I was so excited for 2025. I never make insipid resolutions, mostly because I usually derail by mid-February. This time, though, I was resolute: meditate, eat healthy, exercise more, read more, do more, and shift into fifth gear in my career. As a stand-up comedian, I’ve always used humor to navigate life’s obstacle course—but nothing prepared me for the unforeseeable detour up ahead.
The new year started with a boom-erang. I spent New Year’s Eve in the hospital with my husband, who had just undergone a knee replacement. Not exactly the kind of New Year I’m accustomed to. Normally, I work every New Year’s Eve, which gives me the illusion that I’m manifesting abundance for the upcoming year. So, this clinical rerouting was upsetting. But I wanted to be there for my husband, who was feeling very dismayed. Plus, he looked sexy in his gender-neutral hospital gown.
Unwilling to let anything upend my goals, on January 1st I woke up and started listening to motivational meditations on Reloop. I was on fire for over two weeks—record scratch—until January 17th, when life pissed on my parade and I couldn’t see through the smoke.
For six months, I’d been experiencing frequent bowel movements with occasional blood. I convinced myself it was IBS and hemorrhoids—because the show must go on, sweeties! But eventually, the blood became consistent. I tried Cologuard twice. The first box was expired, the second was invalid for “insufficient specimen.” (No comment.) So, I gave up on Cologuard and walked over to CVS, where I picked up a Second Generation FIT kit for $8. I went home, locked myself in the bathroom, and after the appointed time, looked down to see it had tested positive for cancer.
I assumed it was just detecting blood, but it lit a fire under my ass to make an emergency appointment for a colonoscopy. I was over 50 and had never had one before. I thought it was futile—colon cancer doesn’t run in my family—but old age does. Plus, I’ve always had a visceral fear of anesthesia, especially since menopause brain had me forgetting the make and model of my own car. I even got tested for early-onset dementia, just to be sure.
On January 17th, I walked into the doctor’s office. The nurse assured me that 98 percent of the time, a FIT test leads to nothing. Eager to drink the Kool-Aid, I followed them to the gurney. I was mid-sentence, asking the nurse to use a very light dose of… and I was out.
The next thing I remember was waking up alone, farting like I’d never farted before. It took a while for anyone to come into the room, but eventually, my husband did. Within one minute, the doctor pulled him out. They were gone for what felt like fifteen dog minutes. When they returned, my husband looked like someone had broken into our safe, and the doctor had the discomforting look of a funeral director. He gently said, “We found something. It’s a mass.”
Five centimeters, he said, forming a circle with his fingers. He explained they’d send it to the lab for biopsy and they’d call me with the pathology report.
Three days later, the phone rang. My husband answered. His constipated poker face told me everything—I had cancer.
Hearing “you have cancer” is surreal. The words echo loudly, but somehow you go deaf. My husband and I stayed in “sick bay,” sob-spooning. I speculated how much time I had left, pondered all the unchecked things on my to-do list, and kept thinking: I don’t have time for cancer. I’M BUSY.
After a week of inertia, I picked myself up and googled colon cancer survivors without chemo. The book Chris Beats Cancer popped up. Chris had colon cancer, underwent surgery, but skipped chemotherapy against his doctor’s urgency. The more I read, the more I knew chemo wasn’t for me. Chemo terrified me more than cancer did.
The gastroenterologist referred me to a surgeon. He explained the tumor was large and in a precarious spot. He recommended three months of chemo, followed by surgery. That was the beginning of a series of dehumanizing procedures that left me sympathizing with anyone who’s ever claimed alien abduction.
Then, as if the universe wanted to mock me, my sister texted to say our mother was being rushed to the hospital with a bowel obstruction. My surgeon overheard and blurted, “That’s colon cancer.” Sure enough, it was. Same size tumor, same surgery. She underwent genetic testing that showed it wasn’t hereditary—just a cruel coincidence. I thought who’s holding the voodoo doll? Was this stigmatic or a cruel coincidence?
Meanwhile, my surgeon said a stoma was unavoidable if he operated. A scat fanny pack? I wasn’t prepared. He pushed chemo. My mind was already fixed.
I Marie Kondo’d all negativity from my life and plunged into research. Books, medical journals, survivor blogs, YouTube testimonies. Knowledge wasn’t just power—it was life. I changed my diet: raw cruciferous veggies, sprouts, juicing, Ezekiel bread, legumes, brown rice, fasting. EVERYTHING organic. I gave up red wine when I needed it most. I started a regimen of dandelion root, turkey tail, reishi, cordyceps, Astaxanthin, amla, curcumin, and omega-3s. I tracked biomarkers—CEA, hsCRP, and ctDNA.
I found community: a 96-year-old nutritionist,Fred Bisci, and an astrophysicist with a breakthrough supplement, ValAsta, friends who became “cancer sponsors,” and my church, where I hijacked the prayer group. I meditated, cut stress, and kept podcasting with Rachel Dratch. I kept my diagnosis private, not out of shame but out of sheer self-preservation.
Within a week of research, I was 95 percent sure I’d forgo chemo.
My first oncologist only cemented that choice. She pushed FOLFOX, a regimen from the ’90s. She told me I’d need a port—a small device under the skin for infusions. I prefer my Port in a glass, vintage 2011. Risks included infection, sepsis, embolisms. She promptly scheduled installation. When I asked if I could wait, she said it was inadvisable. Then she casually mentioned she’d be on vacation for two weeks but I could “always try MyChart.” Paging Dr. Casper.
On the long ride home, I felt I’d signed up for something my body opposed. At home, I re-read the pamphlet. A dealbreaker: I wouldn’t even be able to share a bathroom with my husband because chemo urine is a biohazard. I imagined him in a Silkwood shower. I called to cancel the port, and I ghosted her.
Later I learned she wasn’t even a full oncologist—just an underling. My surgeon admitted she was “inexperienced” and recommended someone else. But hospital politics meant no one wanted to “poach” patients. What about me!? Mean Girls with cancer, so I went out of network.
Chemo was frightful to me. I believed my body could cure cancer, and chemo would harm me. I’d already been misdiagnosed with Lyme for eight years. My faith in medicine was malignant. Lifestyle, eating, meditation—my body’s real medicine.
I researched until I found my dream oncologist, Dr. Ocean. Brazen, formidable, willing to think outside the box. Booked for months. I put her on my vision board. One week later, her secretary called: a cancellation. I knew it was fate.
She respected my decision, ordered MRIs, and gave me no pushback. By then, two months had passed, but I was feeling better. I told her my bowel movements were ten years younger. My biomarkers were excellent. She was intrigued.
Three days later, the MRI results came. I told my husband, “The only thing that would shock me is if it didn’t shrink.” I said it was 2.8 cm. We opened the file. Sure enough: 2.8. I’m psychic! We toasted with kale juice.
A week later, I saw her again. She recommended we push for surgery. My Doubting Thomas surgeon, skeptical as ever, scoped me again and looked stunned. “It’s 2.8 cm. It did shrink.” He showed me before-and-after footage, then said, “You look good.” Thanks?
I got the green light for surgery, absent a stoma. SUCCESS. A month later, the surgery was done. I’M CANCER FREE.
I’m grateful—for friends who became foxhole bitches, for Alicia who uses her platform, for my surgeon admitting chemo’s days are numbered. Immunotherapy is the future, though Big Pharma will find ways to patent and monetize it. I even looked into holistic cancer resorts like Hippocrates, which is a whopping $350k a year. Rancid.
The only thing you need is will…I’m not pushing my methods on anyone—I’m just sharing my road trip. For me, cancer was a blessing too. It forced me inward. It was terrifying, yes, but also empowering.
My friend Carmen summed it up: “2025—a year you won’t forget, not because of anything that went wrong, but everything you did right.”
Feckless C., you ain’t got nothing on me, SWEETIE! And speaking of Sweetie—my comedy special (directed by Onur Tukel, presented by Rachel Dratch) is streaming on Amazon Prime. Hard to believe I had cancer while filming it.
To all my C’s out there: you are not alone. Seek and be sought. This fight is ubiquitous. Thanks for listening—impossible not to take the scenic route when cramming a memoir into one essay.
For more on her cancer journey and comedy, follow Irene Bremis on Instagram.
