(March 26, 2025) This page is a detailed article that expands upon the original, brief article, which you can read here.
Earlier today, I announced on local talk radio station WAMC that I am withdrawing from the mayoral race here in Albany effective immediately. All previously scheduled campaign events throughout next month have been canceled.
In all honesty, I truly thought I’d see my campaign to the end, whether by loss in November or by taking the oath in January.
A recent development, however, has shown that I would be selfish and dishonest if I continued to run.
I truly feel that I had a shot, albeit a tiny one, at becoming Albany’s 76th mayor as I could have steered the city away from Democratic dominance, scumbaggery and abuse, but that is no longer the case.
Testing showed that I in fact have late-stage (Stage IVC) stage IV colorectal cancer. In plain English, it means that the cancer has already spread to other parts of my body, rendering medical intervention pointless, at least to me.
This follows, upon looking back on it, more than a year’s worth of symptoms, at least ones that I detected. More than two years actually. The truth of the matter is that the polyps that have served as the catalyst for all this could have started forming in a noncancerous state a decade or more ago), obviously becoming cancerous polyps.
It all started a couple of years ago with repeated heavy anal bleeding, as in a heavy flow that a woman on her period would experience. Anal bleeding is a possible symptom and it was one of many for me.
Then there was the severe constipation, also a possible symptom. I’m talking extremely severe, as in no bowel movements for three weeks. Yes, you read that correctly. All the feces that were backed up did nothing to help the matter and probably played a huge role here.
There was and is extreme nausea and fatigue. Massive weight loss, as in too massive. And other things.
Due to paranoia and what I read online and my family history, several months ago, a few months ago, I got screened through non-invasive means. That initial test gave good news: negative.
But that cheerful news would ultimately go on to give a false negative, which does unfortunately happen. I was one of the rare ones: in the case of the method I used as a test, there’s only about an 8% chance of a false negative.
Continuing and worsening symptoms caused me to seek another screening, this time through invasive means, starting with a colonoscopy, an extremely unpleasant and disgusting process.
Based on that result, they had me do a biopsy. Same result. And then a barium enema that really wasn’t needed given the colonoscopy result.
Way too many unpleasant tests. The non-invasive result should have ended the tests in my opinion.
After careful consideration based upon facts and not emotions, I have made the informed decision to not pursue medical treatment, against doctor, spousal, motherly and clergy advice.
I simply will not do the aggressive chemotherapy that would be required immediately.
Yes, there are oral pills, but given how advanced the cancer is, they would most likely not be very effective and the side effects would be awful, all with no guarantee of benefits.
Pills would have absolutely worked a year ago, but I am not willing to do any form of treatment as the aggressiveness needed for this late stage wouldn’t be worth it to me.
It is a good thing that I have my DNR and MOLST paperwork in order. My MOLST makes it so that if I am rushed to the hospital against my will, they will be legally restrained from taking any life-sustaining measures whatsoever.
Look, I want to live, but not under severe and permanent unpleasant conditions. And anyway, it looks as if the final choice has been made for me, so why delay the inevitable?
Any artificial intervention would involve horrifically awful and dignity-robbing surgery that would remove my anus and would require me to live life with a colostomy bag.
I simply won’t live that way. That’s not dignity.
I will not have the bag burst in public, especially at Mass when I usher. When I do that, I stand in front of the congregation. No.
No, I will not suffer that embarrassment in front of 200 more more people. I will not have it burst during sex either, nor anywhere else, whether public or private. I am not waking up to a bed with piss and crap all over.
Of course, there is always the slight chance of recovery should I reverse course right this very instant, but is an actual full recovery realistic in my specific case?
No.
All that would happen is that I could extend my life by another year or so, and that’s the best case scenario. Why prolong the inevitable with unpleasant chemotherapy and other awful treatments?
When it comes to my chances of actually surviving for any lengthy period of time, I’d have a better chance of hooking up with Jenna Ortega. That’s one life goal that will never be accomplished, right up there with solo skydiving in Saratoga.
Knowing my medical situation and how serious it is, it would not be fair of me to pursue something that I really wanted knowing that I would not be able to follow through and serve all four years, so I am doing what I feel is the right thing to do: fold like a cheap tent.
My type of cancer can have a 14% chance of yielding a five-year survival rate. It’s true that that is possible, but in my case, I waited way too long to seek medical attention. So there’s two years pissed away right there. That would ideally result in a three-year rate.
If I’d paid attention and gotten testing done in years past, I probably would have had a fighting chance. But who thinks about colon cancer at 37 years of age? Much like the time when I ignored a burst appendix for more than two weeks and wrote it off as indigestion, I was stupid.
And by the way, yes I should be dead. Doctors at the hospital showed medical students my case and told me that, medically speaking, I shouldn’t be alive.
He said he never saw someone go as long as I did with a burst appendix. Surgery that should have taken one surgeon twenty minutes took two around two hours. Also, I had to stay a few extra days to be monitored for sepsis.
I’ve cheated death more than once, but now the Grim Reaper is out for revenge.
But back to the cancer.
As a result of my delays and my fear to get tested, I have been given six months to a year. It is possible to have less, and it is possible to have more time.
But based on the whole situation, I’d say that I have less time, not more time. And you know what? I am at peace with that. That’s not me being dramatic, but it’s simply telling it like it is.
In my case, the cancer is aggressive and has spread to other parts of my body, again leaving me with a six to twelve month life expectancy because all the time wasted gave the cancer plenty of time to do its thing.
Now, unlike many people in my situation, I am not running to a donation-drive website to make people feel sorry for me.
Whether it be for a funeral Mass (no life insurance) or a solo skydive jump (no funds for that), I am not soliciting or accepting donations of any sort for anything.
No, I don’t want money or pity. I am not a charity case.
I have received campaign contributions over the past couple of months and today I issued full refunds. Keeping that money, no matter how much I need and want it, would be immoral and unethical.
Going forward, this website will not be updated. It will simply disappear in May when my hosting contract expires. There’s no point in renewing it.
Several people have suggested that I use this website as a journal to share my daily experiences in order to perhaps help others.
Hard pass. I’m not in the business of helping others.
This isn’t really bad news, folks. Actually, I consider the past 47 years to be a life well lived:
The thing now is this: I can do stupid, unhealthy things simply… just because:
As long as I don’t hurt others physically and as long as I don’t break the law and spend my remaining time in jail, just who in the hell cares?
On the flip side of the coin, there are things that I absolutely do not want to do as I wind things down.
Of all the things that I do not want, at the top of the list is the fact that I do not want to meet my youngest biological daughter, whom I willingly gave up for adoption at the age of, I think, two. She would, by simple math, probably be around 21 years old by now. I’ve long since forgotten her date of birth, so I can only guess her approximate age. She was that unimportant to me. That unwanted.
I know how to get in touch with her adoptive parents, who are part of the Caruth dynasty in Syracuse. There are a lot of Cartuths in Syracuse, so I feel confident that I can post this information safely.
I know all about this particular Caruth clan. Before I voluntarily and eagerly signed my parental rights away all those many years ago, I did do a deep background check on them to ensure that the kid was going to a good family. I didn’t care all that much about her, but I still didn’t want her going to a pack of monsters.
They didn’t like that, completely ignoring the fact that they would have done the same if the roles were to be reversed.
The adoptive father has, or at least had (I don’t feel like checking), a cushy job at a well-known Syracuse educational institution and the adoptive mother is, if I recall correctly, a stay-at-home mother. That joke writes itself.
By the way, the adoptive father has, according to an Onondaga County Social Services worker who shouldn’t have shared this information, an embarrassing medical condition that explains, at least to me, why they adopt, but I’ll be nice for once and not name it even though I am not naming him.
Though their names (the adoptive parents and the adult bio daughter) are found buried deep inside an online obituary, someone would have to have an awful lot of time on their hands to identify the correct people as there are many, many names.
Their names have been published and that makes their names fair game. Yes, I know where they live because I fetch the packages that they send every year and those packages have the return address. Plus, it’s all public record. No stalking or research needed or intended.
Their contact information can be found with a five-second Google search, but I won’t be that guy and post it. If you’re that guy, you can figure it out from the breadcrumbs that I’ve scattered. But really…what’s the point of doing such a thing to begin with?
Any further information would require research on my part, and I absolutely won’t piss my remaining life away by looking things up. If I did, oh, the damage I could do. I’ve done it in the past to many people. But I won’t now. That’s the old me. The new me no longer does those things.
The Caruth gaggle has nothing to worry about: not a lot of people are going to read this entire article as it’s so long, so it’s highly doubtful that people are reading this section (you, obviously, are the exception), which means that they will never find out about this article.
And anyway, who the hell cares? Is someone really going to all the effort needed to contact them and let them know that the bio’s chance to meet me (something she probably doesn’t want anyway) is going to go away in less than a year? Hell, no!
Now, in theory, given the fact that I am in the process of dying, I could initiate contact through her biological mother, my current wife of 21+ years, but there’s no way I would ever do so in order to, I guess for lack of a better term, reunite. We were never united in the first place. She was an obligation, not a want.
Let me tell you how I much I hated this kid: I would always do the bare minimum. I fed her, watered her, changed her, bathed her and then, more often than not, would just leave her in her crib all day alone but with toys. I would check in throughout the day to satisfy my obligations: keep her fed, keep her hydrated and make so she didn’t wallow around in a diaper filled with filth. The bare minimum, folks.
Let me be clear: I never really paid much attention to her. Sometimes, I’d let her play in the living room while I watched television, but I ignored her, even when she tried to get my attention for some reason or another. As long as she wasn’t crying, hurt or choking, I pretty much pretended that she didn’t exist.
But back to the present. To my knowledge, my bio daughter has looked for neither myself nor my wife and I certainly won’t reach out now. Hell, I haven’t even seen pictures or read updates. To be honest, if she or her adoptive parents tried to reach out to me, unwanted and unwelcome, I would likely seek an Order of Protection, just to be an asshole.
My wife has seen the yearly packages: photographs and information boring junk, sent to her yearly. The most recent one came a few months ago, even though they were supposed to stop sending that crap when the kid turned 18.
I almost looked at the most recent photograph of the kid by accident, but thankfully I looked away in time. Couldn’t even begin to tell you what the photograph showed.
I should know all about those mailings as I’m the one who goes to the post office box to fetch the package.
I sign for the annoying packages whenever one arrives, so they have to know that I’ve taken possession of their mailings. But that’s as far as it goes.
They may assume that I take a look, but you know what happens when you assume. Once I hand it over to my wife, I’m not involved in any way whatsoever.
No, I’ve never opened those things and I’ve never asked to see pictures or hear updates on her life, so I could walk by my bio daughter on the street and never know it (or care).
And that does my cold, black heart good.
Look, I didn’t want her in my life then and I don’t want her in my life now. I would never want to waste my final months or whatever it’ll end up being on her.
Am I being cruel by posting this knowing that someone could in theory contact the family and point them to this article?
No. They’ll never find out.
I realize that this would be my last chance to meet her as adults, assuming that she’s even interested. I never wanted to meet my bio father, so I’d get it if I wanted to meet her but she didn’t want to meet me. That remaining chance is one that I won’t avail myself of.
Simple as that.
If she comes looking for me years and years in the future (doubtful) and finds that her bio father is dead, oh, well. That’s the way the cookie crumbles. No one needs to know their biological parents anyway. For some, that’s a want. For others, they couldn’t care less.
Now, I do have another, older daughter, now an adult, and we are in close contact. Always have been. She was wanted. She is loved.
This other kid? Not at all! As far as my oldest knows, I fathered no other children, when in reality, she has a bio half-sister.
We are making arrangements to get together, along with my granddaughter, while I still can. They matter to me. My bio? A used piece of someone else’s toilet paper would matter more to me.
Continuing with the theme of people related to one another strictly through DNA, I have been informed that I supposedly have two half-siblings, a half-sister and a half-brother. I do not want to meet them. Ever.
According to an email message I got back in 2005, my bio father, Bruce Allen Crook, died in Riverside, California in 1997 at the age of 40. That’s when I learned of two supposed half-siblings. I was given their contact information, but I deleted the email because I simply won’t deal with something as unimportant as that.
He chose to not be a dad after abandoning my mother and I in 1980 after he threatened to cut me up with a knife. Therefore, I wish nothing to do with the Crook side of my biological makeup.
Why did I share all that? Hell if I know! I just wanted to give an example or two of things I don’t want to do as opposed to things that I truly desire to accomplish before it grows too late.
To conclude, this journey is certainly unpleasant, and it’s absolutely going to get worse, especially since I’ve once and for all turned down any form of treatment except for comfort care, i.e. pain management.
I would not wish the symptoms that I am feeling and the upcoming final outcome on anyone.
Well…almost anyone.
