parts,” they’d say, “and you keep going.” I never knew if they were joking, or honestly, if they were just clinging to hope the way people in Silver Hollow always do. I swear, hope’s the only thing that keeps this place running.

So, I cut open my dad’s belly and took out his intestines. For a second, I just stood there, holding my breath—heart pounding, hands shaking. I told myself I had to do it. Had to try. What else was I supposed to do?

I remember the kitchen knife in my hand, the blade catching the light under the bare bulb. My hands shook so bad, I almost dropped it. I’d never been so scared. The linoleum was sticky under my feet, and the smell—coppery, sharp—hit me before I’d even started. My dad’s chest rose and fell, slow and steady, like nothing in the world could touch him. But I had to try. I told myself it was for survival—that’s what any man would do. Right? I just kept repeating it, like a prayer.

I was planning to do the transplant myself. Crazy, right? But I was. I stood there, convincing myself it could work.

It sounds crazy now, but back then, I’d convinced myself I could pull it off. I’d seen enough medical dramas on TV—ER, St. Elsewhere, you name it. I pictured myself, sleeves rolled up, saving my own life with nothing but grit and a steady hand. That was the kind of story folks would talk about at the feed store for years—or so I thought.

But the second the knife touched my own stomach—God, the pain. It was so sharp I nearly passed out.

The shock of it knocked the air out of me. My knees buckled—just gave out—and for a second, I saw stars. Sweat broke out across my forehead, cold and clammy. I’d never felt pain like that—not even when I broke my arm falling out of the old barn loft as a kid. I dropped the knife, gasping, clutching my belly. It was too much. Way too much.

I had no choice but to put the intestines back in my dad, tears running down my face. For a moment, I just hovered there, my hands shaking, breath hitching. “Dad, if only you had two sets of guts.”

I sobbed, snot running down my nose, barely able to see what I was doing. My hands were slick with blood, my heart pounding so loud I thought it’d burst. “I’m sorry, Dad,” I whispered, voice shaking. “If only you had a spare. If only I was braver.” The words hung in the air, heavy as the summer heat. Damn it all.

“I wasn’t ready the first time—just too scared of the pain.”

Regret twisted in my chest. Over and over. What if I’d just pushed through? What if I’d been tougher, like the men in the old stories?

“The second time, I’ll be ready for sure.” I told myself that. Maybe I even believed it.

I told myself that, clinging to the hope that next time, I’d find the courage. Maybe I’d get some painkillers, or just grit my teeth harder. Anything to avoid feeling like a coward again.