A special note from Opera Idaho’s Development Director, Carly Oppie

I love the month of March for many reasons. Spring is on the horizon, by birthday is at the end of March, and it’s the start of what my husband lovingly refers to as “the gauntlet.” (My birthday happens, which is followed by our anniversary, and then Mother’s Day. I love all the flowers I receive, and I love him, too.) 

March is also Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month. Not the most fun topic, I know. But it matters, and I’m going to talk about it anyway.

In October 2023, I was diagnosed with stage 3A cancer of the sigmoid colon. I was 43. No family history. My sister had just passed her boards as a newly minted nurse practitioner in gastroenterology. When my biopsy results hit MyChart, I sent them to her because I didn’t understand them. She shared them with her supervising physicians, flipped through textbooks while on the phone with me, and was just as shocked as I was. What started as a fun phone call between sisters quickly turned into something different. How was it? Did you seriously poo your brains out? (41 at the time, my sister had never had a colonoscopy, but she worked in the industry. There are some things you can ask your sister and not your patients. Ha.)

She was also with me for my first round of chemo in January 2024 — and she literally bought every single item on the cancer center’s “helpful things to have during chemo” list. I still have the lotion. My big brother also visited for a full week during my treatment. He chaperoned a 2nd grade field trip. He was there. So was my dad, who was only on year 2 of being a widow. My dad is a retired physician, and having his and my sister’s brains was a huge blessing… most of the time.

My sister’s supervising physicians took the time to look at everything. They didn’t know me, but they cared about my sister, and in doing so, cared about me. They told her I was lucky. Really lucky. And their advice matched exactly what I heard from my oncologist here in Boise. Dr. Dan Zuckerman and Dr. Brea Shrum will forever be heroes in my life. You should google them.

During that time, my brain was full of every imaginable fear: How will I take care of my children? Will I need to stop working? And how are we going to afford cancer? That last one is such an awful thought to have while you’re just trying to stay above water, but it was there.

The first day I met Stacey, our current General Director, I was on an all‑liquid diet ahead of the colonoscopy that would end up saving my life. Opera Idaho had just closed an opera the weekend before, so the entire staff was basically drooling on each other. (Opera weekends take it OUT of us.) I was absolutely not my best self, but the moment I met her, I knew she’d be my new boss. Some things you just know.

I am so grateful she chose to make Opera Idaho a part of her journey. She does not have an easy job, and I know I couldn’t do it.

I get to turn 46 this month because I talked to my doctor. I was embarrassed. I was nervous. I was convinced I was being dramatic. I thought I’d be told something like, “Carly, you’re in your 40s. Nachos and beer are not a food group.” (Which is a tragedy.) I thought I may have a gluten sensitivity, not cancer.

This message is not an ask, if that’s not yet obvious. It’s a love letter. I love the people who make it possible for me to work full‑time in the arts, and I love the people who choose to support Opera Idaho.

Colon cancer sucks. Colonoscopies aren’t fun. Those things can both be true.

But please — be here for your birthday month. Ask the questions. Listen to your body. And remember: everybody poops. And who knows? On the day of your first colonoscopy, maybe you might just meet your new boss.

Thank you for reading.

Poop Emoji!!!