Closure.

Truth be told, I have started to write this several times. And each time I have got nowhere. Primarily because I know where I wanted to go with it, but I wasn’t sure how to best do it. Now I know exactly what I need to say, but more importantly I know why as well. So let me start by letting you know that this is the last I have to say about the whole experience, and this will probably be more to the point and direct, and very honest. Once you are done with this, just remember I am still the person you have always known, regardless of whether our interaction has been on social media, or in person (you lucky devil). If you like what ends up being written, share this blog everywhere. After all, someone may need to relate.

And this was hard. Very hard.

The familiarity was there once again, the room, the beeps, and the nurses around me. This time however, I had another bag attached to me. On the right hand side. Brilliant. A Dr was soon with me telling me what had happened. The reversal of the colostomy had gone wrong, exploded and poisoned me.  My body was very ill and beaten up. Because the repair had gone pop, and damaged my intestinal area, they had needed to open up my bowel again, and bring it out on the right hand side of my body, forming an ileostomy on the outside of my stomach. The ileostomy would be at the end of the stomach, meaning that there wasn’t a great deal of distance between the end of my stomach and the opening of the bowel.

I was sent from the recovery room to Specialist Surgical Care. I would have nurses available at any time, they were just for me and they had no other patients. I had Drs available to me at pretty much anytime, and I was the most critical patient they had in. The end of my bed was 10 foot away from the nurse’s station. I was tired and it was late now, so I went to sleep with no trouble whatsoever.

When I woke in the morning I felt horrible, I felt really beat up and weak. Even though I was high as a kite on drugs, I could still feel the effects of another surgery. It was a groggy feeling all over my body, like absolutely everything was bothering me. Noises bothered me, the lights were hurting my eyes, and the beeping of machines was driving me crazy. The feel of the sheets grated on my skin and just felt uncomfortable. I tried to move the sheets off me but it hurt and I hadn’t the strength to do it. I moaned through the mask that was over my face, and that’s when a nurse lifted it off my face for me. She told me to relax and she gave me a sip of water. I told her I wanted the sheets off me a little bit, and she did it for me. I felt drunk and uneasy. I knew what had happened but was also confused and trying to piece things together. I think anxiety got the better of me at first, but I got over that. I did a little check over me of what was going on. I had the ileostomy bag on my right hand side. There was a tube coming out of me above the bag, about the width of a 5p coin. Another tube of the same size was under the bag. There was a huge gauze dressing from my chest down to my waist. There were 2 tubes coming out of the left hand side of my body, the same size as the others. I had sticky pads on my chest, on the left hand side of my ribcage, the top of my shoulders and ankles. They led to an ECG machine, monitoring my heart. I had the catheter again, and I had a tube in my nose going into my stomach. My legs felt heavy, and wet. I couldn’t move them at all, and I had this feeling of pressure going up and down them. This was horrible; it felt like they were being squashed. I asked about my legs, and the nurse told me that I had these things on them that wrapped around my legs, and vibrated and pulsed. This was because I was at risk of blood clots and aneurysms, so the pressure I felt was this device forcing blood around my legs. I was also at risk of clots in my heart and on the brain, so I was on medication for this as well. She told me if I feel any pain from my chest or ribcage at all to shout up and press the alarm. Any pressure on my head or feelings of being faint meant I had to shout or press the alarm. Anything that didn’t feel right I had to press the alarm.

She put the patient call buttons next to my hand, as my hand already had the thing in I press to self-administer pain relief. I remember this from last time. This is where I clocked the cannulas. My right hand had one just below the knuckles, on the underside of my wrist was another. Another was in the elbow crease. My left hand and arm was the same. To the left of my bed, just behind my head stood a series of drips that had 4/5 bags of clear fluid in them. From these bags came tubes down into my arms into these cannulas, and around my head down into my right arm and hand. The ECG machine was next to the pole with the bags on. To my right hand side was the oxycodone pain relief. It was in a massive syringe that was controlled by a machine which reacted to me pressing the pain button. I could only have it every 5 minutes. This was scary, it was a lot more than I had last time, and even though I was high and felt drunk, I knew this was a lot more serious than last time. And last time was pretty serious. I cannot guarantee the exact time order of things I’ll be recalling as I was that out of it that some things only made sense or came back to me after the ordeal.

I can’t remember how long it was after I had looked around that I got more information about what had happened, but it wasn’t long before a Dr came and told me. The repair had burst, and poisoned me. I had gone through another huge surgery, with one Dr cutting more intestines away from me, and re-joining them inside me, and another team making an ileostomy on outside of stomach. My body was in severe trauma, and I was nowhere near being out of the woods. My immune system was that buggered, that the smallest thing could have dire consequences. Like the direst. I was full of poison and infections. My body had taken that much of a beating, that it was retaining every last drop of fluid it could. My blood pressure was low, at some points it was enough for me be thought of as dead. So yeah, this was serious. He told me that I must let them know if anything felt off at all. It wouldn’t be long at all until things felt off.

I think it was the same day the Dr saw me, if not then it would have been the day after. I started to get really sharp stabbing pains in the left side of my chest. It was like under my armpit, and it felt like a huge knife was being thrust inside me. I could feel the build-up of pain, and then the stabbing sensation followed soon after. This was occurring every couple of minutes. I let them know, and within a few minutes they disabled drips and machines, and hooked me up to a portable oxygen bottle, and I was wheeled away, they were taking me for a scan. There was no waiting around, it was literally 30 minutes if that between me telling them about the pain, and me being back from the scan. They hooked all the drips and machines back up to me, and then put even more of the sticky pads on me, some on my back this time. It was another ECG machine, but this one could monitor the heart in more detail. It was making sure that I was getting steady readings all over my body. That was all clear which meant it wasn’t my heart that was causing the stabbing sensations. I had now started to struggle getting my breath, when I tried to breathe in, I just couldn’t do it properly, it was like I couldn’t get the breath in. this made me panic obviously because it is scary struggling to breathe. They put the oxygen mask on me again but still I couldn’t breathe correctly. I had also noticed that I was massive. My hands were mega swollen, and my legs felt like they were going to explode. My stomach hurt, and my waist was itching. It was just a really unpleasant feeling all the time. They weighed me, and I had gained 27kgs in fluid. My body was in survival mode due to the beating it had endured, and from what it was still going through. This was what was causing pain all over, and it was the reason why I couldn’t breathe properly.

The scan results confirmed that the pains in my chest were due to collapsed lungs. There was that much fluid on my lungs that it collapsed them under the pressure. My left lung was also 75% full of liquid. I also had severe pneumonia. The right lung was worse, and that was barely able to inflate at all. They needed to place drains in both lungs, but they were concerned that would be too much for my body. Any more traumas and it could lead to total shutdown. Instead I would need to have a nebuliser and physio on chest morning and night. The nebuliser came down from the huge array of instruments above the bed, and I wore this for the majority of the day. The physio consisted of basically having the living daylights beat out of my chest and back, morning and night. Open palmed slaps straight onto the chest and back are extremely unpleasant. However they needed to do this to loosen the chest up and encourage the fluid to dissipate off my lungs. My stomach itself also felt wrong, so more tests and scans were ordered. They came back and showed I was riddled with more infections. This meant that the tube in my nose was pulled out, and was replaced with a different one that was hooked up to a cylinder that pulled a vacuum through it. I had to repeatedly swallow whilst this tube went up my nose, and before long I could feel it working down my throat. They turned this machine on it sucked out brown and green crap straight out of my stomach. It was the infection that had developed inside my stomach, and it took about 2 hours to remove it all. It was disgusting, but once it had been drained, the pressure on my stomach was gone. Further scans showed that I had infections all over my abdomen again. The cannulas were replaced with ones that could have 2 lines attached to one cannula, so it pretty much doubled the number of drips on me. At one stage, we counted 10 separate bags of fluid attached to me. Bear in mind this was in addition to the tubes sticking out of me, and the massive space boots that I had fitted. Let’s not beat around the bush, I was in a bad way. Any one of these infections or complications could have killed me. There was a reason why I was on this ward. It is intensive care for folk who need the most help.

The days I was there were very much the same, I was woken up, and washed. My chest and back got smacked, and the nebuliser went on. I had my visitors, went for scans, and had blood tests every few hours. My stats were taken at least every hour. One night I was in my bed listening to Spotify. It was around midnight and the itching I had was stopping me from sleeping. A Dr was looking at a scan at the nurses’ station. It was a chest scan from what I could see, and as he looked at it, he turned around and looked at me, then back at the scan, and then back at me. He then came over to me and straight up asked me if I had ever had cancer. That seriously scared me. I said I hadn’t, and he said ok and walked off. Not more than 2 minutes later, Drs and nurses came into me, and started disconnected my lines. I asked what was going on, and I was told everything was ok. But it wasn’t enough, I was petrified. I kept asking what was going on, because there was a huge urgency about them all. There were at least 5 people around me all working in sync moving lines, and attaching portable machines. I kept asking what was going on I was petrified. This Dr had just been looking at my scan, asked me if I have ever had cancer, and then I’m being prepped for something. Then, one of the Drs inserted a huge needle in my arm, and I mean it was huge; the metal part of the needle was easy an inch and a half long. It went all the way in my arm, and then a white substance was pumped into my arm. They wheeled me out the ward and I ended up having another CT scan and MRI.

Before long I was back in the bay again, and they hooked me back up to my machines. I was obviously still absolutely petrified at this point, and the Dr who I initially saw checking the scan came to me. He told me that when they were looking at the first scan, they found grey matter all over my lungs, and it strongly resembled the scan of someone who could have lung cancer. Luckily, and much to my relief, it wasn’t cancer. The liquid that had been building on my lungs had turned hard in places, and so was appearing darker on the scans. Just thinking about that night makes me feel cold all over. It makes me shiver, because the vulnerability I experienced that night was something I wouldn’t want anybody to have to go through. Never in my life, have I ever been surrounded by so many professionals, but at the same time feeling so lost and alone. It was truly terrifying.

The scan results meant that I would need to continue with the physio when I woke up, and at night. I would end up staying on the nebulisers until the day before I would be going home. I spent just under 3 weeks in Specialist Surgical Care. I spent each day fighting infections all over my body. Every day was insanely hard, and it was a constant reminder that at any given moment, my body could give up. The soreness that came with the added fluid on me stayed with me as well. I couldn’t even get shorts on, I was swollen that much. My skin looked sore from being pulled that tight. Before I was sent home, I was sent to a ward for a few days, by this stage I was a lot better. I had been given all the details about how to care for the ileostomy, all the details about what I could and couldn’t eat. What I didn’t know at this stage though, was that eating would end up being one of the biggest troubles I would have. The big dressing I had on my stomach was being changed daily as well now, and it was absolutely disgusting. When the gauze came off, there were 4 big pads that soaked up all the fluid, and it was always a stinky brown fluid because I had infections constantly. When they took the pads off to throw away, they only had to knock my stomach and it poured out. As well as the 4 tubes I had fitted draining infections all the time, it was coming out through the big incision down my chest. I ended up having vac therapy which is basically where they hoovered the infection out of me daily. By the time I actually left to go home, the infection was cleared up. The staples that held the wound together were taken out whilst I was in hospital as well. The last time I had these out they were so painful it made me pass out. On the last day on the ward before going home, I had a think about the eventful stay and just what exactly what I had been through.

The bowel exploded again, poisoned me, covered me in infections. Blood pressure went that low, I should be dead. I had pneumonia, collapsed lungs, fluid on my lungs and my body had taken on just shy of 30kgs in fluid through being in that much trauma. I was the most critical on SSC. To say I was lucky to be alive and to be going home was a bit of an understatement. I was released from hospital, and would be stopping at my Aunt Bridgette’s during my recovery.

I was a huge advocate of the colostomy bag when I had it; Poois was so easy to live with. He caused me no issues at all, if anything did happen, it was always something I could laugh about. I named Poois because he felt like a part of me. Well, he was really. And anybody who knew me during that time would confirm that I spoke about him like he was his own identity. Poois was a proper lad. I had a connection with Poois because he saved my life. I had no issues at all in showing him off. I didn’t have the same feelings with the ileostomy bag. I said I would be honest writing this, so I will be. I hated the ileostomy bag. It was awful. I detested it. I did not have the same thoughts as I did when I had Poois. I couldn’t bring myself to have a nickname for the ileostomy because I had nothing but negativity towards it. I didn’t want a funny association with this because it was a nightmare. It caused me so many issues, and my quality of life when I had the ileostomy was poor. I wasn’t living a life. I was just existing. From November 2016, until the ileostomy reversal which would happen in March 2017, my life was at times absolutely terrible. It was so hard, so very very hard. With Poois, I could crack on with my life as normal. The ileostomy didn’t come with such luxuries. I didn’t sleep a full night when I had the ileostomy. It needed attention after a couple of hours. And this isn’t an exaggeration.

As it was formed pretty much at the end of my stomach, when food, water, stomach acid, bile etc needed to move on, it would come out into the bag. The deposits were always liquid; this is because the contents of the bag were the contents that were just in my stomach. The burning sensation of stomach acid coming out was something I could never get used too. Having to get up and go the toilet every 90 minutes or so was depressing. Now I know that sounds far-fetched, but just imagine that you have been though 2 massive surgeries, your body has been beaten the fuck up, you’ve had tubes hanging out of you, fighting infections daily, having aggressive physio to get lungs working again and all the other stuff going on. You just need to rest, and with the ileostomy, I wasn’t going to get that. I had to get up and go the loo all the time. Moving was a struggle as it was, but moving the 12 foot or so that I was from the loo as often as I was doing, was a huge struggle. I would sort the ileostomy bag out, and then it would take me 5 minutes or so of just staying still before I could find the energy to get back to sitting down. I would have a drink, and then maybe 10 minutes later, it was coming out into the bag. Food was the same, in and out. I didn’t sleep properly for those months with the bag. I couldn’t sleep because I was always up draining the bag. Or I was up fitting a new bag because it was leaking. That was another issue with this bag; I was changing it daily because it was leaking all the time. The volume of stomach acid coming out of me was that high, that it would just burn through the adhesive and leak out. I ended up having a seating position and a sleeping position for those months that alerted me to a leak. I wore only cheap white t shirts from Tesco, so if I had a leak, I could see it straight away. Changing the bag was awful this time around as well, as it involved a lot more work to clean it properly, and then dry the surrounding skin. The volume of output also caused issues as I would be in the middle of cleaning it, and then it would pump out more acid, or bile or whatever it needed to eject. So then this would mean the stinging sensation came back, but was then made worse as it was touching more of my skin. It would also cause me other pain because if I was in the middle of a change, and it decided to empty itself, it made me jump because of me reacting, which would then mean the healing incision spanning the length of my stomach would hurt, and the old colostomy bag site also hurt, because that was now a hole in my stomach that was healing. So every action had a reaction to something else and caused pain. I also had daily visits from district nurses, because I had the hole on the left of my stomach where the colostomy was. These visits lasted around 20 minutes, and they would insert packaging into the hole in my stomach, and clean it up. Every time it was cleaned it was agony as it was a fresh wound. They also changed the massive dressing covering the opening they made when they went in during the emergency operation. Overall, it was a tough time. I never felt like I got a break. This was supposed to be me recovering, and instead I was always attending to the bag, or changing it. Or sitting there worrying if it was going to leak everywhere.

I couldn’t even enjoy a normal Christmas, as I spent a lot of time in the bathroom sorting things out. I also spent a lot of my time huddled over in pain, as eating things was a struggle, and my stomach made sure I knew about it. I couldn’t hold my niece and play with her. I had to admire her from a distance. If I wanted to see a friend outside of my aunt’s house, I needed to change my eating and drinking the day before to prepare me. I had maybe 2 times outside of my aunt’s house where no issues presented themselves. I stayed at my aunts for ages in the end. I briefly stopped at my friend Nic’s house, but I went back to my aunts as I needed someone with me at all times. I had passed out twice at Nic’s house when she wasn’t there. I couldn’t risk something happening to me again, so I went back to my aunts after a brief spell at my ma’s place. Another issue I faced was headaches. I had a constant headache the whole time I had the ileostomy. As everything I put in me was coming out pretty much within 12 minutes, it meant I wasn’t absorbing fluids and electrolytes. This left me in a permanent state of dehydration, where my skin was terrible, my nails were gammy and my lips were cracked and dry. The headaches through dehydration were muzzy, they seemed to fog my mind. The combination of headaches, and the medication left my head in a weird way. Combine that with lack of sleep, all during a time when my body was begging for rest, and you can see that I was struggling. I wish I could give you some happy cheery stories of my time with the ileostomy bag, but I can’t. I detested every single minute of it. It was always a burden, it always hurt. I felt like shit constantly. I was in a position where I was able to go back to living in my flat, and I did that. I started to feel the effects of social anxiety, and I struggled to understand how to be around people. My life stayed on a repetition when I was back at my flat. I would start my day by going the loo. Then I would get my place ready for where I was going to sit. And then every couple of hours, I’d go the bathroom for a bit, and sort the bag out. I couldn’t plan things with my friends because if I needed to sort the bag, it was a massive chore. It left me isolated and lonely. I was always angry and felt resentful of a lot of things. I was bitter about the bag, and I hit a low point quite a few times. It was starting to have effects on me in a non-physical way. Instead, my mental state of mind was being viciously attacked. And I was beginning to feel it. There were frequent occasions where I would find myself erupting into floods of tears, and questioning absolutely everything. I couldn’t bring myself to speak with anybody, as just the thought of trying to express what I felt was enough to beat me down again. I was stuck in a vicious cycle of no sleep, always feeling like shit. Times when I could get out and go see my family were marred by time spent in a bathroom sorting it out. I could be just watching TV, and then a wave of anger would eclipse me and I would be angry for hours. No doubt there were times when I snapped at people and got ratty. I seriously fell into the victim role on multiple occasions. This was slowly chipping away at me.

I received a letter from the hospital with a routine appointment with the consultant. I went to the hospital and had the appointment. He called me into his room, and sat me down. He didn’t need to ask me any questions, just looking at me was enough for him to realise I was not coping well. Ultimately, we made the decision that the ileostomy bag needed to go. He could see it was affecting me physically, and also from a mental perspective. I remember saying that if I had a million pounds in cash I’d hand it over if he could sedate me and operate then and there. The black around my eyes, and the constant glazing of my eyeballs backed up the words I was saying. I was so relieved that he recognised this, because if I had needed to plead my case, I don’t think I would have been able to. I wasn’t in the right state of mind to argue a point, I think all of my emotions were numbed for the entirety of the time I had the bag because I felt empty at times. If I wasn’t empty, I was full of anger or rage, or even sadness. It was the total opposite of the colostomy. He checked his schedule then and there, and he said he would have me as top priority. He offered me 2 dates for a reversal, and they were 2 weeks away or 3 weeks away. I opted for the fastest one, because this needed to go. I needed to have some cameras inside me first to check and see what things looked like before they went in, so within the space of 2 weeks, I had scans and cameras put inside me, and then I was admitted in to have the ileostomy bag reversed.

The reversal of the ileostomy bag was nice and straight forward, and aside from being next to some absolute tool for a few days, my stay at hospital was stress free. I got given my own room, because one of the nurses remembered me from previous operations, and she knew I wanted a rest. The day she got me in the room I shall never forget. I got ready for bed around 730pm, just after visiting, and I slept until 9am the next morning. It had been the best night sleep I had got in a long time. It felt absolutely amazing. Waking up naturally, and not because of other patients was fantastic. My stay after the reversal was nice and straight forward, the changing of the dressings was a daily routine, as was me eating toast for every meal, and drinking loads of water. I can’t remember the exact length of my stay for this operation; I think it was a week. When I left the hospital, I once again returned to my aunts and she looked after me.

Although this particular time was vastly better for recovery, there were still some unpleasant things I experienced. Due to the way the ileostomy was reversed, it meant that I had a big hole in me that needed daily attention. It was just a bit bigger than a £2 coin in size, and they had burrowed through the abdominal wall and created a tunnel. The reason for this was so that once fully healed, it wouldn’t have as much of a scar, which was nice. The downside of this though, was it would take much longer to heal, and because they had literally made a tunnel, it left nerves exposed. This meant when they came around daily to remove dressings, it hurt. The pain was horrific. Even being on my oxycodone, which is a controlled substance, it seriously hurt. Once the packing was taken out of the hole, you could see down into my abdomen. You could quite literally, see inside me. They used blue probes to stuff this alginate packing into me. This made me feel physically sick every single time they did it. Each day, 45cm of alginate packing was forced inside the hole, and each day 45cm of wet puss soaked alginate came out. Some days there was that much fluid coming out of the hole, that I had to change it myself, which was extremely unpleasant. Some days I would be in excruciating pain, as stuff would ooze out and end up sitting on the exposed nerve endings that hadn’t yet healed.

My daily medications were oral oxycodone, a neuropathic pain relief called gabapentin to try and calm the nerve endings down, ranitidine, paracetamol and ibuprofen at times. Moving around was painful, getting in and out of cars was off the charts when it came to pain. But I was so happy that I didn’t have the ileostomy bag. I had consulted with the Drs about what I was allowed to eat, and eventually it got to the stage where I was eating only bland white foods that the bowel could deal with. These were mainly white bread, white meat, rice’s, mash potato. Basically, the blandest of bland foods you could imagine. I was still smashing a lot of pain medication down me, because whilst I still had this hole, I still had a lot of pain. I got to the stage where I went back to my flat, as I was in a position where I could start to manage on my own. I still had daily visits to the Drs to have the dressings changed, and packing removed and re-added. My visitation folder for this alone is a hefty folder! My days consisted of waking, going the Drs, coming back home and doing nothing all day. This was the recovery that I needed, but I was wrong to think the struggles were finished just yet. From a surgical perspective, everything was done. The bag was gone, my bowels were plumbed back up as before (albeit with a massive chunk missing; part of which controls when you poop) and I presumed that my experience was nearing the end.

Not long after I got back to my flat, I had decided I wanted to come away from the pain relief. It was still giving me a small cloudy effect in my head, and I had read up about the medications I was on. The oral oxycodone I was on was an opioid based pain killer. It is one of the strongest substances that is prescribed through a controlled system within the Drs. It hits your stomach, and within 5-10 seconds, a euphoric feeling floods the body and removes pain. It also completely removes other sensations too, and I knew that if I continued to feed it to my body, my body would become dependent upon it. It was during this time that I weaned off the medication that I got an insight into what my life would soon be all about.

Being on medication of that strength meant that I wasn’t succumbing to the pain of the stomach cramps that would end up being routine for me. Within a week or so however, I was joyfully introduced to the world of agonising stomach cramps. As I had been eating the bland foods, what  I didn’t feel was the twisting and knotting of the stomach. The reaction to foods was causing the stomach to be pissed off, and it repeatedly knocked me on my arse. I would wake up, and have just say a piece of toast. Within 5 minutes, I would be on the floor, or on my bed curled up in agony. Absolute agony. This would then be followed by the next 2-3 hours on the toilet, or a mixture of being on the loo, and then coming off, to go back on say 5-10 minutes later. It got to the stage where I had my tablet set up in there, so if I ended up being in for a while, I could watch Netflix. I wish I could say I was joking but I aren’t. Due to this, for a while my days consisted of waking, eating, suffering for the day, then eating again around 6pm, then being in the bathroom until around 11pm. The only difference in the evening was I didn’t get the stomach cramps as bad. They were still painful, but not on the scale as the pain the daytime cramps brought. I stayed in touch with the Dr’s during these times, as a few times I was concerned about the pain I was experiencing in the day when I was eating. Each time I was told that it is normal, and it will pass. The issue being was that they couldn’t say when. It could be ok tomorrow. Or next week, next week maybe even next year. They explained it in quite simple terms for me. The bowel has been chopped up in quick succession. Parts of it weren’t used for nearly 2.5 years, and some wasn’t used for 5 months. The body has experienced severe trauma, and it needs time to recover and rest. When they told me I’d be lucky if I was working again in 2017, I was shocked. I knew I would be recovering, but not for as long as this. Each time I went the Drs showing concern about the cramps, and the excessive trips to the toilet, they always reminded me on that the bowel is angry still. It would be akin to expecting a baby to have full use and control over the bowel straight from birth. Some of the little ways that they explained things to me did make me laugh I must admit. So with this information being drilled into me quite frequently, I accepted it and cracked on.

Eventually I got referred to see the dietetics department, as seemingly all foods were causing me issues. Issues with pain after eating, or the hours spent on the loo following having some food. They offered more of the same details, however they concluded the bowel is peristaltic. What this means, is that when I was eating in the day, because the bowel is ‘asleep’, the food was causing the cramps to come on as food was just sitting there doing nothing. This is normal following on from bowel trauma, as it needs time to get itself back up and running. So with that, I had to stop eating in the day completely, and my first meal in the day would be around 6pm. This was the time the bowel was seemingly awake as it didn’t hurt as much after eating. They advised I keep a food diary of when food is going in, and when it is coming out, and also how long it is taking. I still do this now so I can see the progress that is being made. I have coeliac disease now, and I have an issue with dairy, and red meat. I have been on a plant based diet for around 7-8 weeks now, with the occasional sampling of meat as per dietetics advice, to see if I can stomach it. As of now, I can’t handle red meat; my bowel just isn’t interested in trying to process it. Which is a bit of a wounder. I can’t eat during the day every day, 3 days a week I have a little bit of food around 1pm, however it hurts. I have to persist though, because I have got to get the bowel used to these actions. If I eat at 6pm onwards, I can’t go anywhere that night. I have to plan my whole day around getting food in me at 6pm, because it means I shall be pre-occupied in a toilet until close to 10pm. This sounds late, but it is getting so much better.  If someone wants me to see them for example at 7pm, I cannot eat that day. If I need to eat, it needs to be between 6 and 730pm (as it currently stands). The bowel is awake then, and ready for business. So if you wanted to see me and I said no, you probably understand why.

Although the bag was removed, my troubles manifested in other areas. And they popped up in areas that tend to have a stigmata attached to them. And I am going to address them.

I have been through a fair amount of shit in my life; stuff that I know would have made others crumble. That isn’t me being big headed, it is an absolute fact. I have always been able to address issues head on and laugh about things, Poois for example. When shit has hit the fan, I have always had my way of dealing with things, and up until recently, I assumed that I was dealing with things in the correct way. This particular juncture in my life has re-written my understanding of how I need to deal with things moving forward. Because I can’t experience something like this again, and adopt the same attitude I have had all my life. If I did, then I would probably crack up. Whenever I have faced adversity or a serious test in my life, I have managed by joking about things, or seeing the lighter side of things. The reality it seems, is that I was putting a front on for appearances, and letting people think I was ok inside. By doing this, I simply delayed the reactions that I needed to have, to deal with things accordingly.

Not long after having moved back into my flat, I started to experience nightmares that would wake me up in the middle of the night, absolutely covered in sweat, and breathing really heavily. I would sit in bed in a panic, calming myself down by slow counting to 10 in my head. Once I had woken up, I wasn’t falling asleep again, regardless of how tired I was. I would lie in bed at night, trying to drift off, and then even the slightest stomach movement would have me on edge. So a regular tiny gurgle of my stomach, and that was it. My brain is engaging, and straight away it is assuming something is going wrong. I wasn’t choosing to think this; it was my subconscious revisiting what I had been through. I spent countless nights re-living the pain of the bowel exploding; the pain I felt for real was creeping into my thoughts, making me feel like I was in pain. I could lie in bed, feel a twitch in my stomach, and be sat on the end of my bed within a few minutes counting to 10 to calm myself down. Or I would be in a state of panic, and need to take a cold shower straight away to help me out. I also resorted to reading anything I could get my hands on when my mind was trying take me elsewhere. It was like there were 2 parts of me trying to figure out what I needed to hear. So I would have a jabbing pain in my stomach very briefly, but then my mind is convinced something has gone wrong, and I’m going to be in trouble soon. One part of me is trying to say ‘its ok there’s nothing to worry about, it was just a muscle spasm’, or something like that. The other part of me though, was recounting every single detail of what I went through. So as much as I resisted, I lived through the ordeal in my head over, and over and over again. I have thought about the worst moments of it all more times than I ever need too. I have been back in SSC in pain more times than I want to even count. My subconscious was taking me back to the worst times, because I think when it all happened throughout the last 3 years, I never really gave myself the time to process what I had been through. It has only been due to hindsight that I found myself dealing with my issues. I often found myself listing in my head all the massive things I’ve been through with this. When we think back on it all, just saying I am lucky to be alive, is a massive understatement. Do you know anybody else who has skipped death multiple times? When this happens, I become really emotional, and I don’t know whether that will come out as anger, or sadness. I know I am alive, obviously, but that doesn’t stop my mind from wandering, and reminding me constantly of how close I was to losing the fight. What makes it worse though, in quite a strange way, is that my worries and concerns aren’t based on a hypothetical situation. They are based on events that have happened, and as I have experienced them, the memories are still very strong and raw. Emotions and feelings I have about the entire episode are very visceral. At times I have been taken right to the limit of what I would think I can cope with, and they have taken me to some really dark places. I have spent a lot of time seated in anxiety and worry. What if my life is like this forever? What if I never can control when I go to the loo? Am I going to have to run to a loo every time I feel a little movement inside me? Questions constantly spin around in my head, and it has only been recently that I have faced my worries and fears head on. It has made me socially anxious, countless times I have needed to amend plans of seeing people, just because I feel different. Thinking about a room full of people I know asking how I am fills me with dread right now. The whole thing has changed who I am as a person. I feel vulnerable a lot of the time; I used to be a really strong person so I thought, but I think now that what I thought was strength, was merely a distraction technique.

I have learnt that I need to change how I deal with big things in my life. It is ok to have a bit of weakness. I think if I had let myself be affected earlier; it would have made things a lot simpler to process, rather than facing up to weaknesses in one big hit. I am fully aware that there will be times in the future where something happens, and I think of this. And yeah, I shall need to have a little cry. But I’ll be right as rain once I’ve dried those tears up mate!

I’ve had a strong chin all my life, and have accepted blows too it with apparent ease. This time however, it has revealed my weaknesses, and forced me to address them head on. No more can I bottle things up and smile to the masses. If something is wrong, I need to address it as it happens, and figure it out. I need to allow myself to absorb little blows every now and again. We are designed to take blows from time to time. What I don’t think we can do, is to experience big things, and act like we haven’t been changed in any way. Allowing something to have a profound impact upon us isn’t a weakness. It is a coping mechanism that I now believe I will use if I need to again in the future. Looking back, the way in which I dealt with Poois right from the get go was wrong. It didn’t feel wrong at the time, so I don’t regret it at all. But I am confident that if I allowed myself to be more human, and have a little cry at the time, I may have been able to deal with this differently. If I let my emotions be known at the time, maybe it would have stopped me from having a meltdown such as I have.

Because ladies and gentlemen, this last 3 and a bit years, broke me. The last 3 and a bit years, has chewed me up, spat me out and chewed me up all over again. It has nearly defeated me on a few occasions, and left me feeling like I had it worse than anybody else living. They did say in hospital that I would benefit from speaking to professionals about what I’ve been through, but I laughed that off. They did say that it could probably catch up with me; however I didn’t think it would because I’ve always been a mentally strong fella. I’m not ashamed that I have had my struggles, not at all. After all, if we are humble about things, what I have been through is absolutely massive. It has absorbed the last 3 years of my life with operations, worries and concerns. It truly has been a life altering event, and I think that in the bigger picture, I will be a better person because of it. Admitting that this affected me more than I let on it did, is probably a good thing. I have learnt that I am human after all; I have the same range of emotions as everybody else. The ordeal of the last 3 years has stripped me down and exposed my vulnerabilities, and shown aspects of me that have always been there, but they have been covered up. I am still the same absolute idiot I was before, I haven’t changed who I am as a person, I have just realised I have other parts of me that needed to show themselves. I am still going to perve on the ladies, and I still will have my potty mouth. I have allowed myself to accept what I have been through, and sometimes the enormity of it all is overwhelming and it can still cause me to need a little step back, and gain some perspective. I am fully aware that the last few months have been some of the most difficult in my life, and at times I questioned what I need to do to pull myself out of it all. I have been a different person, sometimes afraid to speak up when I’ve needed too. I have felt every emotion a human can possibly feel. There have been times when I have felt like I have no control over anything, other times I have felt like I control the world.

Writing about this now will be closure for me, because right now, I am on the curve of where we go from the darkest place possible, to climbing up towards the light. The night is darkest right before the dawn breaks, and right now, my dawn is just over the horizon. Now that I have allowed myself to accept I am human, and that sometimes we need to talk, I feel better prepared for my future. I had to start exercising to encourage the bowel to work properly, and although my bowel is still being a stubborn little git, the signs are promising for the future. I just need to get my insides working to a level where I can have a normal life. I have lost a good chunk of weight, and I feel better for what I am feeding my body. I have been plant based for a bit now, and it’s working for me as things stand. It is very possible I won’t ever integrate meat back into my diet, and dairy is pretty much all but guaranteed to not be an option moving forward. I am dying for a five guys burger, but I shall just have to do without!! I am hopeful that I can start to resume a normal life soon, a life where I go to work, and see my colleagues. A life where I don’t need to change my eating 36 hours in advance of seeing people. I will still need to run the loo when I need too, as having zero control over that bum muscle isn’t something I can change, so if you see me charging towards you, it would be wise to get out of my way.

So, for those people who may have been wondering where I have been, I am sorry. This has changed me, and I needed to accept that and understand what I need to do differently before I could even tell you what has been going on. Our brains are crazy complex, and mine has just suffered with an overload. I needed to experience the lows that I have done, in order to better appreciate the highs. But more importantly, I needed to acknowledge that the lows were there, and accept them. It has only been by accepting the lows that I respected them enough to understand that I had them, and I now understand that if something is wrong with me, I need to address it. Bottling things up has been my way forever, but this isn’t the case anymore.

If you are still reading this, I encourage you to speak up when things are getting you down. Honour the things you think make you weak. Don’t end up in a situation where you are needing to deal with a load of worries, deal with them as you experience them. Lean on those closest to you, and don’t be afraid to ask for help. You will be so much better off if you do.

And remember, shit happens.

Put my bag down, flip it and Reverse it.

“@Listen to my voice Scott, listen to what I say.

Breathe in through your nose, and out through your mouth. In, and out. Scott! Listen to me, breath in and out. Listen to my voice Scott, listen to it. Scott. SCOTT”.

I was pulling in to the car park of my apartment, and the phone rang. I was excited as I was for all phone calls in my car, as it comes through my car stereo, and even now I still find it exceedingly cool. I knew it was Leah when it interrupted my music and the call connected.

“Don’t get scared or anything Scott, but an appointment for your reversal has come through.

Are you there?”

I was still there, but I was shocked. “Yes I am still here”, I responded with. We spoke about it, and I was now getting excited. After the call, I sat in my car for around 20 minutes, with a huge grin on my face. Poois Vuitton was to be parting ways with me. It felt weird after the initial shock had slowly faded away. He had been a part of me since May 2014. How would I adapt? Would I be able to return back to how I was before? Am I going to be able to make time in my day to go the loo? After all, it had been mega convenient having my poo bag. Dodgy meal given me the runs? Doesn’t matter. That curry that had a massive kick? Meh not an issue. Now this means I will have to wipe my own arse again. Not ideal.

I only had 3 weeks before the operation, and in between the time I received the appointment, and the surgery itself, I needed to have a pre-operative assessment and a few trips to the blood place. And my week on/week off work commitments. I felt somewhat overwhelmed, however I had prepared myself to be going in with short notice. They did say I might get a few weeks’ notice, so really, I hadn’t done too badly.

Whilst doing bag changes, I kept reminding myself that this would soon be a thing of the past, and I did have mixed feelings. On the one hand, this little bag of dump was part of the reason why I was still alive, and on the other, it would be nice to revert back to how I was previously when I did a poop out of my bum. Afterall, this is what the bum area was invented for.

Days passed by, and with each passing day, I grew more and more excited, however excitement wasn’t the only emotion that was cursing through my body. I was very scared, extremely anxious at times. I felt like a very delicate pane of glass that was on the cusp of shattering. By this time, I had the information from the hospital about the procedure, and the risks, and the possible things that could go wrong. A few times I found myself sat in my bedroom, with these pamphlets, and each time I read them, the fear was instilling itself deep within me. Fear aside though, I also had a tremendous amount of hope and positivity flowing through me. I reminded myself that in May 2014, I went through the hardest challenge of my own life, and this was a much better scenario. I would be going for the surgery in a much better position. Previously when I was rushed in, my body was defeated and ready to give up. This time, it was planned; I knew what I needed to do in order to be the best I could be for it. With that in mind, I was optimistic for the surgery. That’s not to say the worries faded, they were very much present, but they weren’t the dominating emotion I found myself in.

I popped along for my pre-operative assessment, and of course I smashed it. All I had to do was turn up, answer a few questions and it was done. I did however have a good talk with the enhanced recovery team, and they readied me for the recovery. Apparently, switching the bowel back on after it has been dormant is not a simple task. There would be strict diets, exercises and a whole list of things I would be able to do, and things I couldn’t do. Being prepared for this would end up being absolutely pivotal for my mental state some time down the line.

Our emotions play a huge role in our lives. They allow us to express our most inner feelings; they can answer a question without a single word being spoken. And they can also stop us dead in our tracks. There was a day when I broke down, and I completely lost it. I ended up in a situation where I was completely lost. There were questions bouncing around in my head, and I was struggling to answer them. My biggest fear was that I would be put to sleep, and that would be the end of it. And when you are on your own, and there is no physical voice of reason, your mind goes into another gear that you didn’t know it had.

For absolutely no reason whatsoever, I just lost control. I was by myself in the living room, and I had the TV on but I wasn’t really paying attention to it. I started to imagine the operation, and my thoughts were dominated by the fear of things going wrong. Regardless of what scenario was running through my mind, it ended up in something going wrong. I kept thinking of the statistics I had been provided with on the pamphlet about the operation. It was a silly figure, like 24% of people having the operation would have complications. And it deeply unsettled me. I had already begun crying, I couldn’t stop these thoughts, and they had in a way taken over. But, and thankfully, they didn’t last long.

I needed to speak with someone, and that opportunity was granted to me. I had other things that were going on as well as the upcoming operation, and the culmination of various things just got on top of me. I was able to get a lot of my chest, and I spent some time talking about my concerns, and all it took was a friendly ear, and some re-assuring words, and I was in a whole other place. Just hearing things that I already knew helped me tremendously.

Then the operation got cancelled. Right before I was due to go in. It would be at least 4 weeks away now.

I need you to imagine yourself in this position. You are scheduled for another life changing operation. Each day that it draws closer, the worries, the nerves, the anxiety, it all grows. You have information that tells you the risks, but as each day passes by, you rely on the thought that you are one day closer to being fixed up. So there is a daily routine of worry, followed up by your voice of reason saying ‘hey, come on you are going to be ok’. The topsy turvy emotional rollercoaster is a little bastard. It isn’t nice. It was immensely hard to mentally prepare myself for this, but as each day came, I had to do it. So, when it was so close, and it was grasped away from me, I found that really hard to take. I was angry. So terribly angry. I wanted to lash out, scream, do something. I needed to outwardly express my anger. I felt I had been robbed of my time, my chance to have my reversal. I nearly fell into a ‘woe is me’, mentality, but that didn’t happen, as I was able to speak with someone about it again. I just needed to let someone know I was angry. I wasn’t angry towards anybody, nobody was to blame, I was just angry at the situation. It was particularly hard, because there wasn’t anybody to blame. They were just too busy to get me in, they didn’t have the bed.

It was at this time, that I had to park my feelings aside, and think about the whole thing. I needed to gain perspective on the scenario, and not feel so damn victimised. When I was rushed in to hospital in May 2014, I actually stopped some young lad from having an operation. Through no fault of his own, his operation was cancelled, and he was forced to wait. I made that happen.

I have a great relationship with my sister, and I spoke with her as well, I just felt like I needed someone else to talk about it. I needed to hear what somebody else thought about it, and she sorted me out. We decided it was fate, for one reason or another, I wasn’t meant to have the operation now, and I accepted that I would be waiting the extra four weeks. It is amazing how someone can flip an experience around, and turn something that I was so angry about, into being something that I was at peace with. I had stopped that little lads operation, now mine was being delayed. I was over it just like that, all thanks to a chat in a kitchen in Wolstanton, with a big bucket of Starbucks.

It also meant that I would have more time with my absolute stunner of a new niece, Phoebe. So, in a very short amount of time, I went from uncontrollable anger, real visceral anger, to being completely at peace with the situation. Isn’t it amazing what sharing an experience with family and friends can do hey? Remember that.

I did still experience the same worries and concerns I had in the build up to the rescheduled operation. They don’t just fade away from memory, I revisited the same worries and concerns I had previously struggled with, but this time, I already had the end goal wedged firmly in sight. I kept telling myself every time the fear crept in, that it is a relatively simple operation, and once it is done, I can hit the ‘resume’ button in my life again. So the next four weeks, I counted down the day, and each time the worry tried to set in, it was swiftly knocked aside with the positivity that had now become more prevalent. The biggest inconvenience was having to go to the hospital again to pick up some bowel prep. Yes, I didn’t discuss this earlier.

For anybody who hasn’t had the absolute pleasure of having a million issues with your bowel, bowel prep is what is done before an operation, so that the procedure is nice and clean, but also so the bowel has a shed load of nutrients it needs once the operation is done. Essentially, it is a huge laxative drink that has protein and carbohydrates in. The night before the operation, I had to make up a jug of the stuff. Have you ever wallpapered a wall? You know the paste you make, like a jelly, looks like slop. Well, bowel prep is like this. I had a jug of this to drink. Well, actually, four of them over a four hour period. Amazing. I was also not allowed to eat, so for someone who has been overweight for 105% of their life, I was in a real hangry place.

The first mouthful is always the worst. Well, this is what I was told at the hospital. What they didn’t tell me was that this is a lie. It is a great big huge nasty lie. Bowel prep drinks are horrific. Every mouthful is the worst. It is designed to completely flush you out. No part of a process that results in your bowels being stripped apart is going to be tasty. It is constantly vile. Plastering the word ‘Vanilla’ on the packets doesn’t make it taste nice. Every mouthful made me pull ‘the face’. We all have ‘the face’. It is an automatic reaction to something that is vile. I bet you know what your ‘face’ moment is. When you think back to a night out where you drank tequila for fun, and it made you violently sick. Just thinking of the tequila now makes you feel funny. And you’ll do the pretend retching action, just because the memory of the tequila stirs up that nasty feeling in your stomach. This is when ‘the face’ is most dominant. You can’t stop it, it is a reaction.

Every mouthful of this bowel prep made me do ‘the face’. I even tried to pinch my nose to try and help, but this made me slobber it out of my mouth, and then somehow it forced its way out of my nose. At times, I really do question myself. Sometimes I wonder how I manage to do adult stuff in my life. I still don’t know.

Bowel prep is very effective as well. It definitely works. Poois was already receiving lovely watery treats before I had even finished the first jug of the paste, sorry, the prep. I could go into detail about it, but I am almost certain you don’t need to read it. I am sure you can figure out what the rest of my night consisted of. I’ve never hit pause on my TV remote more than that night.

So, I now found myself on the morning of the operation. My alarm went off at 6am; I knew this because I had been awake since around 4am. I was a little nervous, but I had things handled quite well. The prep stuff was still doing its thing, albeit at a much more relaxed pace. I had my little sports bag packed, all my toiletries were ready to go, phone charger packed away. This was the day, and I was ready. I needed to be on the admittance ward by 7:30am, so my mum rocked up at 7 to take me. I closed my window, turned off the radiator, had a quick final check of my bag, and with that, I went.

My mum asked me if I was nervous and I was a little so told her, we spoke about how I would be alright and seeing as the hospital was a 5 minute drive away, we were there in no time. The admittance is patient only, so this was the end for her, and from here I was on my own. So I gave her a kiss goodbye, and headed off to be admitted.

The admittance ward isn’t what I expected; after all, my previous experiences were from emergency admissions. So when I got there, and men were sent one way, and women the other, it felt a bit regimented. Not because we were separated, but because of how we were led in groups down the corridors towards the ward, and our beds pointed out. It was like we were in some form of summer camp. You are there walking along corridors with another 5 or 6 chaps, and then you arrive on a ward, and you are given a bed. It was a surreal experience, but thinking back, as I had no idea of what to expect, anything would have been surreal. I was shown to my bed, I sat down, and then I was given the stockings. If you have been in hospital, you know what these are. They are these horrible tight green nasty things you put on your legs, to stop some trombones being played in your legs or something like that. They itch, they are just the worst. And they are a pain to get on. I was then told to put my gown on, because I was going down to surgery first. That didn’t bother me though; I was too preoccupied with the bastard stockings.

I had a bit of time to kill before I went down, so I did the usual stuff we do nowadays; became engrossed in my phone. I spoke with a few people, read a few stories on the internet, and then I sent a text.

“I’m going down theatre now, text you later x”, and then I sent it to my sister and mum. I put my phone away in my bag, and with that I was on the way. When I got to the theatre prep place, there was a nice guy called Lee, and he was part of the anaesthesiologist team, and me and him spoke, and we discovered we had a shared passion for F1. We spoke about the sport, and who our favourite drivers were, and not long into the discussion, the back of my mouth went warm, and I could taste metal. I knew exactly what was going on.

When I woke up, I recognised my surroundings. This was recovery, and it was where I had ended up after the May 2014 incident. In a bizarre coincidence, I was in the same bay, but it was a different nurse who I had. She was a Portuguese lady, but moved here 13 years ago, and married and had 3 kids. She didn’t look a day over 25. Not even joking. I had the driest mouth ever, it was horrible, and she had water ready for me, and she put the straw in my mouth, and I took a small sip. It was heaven, absolute heaven. I lay down, and she told me she would give me a few minutes alone. She didn’t leave me alone; she just went towards the end of the bed, as she was currently situated right next to me, constantly taking notes about my statistics. I allowed myself to become familiar with what was around me, as coming around form anaesthetic is a weird feeling, because you feel like your body is being pressed down, but then you feel sensations slowly returning to you. So I could physically tell my hearing was coming back, and my eyes were clearing up. I tried to move my legs, but nothing was happening. I moved my fingers, and they responded. Suddenly, I remembered I had gone for the operation to have Poois removed. I felt the lower left side of my tummy, and I could feel he was gone, and in his place was a thick dressing. Just above where he was, there was a tube coming out of me, and on the opposite side of the tummy, another tube was coming out of me. Then I felt the dreaded 3^rd tube. The one coming out of my didgery-doo. ‘For fucks sake’. That was my first real sentence that came out of my mouth.

I stayed in recovery for a while, and around 10:30pm at night, I went to the ward. I managed a few messages to say I was going to the ward. Whether they made sense or not was nothing to be concerned about.

It was as I was lying there, just taking it all in, that I said to myself ‘See, I told you Thursday November 17^th would come and go before you knew it’. It took a matter of seconds for me to feel like I had let go of a huge weight. In the build up to the operation, each day got harder to deal with in some ways, and reminding myself of the date of the operation actually helped. So to be able to recognise that the date had arrived, and I was fine, was such a spectacular feeling. Soon after, I was asleep.

When I woke on the Friday morning, I had a clear idea of what I wanted to do. I had always intended to recover as fast as I could, and try and slip back into my normal ways again. I still felt down for Poois, this was something that I continued to do for a while, as he had been a part of me for 2.5 years. The nurses came around, and turfed me out of bed, and I got taken for a shower. I spent the rest of the day sitting on my bed, and just trying to relax. I had my visitors and my spirits were high. I remember one conversation with my sister where she was going to try and set me up with one of her tattooed friends. That still hasn’t materialised!!

Sometime over that weekend, I asked to have the catheter out, because if you can sit in a bed, and have your wee wee come out with no effort, there’s no incentive to make progress. So I had that taken out, which as I explained in my previous mammoth entry, is not a nice feeling. Stretch Armstrong comes to mind.

I also experienced the after effects of having a large volume of gas pumped into my body to help with surgery. So, the point behind it, is that they inflate the gut with gas, so when they are faffing about inside me via keyhole, there is plenty of room. There are consequences to this of course. The main one being that after a few days, this gas has somehow made its way inside the gut, and it wants to come out. And boy, does it come out. You need to remember that for the past 2.5 years, all poops and farts had gone solely into Poois, and now I was experiencing the sensation of gas travelling around me. I was sat in bed, and I could feel all this movement, and it triggered memories from the past of when I did a fart like someone does when they have control over their bumhole. I knew that it was wanting to come out, so I very gingerly got out of bed. I was tender as hell, because I was firstly inflated like a space hopper, and my insides were sore from being messed with. I had 2 tubes coming out the side of me, so I safety pinned the tubes and associated blood bags to my gown. The blood bags were there just to collect the blood that would inevitably be around my insides, but also to monitor how much blood there was. If there was a sudden deposit of blood coming into them, we know that something has gone a bit wrong. So I made my way into the loo, and, well, the gas came out. And it hurt like a bitch!! Imagine, it hadn’t pushed a fart out for 2.5 years. My bum was shocked, it didn’t know what was going on. It was almost like it was startled, and it didn’t know how to react. The toilets on this ward are literally opposite the nurse’s station, and they need to be because if someone needs help, they are closer to get to you. And they came for me!!

Unbeknown to me, the sound of 20 cubic litres coming out of an exit that is tiny creates somewhat of a certain noise. A noise that can be heard through the door, and can be heard by 4 of the nurses. The door was just about to be opened by one of the nurses, when I let them know I was ok. I didn’t understand the commotion at first, but what I did understand was I had just done what was potentially, the biggest, and the longest fart ever. It made me chuckle quite a bit though, scrap that, it made me chuckle a lot. When I came out of the loo, they were waiting for me, and the reason why they checked to see if I was ok, was because when I had done this huge fart, I had also let out an audible moan! It was that loud, they thought I was in pain. I didn’t even know I had made any noise with my mouth, but they assured me I had. I walked back to my bed, and got on top of it. ‘That’ll be what a fart is like then’.

The next few days were relatively drama free if I am to be honest. I had a huge great big incontinence pad that I sat down on all the time, because you know, well in case I had an accident! Not ashamed about it, this bum has been asleep for a bit, so who cares if he slips up every now and again!

My biggest gripe with the weekend and the start of the next week, was 2 patients that were sat opposite me, and next to each other. The chap directly opposite me had a colostomy bag, and the guy next to him was preparing to have a colostomy bag. With me being the new kid on the block, I kept myself to myself for the most part, but hour by hour, I was building up a little bit of anger. The chap who was directly opposite me was a real mood hoover. For a few hours on the Saturday, and quite a bit of the Sunday, all he did was berate colostomy bags, and made then seem like the most horrific thing a person could endure. The worst about it though, wasn’t the words he was spewing, but the impact they had on the chap next to him. You could see he was becoming clouded with fear and anxiety. I knew I would end up saying something. It is in my nature, if I need to rattle a cage to make the bird see sense, I’m going to rattle it. I’ve never shied away from opening my mouth and having my say, and I wasn’t about to start now.

The chap who was getting ready for the colostomy bag, had an array of previous medical history, I won’t be going into that, as it isn’t my place to delve into detail of someone else. Let’s just say for what he had been through, the guy was a fucking hero. And he had this negative Nelly filling him with dread and fear.

On the Sunday evening, I had my visitors, and I told my sister that the chap opposite me had put the fear of God into the other chap. I said I wanted to say something, and so I decided I was going to say something. I thought that I would just offer a few re-assuring words, so he didn’t have something else that he needed to be worried about. My sister left once the visitor’s bell rang, and I decided I would strike now.

Negative Nelly piped up for no reason saying that your life is pretty much over when you have a colostomy bag. I remember him saying you don’t sleep, you can’t go out, and you can’t drive a car. Walks out with the dog were a thing of the past, and the chap who was having a colostomy bag was fully drawn in. He had by this point turned to face him, and was soaking up every word he was being told. So I butted in.

“For the past 2 days, all I have heard is you saying how much this bag is going to affect his life.”

I looked straight at the chap who was going to be having the bag.

“You’ve got nothing to be worried about, I have played football, been in a pool, gone the gym, got jiggy with it, been on a plane, had holidays. Your biggest worry is going to be what you will do with all this spare time you will have.”

If I want to toot my own horn, I will toot it. Toot fucking toot to me, because once I started speaking with him, you could see his fears were literally evaporating in front of me. Negative Nelly did try and butt in, however I remain focused on the good chap, and simply ignored what Nelly was saying. He soon buried his head in a magazine and left us alone. I told good chap that having the bag is of little, if any inconvenience at all. I reminded him that I had a bag stuck to me at the age of 29, and that if a little brat like me can be cool with it, then this guy who has been through so much, would find it an absolute doddle. He asked me questions about the bag that were a bit dumb. But they were only dumb because Nelly had made out that he wouldn’t be able to do anything. He asked me how I took showers so I told him that I normally start with washing and conditioning my hair first, and then body but always leave the balls and Johnson until last. He liked this and laughed, and because I didn’t mention the colostomy bag as being part of my shower routine, he knew that it was insignificant. We spoke for a few more hours, and I could see this guy transforming before me. What made it completely sweet, is one of the nurses called Lisa said she needed to break up our mothers meeting because she needed some bloods from me. She then told good chappy that he needs to see me for any questions about bags because I smashed it when I had mine. That really humbled me.

The next day, good chap had visitors, it was his mum and sister, and they were equally as concerned about the bag situation, all because of Negative Nelly. They then came over and spoke with me, firstly thanking me for speaking with him, and also for reassuring them. We had a good heart to heart, and I wrote them my email address and various websites to seek help with colostomy bags. For example, what causes leaks and all sorts of useful information. They asked if they could email me with any questions, and I of course said yes.

I haven’t heard from them since, so my hope is that all is going well, and he has learnt the easy way, that having a poo bag stuck to you, isn’t as bad as people would have you believe.

Before I knew it, Tuesday had rocked up, and I was told that I was able to go home. I was a little bit taken back by this as I had only had the reversal on the Thursday; however I was assured that my bloods were fine, and seeing as the occasional little trump was popping out, I was ok to go. I had started to eat, albeit a bit bland. White bread, chicken and soup was pretty much all I could have, for at least 2-3 weeks to start with. So, feeling good in myself, and having been told by Dr’s that I could go, plans were set in motion for me to leave. I let all the folk know who needed to know, and over the course of the day, I packed up, spoke with good chappy again, and by midday, I was on my way home. My good pal Nic picked me, and she dropped me off at my apartment. I had some pals popping over later to see me, and run me to Tesco, so I just relaxed for a bit in the afternoon and waited for my pals to pop over.

Croxy, Greeny and Adge rocked up, and they bundled me in the front of Greeny’s Jeep, and we made our way to Tesco. On the way they handed me 2 cards, I opened one first that said ‘Sorry to see you go’, and it was taken from my hands pretty quick, and I was told to open the other one first. I opened the first one, and it was a get well soon card, and then the other was given to me, which was a bye bye card to Poois. We laughed, which hurt me, but it was very funny. We got to Tesco, and they then gave me a PS4 game. Bless them, the little sods buying me a game!

They helped me around Tesco; I got bottled water, soup and a chicken sandwich. I ate half of the sandwich as I was really hungry. They took me back, got my shopping bits upstairs, and then I needed to sleep, so they left me, and I went to sleep. I slept very well.

I woke on the Wednesday, and I felt good. I felt re-charged, I was absolutely exhausted in myself, but the sleep had sorted me out as well as a good sleep could. I remained in bed until around 11am, just laying down and thinking. It was one of those moments where random thoughts pop in your head. Nothing too strenuous, just stuff to keep the mind ticking over. After a shower (which took some time) I got dressed, and made myself comfy in the living room, and I put Sky 1 on. I remember seeing the TV guide clock showing 2:05pm.

That’s when it happened.

With no warning, whilst I was sat down, I felt a pop inside my stomach. That may seem hard to believe, but I felt it. It was a deep popping sound, and the sound was accompanied by a hot burning pain. I could feel the pain spreading very fast all around my abdomen. The pain hit me like a bullet. If you have read my post about the first instance in May 2014, you may remember I describe that as being some of the worst pain I have endured. Well, the May 2014 episode was but a scratch compared to this. I thought I had experienced pain, but this was on another level. I somehow got off the sofa, I say somehow because I aren’t exactly sure how I did, but I found myself in the bathroom. I don’t know why I went to the bathroom, I can’t remember making my way to the bathroom, but I was there. I was wailing at times, but all I could think of was ‘why me’, and I also had no idea what to do. I was crying obviously, I was shaking and I do believe I was making noises that nobody would have recognised as being human; they were real deep groans coming from my mouth, but sounded like they emanated from deep in my gut. A truly bizarre sound. I felt sick, I felt weak, I was scared, and then I was gone.

I sort of jolted when I came around, the movement when I woke only served to cause me great pain. I was in the bath, I was naked and I felt like I was in hell. The entirety of my abdomen was in an extremely elevated notion of pain. I don’t think I could correctly portray the pain levels, as you would all need to have some base level of pain to start comparisons. Put it this way, if I had £5 million pound at that exact time, I would have given up every penny to have it stop. I had the remnants of vomit on my chest and hands, and the tub had the result of my bowels opening inside it. Not an actual poop, but a combination of blood and watered stools. I must have been a little sick from both ends some time during being in the bathroom. I immediately looked for my phone, because I needed the hospital. I knew exactly what had happened, and I knew straight away that I needed surgery. I started to prepare for it, because I absolutely knew what would occur. I couldn’t see my phone; as it happens, I had left it in the living room. I crawled into the living room, each movement causing a wave of pain to curse through my body. I could see my phone was on the floor; I grabbed it and immediately dialled 999.

“Ambulance please. Me. the patient is me. I need go the hospital. The Hartmann’s procedure I have had has gone wrong. No I am alone. Newcastle. I’m on the top floor. No there isn’t a lift. Yes this number. 27^th May 1984. Please help send someone. I think I’m going to pass out. My arms feel numb. Please send someone. Please.”

The flat is on the 3^rd floor, and there is no lift. Walking down the stairs wasn’t going to happen. And the ambulance crew wouldn’t be able to get in the bottom locked door. I needed to get there. I had grabbed my superman pj bottoms, and they were sort of on me, but things were on show. I didn’t really care. The flat door is on the landing, and the stairs start about 4 feet away from the door. I slowly sat down at the top of the stairs, and then leant back. I dragged myself down the stairs, so my back was thudding against each step, all the way down to the next landing. Then I rolled onto my stomach, and pulled myself forward on the floor, like you see the army men doing when crawling under barbed wire. I repeated this exercise until I was at the very bottom of the stairs, and then I crawled to the door. I could see the flashing blue lights of the ambulance, and I managed to get my right hand onto the door handle, and push it open. The extension of my chest and arm to push the door open seemed to take the last of my energy. As it swung open I screamed, and they knew where I was. That was it; I had nothing else I could give. The door closed, but my arm resting on the floor stopped it from closing.

The crew was a 2 woman crew. One was a young blonde girl; the other was an older dark haired woman. Once they saw where I was, they must have known it was going to be a challenge. This is because the door I had opened, and was keeping open, opens up into a big shrub. I think it’s a shrub. Like a hedge type of affair. A tiny path ran alongside the hedge, and this is where they would need to navigate me through. It was at this stage though, that the older one asked if I could walk to the ambulance. I muttered something back, but me not showing signs of movement gave them the idea. They somehow got me in the chair, and in doing so they asked why I had bandages all over my stomach. I tried to explain I had come out of hospital yesterday, but the pain wouldn’t let me. I was trying to breathe in such a way it didn’t hurt, but every breath added more pain. They repeatedly told me to take big deep breaths, but the expanding action of my chest was causing even more agony. I ended up lying down on a stretcher, with my legs pulled up towards me, as this offered a tiny sense of relief. They seemed to really procrastinate in the ambulance, it felt like hours before they got moving. I live less than a 5 minute drive away from the hospital, and I kept saying to myself ‘5 minutes and you’ll be there’. The elder woman debated a cannula, but she said by the time they had put one in, I could be at the hospital. The younger woman showed the older woman some rugged looking iPad type device, and she said ‘we need to go now’. Within a few minutes, the sirens were on, and I we were off. I focused on the bumps in the road to plot where we were, but before I knew it I felt the cold rush of air flood in the back of the ambulance. We were at the hospital.

The 2 times I have been rushed in a hospital have always felt so surreal during the event, and also after. What struck me about both my hospital gate-crashing’s, was the organised chaos that surrounds you when you are there as an emergency. When I was wheeled into resuscitation, I remember 2 things vividly as the first memory. Firstly, someone who was in resuscitation was not happy in how long it took for me to get there. They were quite vocal towards the paramedic and even said ‘he lives less than 5 minutes away, why has it taken 20 fucking minutes to get him here?’ The second thing is the organised chaos. You are surrounded by people, literally surrounded. Yet they all know where each other is. They don’t bump into each other, there is no confusion; everyone has a role, and they know what it is. There is always a face peering over you, always a voice with you. I was experiencing a great deal of pain, and I was very audible. I didn’t let off for ages in telling them my pain levels. I did a great deal of wailing. Before I knew it, I had lines in me, I was in a gown, a catheter (ffs) had been put in, and a mask was on. I begged for pain relief, and I kept being told I had been given it and it would start soon. I didn’t feel it starting at all. Nothing. The pain was coming in waves. It would be at a base level, and then increase with fast progression. At its worst it made me scream, and then it would subside. This was a continual pattern, and it lasted until I was unconscious.

I now had a Dr with me, and he asked me what had happened, and I just told him the reversal had popped, or gone wrong, whatever it was it was to do with the reversal. It was the same pain as May 2014, but a whole lot worse. He could see I was in a great deal of pain, and I asked for pain relief. He re-iterated that I had been given a lot, but clearly it wasn’t working. The final morphine count was 215mg. enough to knock out a few horses. And it hadn’t touched me at all. Not one bit. He got some other drug, oxycodone hydrochloride, and that started to go in my vein. Within a few minutes, I could feel the edge coming off, but it was still hugely painful. As I had experienced the worst of the pain, the welcome relief of having just the edge taken off was magical. I was still in crippling pain, but it was better than 10 minutes ago. I was asked if I wanted to contact someone, and all I could do was repeat my sister’s phone number over and over again in small blocks of numbers. Trying to say it in one breath wasn’t a possibility.

I cannot recall what happened immediately after this, my mind is a blank. The next thing I can recollect was hearing my sisters voice, followed shortly after by my mum and aunts voice. They were obviously being filled in about what had happened. I must have been for some form of scan, as I was now being told that the repair had torn, and waste was leaking into my stomach again, and all over my organs. This is what the burning sensation was that I had felt in the minutes following the initial pain at the apartment.

My aunt was in charge of keeping my head cool with wet flannels, but every few minutes she needed to wet it again as I was burning up. Someone dropped a small gauze on my stomach, and it only just brushed against some stomach hair as I found out soon after. It felt like someone had punched my stomach, and I remember my aunt saying ‘how has he felt that, it literally brushed a few hairs?’ To me though, it felt like I had been gut punched.

The wave of pain was coming back again, right when a few surgeon types looking blokes showed up. I was told that I needed theatre straight away, and so within the space of a few minutes, I was getting ready to be wheeled to theatre. I was so thankful because the pain was too much now; I just wanted to be knocked out. I told them I wasn’t bothered what they did, just to fix me. My sister leant over me.

“@Listen to my voice Scott, listen to what I say.

Breathe in through your nose, and out through your mouth. In, and out. Scott! Listen to me, breath in and out. Listen to my voice Scott, listen to it. Scott. SCOTT”

I couldn’t do what she said as it was just too much. I felt like giving up, I just needed to be pain free. It’s hard, and damn frustrating when you are being told to do one of the most basic functions we perform all the time, but I couldn’t take deep breaths, it hurt too much. It needed to be small sharp breaths. Soon I was on my to theatre, and when we got to the anaesthetic place, I recognised Lee. He was there for the last surgery, and he was here for the emergency one. I tried to explain what was going on, but I am sure he knew anyway. I remember he said I need to be better soon because I need to watch the last F1 race of the season.

Before I knew it, that warm metal taste was back in my throat. And I was gone.

I can’t tell you some euphoric experience that I went through here, because it felt like I was put to sleep, and then I was woken up again straight away. That little sleep I had was a good 6-7 hour sleep. When I woke, I didn’t open my eyes. I just listened; I could hear the machine beeping out my heartrate. I could move my fingers, and I checked the left side of my body. No bag.

Then I checked the right hand side. There was a bag attached to me.