I always knew that I would end up writing about what happened.
I never set a time when I would, but I knew that one day it would happen. And
that day happened to be today. I didn’t plan to start today, it just happened.
I think that there may be a possibility that it may have been caused by someone
asking me last night what it was that actually happened to me, who knows. I’m
not in some coffee shop on my mac, I am just sat in my room, with my new 30”
standing fan blowing air around as it is sweltering in my room. I wish it would
rain just to clear the air. I could however go for a nice ice cold caramel
latte.
I would also like to say that I have no agenda. I don’t have
it written in bullet points what I want to say, I will just type what pops into
my head, as I have done on previous Pulitzer winning masterpieces. The issue
with this however, is that I may not accurately portray the timings, so if I
think it is confusing, I will explain real time if am referring to something I
would find out after the events. I think that last sentence is confusing in
itself. I also won’t hold back on details, or emotions or the emotions of those
around me when shit went down. This will be an open, honest and at times funny
encounter of what I and my family and friends went through. I won’t be open to
criticism, as this happened to me; you cannot criticise real events. I am merely sharing with you all, what
happened, how I felt, and what the future holds. Let’s go.
I had my 3 weeks off work booked for May 2014. Well, it was
3 and half weeks if we are being precise. The countdown for my long holiday had
been in the making for 5 months since January. I had a lot of things planned.
It was my 30th birthday, so I was having friends around for a bbq
and a huge piss up. I was going to see Katy Perry in concert again, because
lets be honest, she is class. I don’t care what you say, she is class, and she
is racked. (Come on you know me.) I was mega excited about going to japfest,
this is a car show for Japanese sports cars, and I was ridiculously excited to
go to this. As well as this, there was a lot of friend time planned, where we
would just go for drives, or go to the pub, anything really. Things that I
enjoy.
On the first day off I was mentally excited, I had all these
things planned out, I was a little nervous about my 30th birthday,
but who isn’t. I didn’t want to turn 30, because deep down I knew that when I
turned 30, I had to grow up. I expected to be married with kids by the time I
was 30. Who knew eh?
On maybe the 2nd or 3rd day of my time
off, I went the gym with Dave Woolley, this was normal, we had been training
hard for a few months now, and we were well into our programme to increase
strength. I have always been strong, but going to the gym and lifting heavy
weights above me, or squatting 200kg gave me a massive confidence boost. I
buzzed off the feeling of beating a previous personal best that I had done. On
this particular day however, I felt a tad off. This usually didn’t bother me,
as I would jump in the squat rack, and smash them out. I couldn’t do it though.
I just had a sensation in my stomach that something wasn’t right. It was like
the start of a dodgy stomach, like food poisoning. This was probably 1 of 3 or
4 occasions that I called the training off. I just felt ropey. I went home to
rest up, and shake it off as it was Japfest at the weekend, and I did not want
to be ill for that.
The next few days were the same as the gym day, I just felt
a bit off, bit of a dodgy stomach, so I kept topped up with fluids, and ate
only protein so my stomach wasn’t struggling with breaking down complex carbs
from the insane amount of wholemeal pasta I was feeding myself for the gym
training.
Japfest soon arrived, Saturday 10th May 2014 to
be exact. I had been looking forward to this day for months. Japanese sports
cars are my thing. I have always loved them, and since I was about 22, I had
craved a civic type r, and going to Japfest, was something I was hugely excited
for. I wanted to drive there, but I still felt a bit ropey, so Dave drove in
his car, and some other mates went in their cars. When we arrived we parked up
and walked to the circuit where all the cars were on show. I was in heaven; it
was just Japanese sports cars, everywhere. Vendors selling tuning bits, bit
name companies selling their own parts. It was my heaven. There was a track
where we could watch racing all day, this was hilarious, and I had a massive
smile on my face. Inside however, I was crying. My stomach pain was now
hurting. And it wasn’t localised either, I couldn’t pinpoint exactly where the
pain was, as it was everywhere. I took a seat and put a brave face on. The lads
found me and asked if I was ok, I told them that I was, but they knew I wasn’t.
I wouldn’t let a stomach bug put me off on a day like this. I could see in
their eyes that they knew I was hurting. I wanted to cry, and curl up in a
ball. I did try to enjoy myself, but no matter what I thought of, or what I
looked at, the pain was still there. Eventually, after about 3 hours after we
got there, I asked Dave for his keys, I needed to lie down. I went back to his
car, slid the seats forward and got on the rear seat. And I cried. Literally
cried for about a half hour, until I had no more tears. When Dave came back, I told him I was in
pain, and the only way to ease it slightly was to curl up in a ball. Dave was
great, and said he wanted to go home anyway, so we would leave now. He didn’t
want to go home; he could see I needed too.
When I got home, I said my goodbyes to Dave, and once he had
left, I ran upstairs, curled on my bed with a pillow, and cried uncontrollably.
At this point, I knew something wasn’t quite right.
The next few days consisted of a strict routine. A routine
not through choice, but through need. I would wake up, take constipation
tablets, and curl up in the bath in red hot water. This took the edge off a
little bit. I would lie there with the left hand side of my face resting
against the bath tub, with my knees pushed into my chest. I did the thing where
you move your body to make the water wave up onto you so you feel the warm
water again. When the water was no longer red hot, I emptied the bath, and
filled it again. The pain of the scolding hot water on my skin was better than
feeling the pain inside me. And although it sounds sadomasochist, it was a
welcome relief. Getting out of the bath was not a nice experience. The pain now
was hitting me in waves. By that I mean I knew when it was coming based on the
pain level I was currently at. So it would start of being painful, then it
would increase in size, to the point where I cried, then it subsided. For about
5 minutes, and then it would repeat again. This was my routine daily. I was
eating laxatives for fun. I experienced the urge to go to the loo, but nothing
would come out, and I couldn’t pee either unless is really forced it. This
constipation was driving me insane.
Throughout various points of the day, if anyone saw me, they
would think I was crazy. I would often lye in silly positions to try and find
out if it took the edge off a little bit. Nothing helped. I went to bed on the Friday
night, and I didn’t know that when I woke up on the Saturday, this was to be
the start of it properly.
We have all heard the expression that someone has woken up
covered in sweat. On the Saturday morning, I woke up not covered in sweat, but
sleeping in it. This will seem exaggerated, and far-fetched, however it is 100%
factual. I woke up in sweat. I got out of bed, albeit very slowly, as I was now
in agony. The bet was holding sweat on it. To put it into perspective, I am not
talking about a wet sheet, I am talking about a sheet that held sweat on it. It
was to the point where I could see my reflection in it. It was like a puddle on
the road. Literally, a puddle of sweat on my bed. I don’t think unless you saw
it, that you could comprehend how much of it there was. It was soaked through
the mattress, and dripping on the floor. My sister can testify to this, as she
was the one who cleaned it up about a week later. Well, she cleaned the next
nights sweat up actually, as it happened again the Saturday night into the
Sunday morning. I cleaned up the current pool of sweat as best I could, with
about 6 bath towels to soak it up, and a hair drier to try and evaporate some
of it. I left the bedroom windows open to air the room out. Again, I can’t
stress how much there was. It was revolting, just remembering the puddle, and
seeing my worried reflection is making my mouth water like I want to be sick. I
had text messaged my sister earlier telling her I had a poorly tummy, but I
didn’t fully explain how bad it was. She said I needed to make an appointment
with the Dr’s. I would call them on Monday.
I woke up on the Sunday morning and when I opened my eyes, I
chose not to move. When I woke up, I was pain free, until I moved that is. The
moment I moved, and my body knew I was awake, was when my senses kicked in and
reported back about how much pain I was in. This was the first time in my life,
I have ever prayed. I am not a religious man. I don’t believe that some lad was
Jesus. I don’t believe in the concept of a God. I do not believe in religion. I
am not opposed to people being religious one bit, I am a firm believer that
anyone can believe in what they want. It is our right to choose what we believe
in. I choose to believe that religion is a crock of crap. I prayed that morning
though. I asked for God to remove the pain, and I prayed to feel normal again.
I tried to get out of bed, and realised my prayers were unanswered.
I lay in bed and I cried, again. Lying down in a puddle of
my own sweat, again.
I started to question what was going on, and it dawned on me
that I hadn’t been to the loo for a number 2 since I had been off work. I
figured it out as being 13 days. 13 days with no poo isn’t right. So I did what
anybody who feels mega ill does, I Googled my symptoms. I read about the
various things that can cause constipation, and some of the foods that can
cause it had been in my diet, high protein foods. I read about Chrons disease
and colostomy bags. They seemed interesting. But that didn’t explain the pain,
which by now was a little bit of an annoyance, (satire right there). I did my
routine, and I got in the bath, with scolding hot water. I lay in the bath this
time, and the pain was higher than ever before now. This was out of hand, and I
decided that I couldn’t keep lying in a scolding bath. So I got out, slowly,
and went on the Argos website, and reserved an Argos Value £12.99 water bottle.
It was now about 11am, so I went and collected it. When I got to Argos, I had
the sweats, big time. The guy in Argos asked me if I was ok, he told me I was
pale and my pupils were massive. I said I was ok, walked out and got back in my
car, and I screamed. I was in agony. I drove back home with constant watery
eyes. I now started to question what I had done to deserve this.
I got home, filled the water bottle up, and go on bed, with
the water bottle on my stomach. It did nothing. Not a thing. The pain now ran
from my man boobs, all the way down, and all around my back. This next bit has
always puzzled me, and to this day I have no reasoning why I did this. I got
out of bed, put on some hair product, brushed my teeth, sprayed some body spray
on myself, and walked to the stairs. I wasn’t going out, but for some reason I
just did that. I stood on the stairs, and this is where it started.
In order for me to get across how I felt, I need to say
certain things. Dark things. Things which just reflecting about, make me feel a
bit ashamed of myself, but at the time, it is what I felt. I need you to
imagine the most painful thing you have ever felt. A physical pain, not an emotional pain. The
sort of pain that makes you sob uncontrollably. Now multiply this by a factor
of 100, and then multiply it again, and again, and again. Are you getting my
point? Stood at the top of the stairs, it genuinely felt like someone took a
knife to my stomach and cut it open. And I screamed, I mean I really screamed.
The pain was out of this world, I am struggling to convey how bad the pain was.
I would prefer to have had boiling water poured over me than feel this. I
collapsed down the stairs, smacking my head a few times on the way down. I
landed on the floor and my phone bounced just out of my reach. The next few
minutes felt like hours. I could see my phone, but couldn’t reach it. I
screamed for help, literally screaming, like my life was hanging in the balance;
at this stage I didn’t know that my life would be in danger. I am ashamed to say
this, but I always said I wouldn’t hold back. At this time, lying down on the
floor, feeling helpless and in complete agony, I wished to die. I asked to die
repeatedly. I would rather have ended then and there than continue in this
pain. My entire stomach was buzzing with sensations. I could feel things inside
me; it felt like the inside of me was on fire. I looked to my phone, but it was
now a blurry vision as the tears were streaming down. I started to get a
euphoric sensation, and I felt ready to take a sleep on the floor. But I
wouldn’t sleep, my body wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t even move
a finger. It felt like my body was paralysed, I had no control over it. I
started to think to myself now that this was it, this was the end. I can’t
recall the exact order I thought of these next things, but I could see memories
of when I was younger. I could see my sister walking me down Hillport Avenue
with my chin hanging off when I smashed my face into a glass bottle when I came
of my bike when I was 9. I remembered the smell of Ben the Old English sheepdog
we had. I started to remember a book I had when I was little about clouds. I
loved that book. If I was going to die, I would do it with these memories.
Dying with happy thoughts has to a better way to go right? I started to mutter
to myself, I don’t know what I was saying, but I do know I was muttering
something.
This is where my chest started to hurt me now, the stomach
pain started to come back, and at the same time, my chest started to hurt. I
was able to move my fingers, and wiped the tears from my face. I stared at my
phone, a mere few inches away from my hands, and I summoned all of the will I
had left. This felt like a last chance to do something, and I tried to lunge
forward to reach the phone, but couldn’t. ‘FUUUUUCCCCCCK’. This is what I screamed out. Devine
intervention stepped in now though, as my phone was on the off cut bit of
carpet we used for a mat by the front door. I only just saw this, so I pulled
the mat closer, and I had my phone.
I immediately called my mum. I composed myself, and rang
her. She answered, and with as much restraint as I could hope for, I calmly
told her I needed to go to hospital. Then I broke down, she knew something
wasn’t right, and she told me to hang up and call 999. I must have called 999,
because an ambulance turned up, not a proper one, but a first response vehicle.
I saw the image of a man at the front door, and I screamed for him to come in.
He looked at me and lifted me up and propped me sat up on the stairs. I found a
position where I could stay still, but fuck me, the pain was back. Back with a
big vengeance. I was sweating profusely; my grey top had patches all over it.
He took my temperature, and did my heart checks, and once he had listened to my
heart, his face got serious. I couldn’t breathe, and my chest was hurting. It
was hurting bad. He gave me gas and air straight away, but the valve on the gas
and air was buggered so it was hard to breathe it in. This made me panic as I
could only get it in my lungs by breathing in really hard, and when I did this
the chest pain was too much to take. I panicked, and he checked heart again,
and the machine said 222bpm. He told me I need to calm down as I would enter
cardiac arrest. Great choice of words. At this moment, my sister appeared at
the door. Never in my life have I ever been so grateful to see her. I caught
her eye as she stood at the door, she was on the phone. She lived 30 seconds
away from me, my ma had called her and ordered her around, so she came, but
when we made eye contact, I knew straight away this was not good. Her look told
me straight away that this was bad. She hung up on the phone, and checked the
machines that were monitoring me on the stairs. She looked concerned, but she
made small talk to calm me down. She told me to try and remain calm, and I
would be ok, she made small talk with the first responder. I knew this was a
distraction technique. As I was sat there with my eyes closed, breathing in
this gas and air, trying to regulate my breathing, and telling myself to calm
down, my sense of hearing tuned in to my sister on the phone to someone. ‘He is
grey’. ‘He is on gas and air’. ‘They need to put a line in now.’ I heard it
all. The paramedic chap then came in and told me he needed to put a line in my
arm, my sister said that I had a phobia of needles, because I do, but I raised
my arm as if to tell him to do it.
The paramedic chappy then got onto his phone and called in a
real ambulance. I heard him saying that he needs one now. ‘I don’t care if
there isn’t one, get me one NOW!’. He didn’t seem impressed at not being taken
seriously by whoever was on the end of the line. At this stage, he had a quiet
word with my sister, but due to my super hearing, I could hear him. He told her
that it wasn’t appendicitis; he said to her ‘something is seriously wrong with
him, his entire stomach is rock hard.’
When he said this, I pressed my stomach, and this was the
first time I had noticed that it actually was hard, obviously not like a rock,
but to compare, it was like pressing your finger on a watermelon. The tiniest
bit of movement, but nothing more. I can’t recall much more of the stairs to be
honest; the next thing I can recollect is the daddy ambulance turning up. The 2
guys came in, one spoke with me, the other with my sister and the first
responder chappy. The one speaking with me was trying to calm me down, and he
looked at the print outs from the mini ECG machine, and told me we were going
to the hospital right now. The other paramedic was telling my sister the same
thing and with that off I went. They stood me up, and asked me if I wanted to
be wheeled to the ambulance, or walk. It was literally about 15 foot away from
me, I could see it. I opted to walk; I didn’t want my pride to be hurt. So they
walked with me, and every little step hurt like fuck. They got me in, on a bed,
and then they gave me morphine. This was amazing. The morphine took the pain
down to a level I could cope with, but it was still agony. We started to move,
and I remember imaging the roads we were on based on the movement of the
ambulance, I could hear the beeping of the ECG machine I was still on, it was
getting more frequent. The paramedic asked me how I was feeling, but before I
could answer, he got on the radio, and said ‘Code Red’. Now, I am not a
paramedic, but, the words code, and red, said together don’t imply that there
is a 50% sale on down Tesco. To me, it means something isn’t right, or
something is about to go wrong. After that, the sirens went on, and we started
to travel a lot faster. Paramedics take a lot of care in their job. I know
this, as the driver clearly said ‘Fuck off out the way you idiot’, during some
point on the journey.
When I got to hospital, they wheeled me straight into some
place, the name of it I don’t know. I was off my face. I was still in pain, but
I was high as a kite, this was better than any smoke I have ever had, it was
amazing. My sister and mum were there, and they looked concerned. My sister
however, decided at this time to tell me my feet were dirty. I told her that I
had walked barefoot to the ambulance so they would be dirty. To this day I
still wind her up about that. I’m in hospital, on the cusp of something major,
and she picks fault at my feet being dirty. Amazing.
They sent me for an x-ray, not sure why they did this at
this point, but I went for it, the whole process didn’t take long at all. Once
the x-ray came back, the nurses told me they needed a swab. She held a cotton
bud and gave it to me, then told me wipe in my mouth so I did. She gave me
another one, and looked at my crotch. I only found out after, that I told her I
wasn’t putting it in my arse. Turns out it was to swab around my balls and
Johnson to check for MRSA. Ok cool I’m down with that.
After this, they told me to get undressed and put a gown on.
I did this, and they wheeled me to another room, right next to the theatre.
This room had a window, and I was boiling up, and sweating uncontrollably. I
gently got myself out of the bed, and stood by the window. I looked down, and
could see the sweat dropping off me, a constant stream of drops. One after the
other dropping down onto the floor. The nurses saw me out of bed and ran over
and ordered me back into bed. I argued a bit because the bed was wet from sweat
and I was too hot, but I got in, I was too fragile to argue. I was then sent for
a scan, I can’t remember the name of the machine, but I had to lie very still,
not make a sound and not move as this massive circular thing went up and down
over me, making huge banging noises. The getting up onto the machine out of the
bed was soul destroying. By this point, I couldn’t move. My body wouldn’t let
me as the pain was too much now; the morphine wasn’t having the desired effect
as the pain was too much. I cried all the way back to room they had me in.
My mum and sister were there waiting for me, and when I came
back they could see I was in agony. A Dr came over, and told them that I had
appendicitis, and until they went opened me up larascopically, they wouldn’t
know how bad it was. I would be going into theatre in the morning. This was now
about 9pm. He told them to come back in the morning and it would all be sorted.
So off they went, and I would see them the next day.
Even though I was now in agony and questioning what I had
done to be like this, I could in some ways still think clearly. And I remember
the conversations I had with people. I knew inside me that surgery wasn’t
tomorrow, it was soon. They put these special socks on me, and they started
putting lines in my hands, forearms and inner elbow joint. Why would they do
this now if I was going into surgery tomorrow? I got my answer.
This tall blonde haired Dr wearing blue came in to me, he
told me his name, it was Lars. He looked me straight in the eyes, and he said ‘I
am taking you into surgery now. Something is not right here, it is not
appendicitis, and we need to perform surgery right now’. I asked him if it was
serious. His answer shocked me. They were bumping me up to be operated on now,
ahead of a young boy having some form of transplant. At this stage, I got
scared. More scared than I have ever been in my life. Ever. I felt vulnerable,
and alone. I felt like a nobody. I couldn’t control the situation, and this
scared me. He told me I needed to sign a consent form. Basically, I gave them
consent to do whatever they needed to. Once they started, there was no going
back. I handed it to him, and said ‘Lars do whatever you need to in order for
me to not be in pain’. He smiled at me, held my hand, and then he was gone. I
was then wheeled into another room, and a pretty nurse was talking to me. Above
my head was a fan, and there were cupboards all around me. I could see surgical
equipment everywhere, and I could hear a lot of people around me. A friendly
face looked at me, and put something in the line in my arm. ‘You might taste
metal in the back of your mouth; when you do, count to 10.’ I don’t think I
made it to 4.
I would love to say that I had some amazing dreams when I was
knocked out, however I didn’t. I can’t even recall being out of it, it felt
like my eyes closed, and then opened straight away. When I woke up, there were 2 nurses looking at
me. ‘Oh he is waking. Wakey wakey Scott’, one of them said. I felt groggy, I
wanted to hurl. Then one of them told me that the Dr would be over soon. I
tried to move my hand, but one of them stopped me by clasping their hand over
mine. ‘Let the Dr come see you first before you start moving’, one of them
said. Now, although I had literally just come around from surgery, I was fully
aware of what was going on around me, the memories are extremely clear and
vivid. I can remember the clean smell in the room. I can remember the feeling
of the blue cover that was on me. I could feel every single cannula that was
sticking out of me. I was also fully aware, that I had a tube up my dick. The
first thing I thought of was that someone had to stick a tube up my Johnson.
The nurses went away and I lay there, just taking everything in. I was off my
face on morphine and whatever else it was that was making me feel high as hell,
but like I said, I can remember everything. It is weird that I can’t remember
what I had for my tea last night, but this is clear. I have often wondered whether
the body can somehow collect the data it
is given when the body has been through a trauma, and retain the data. Like
this for example, it turns out I had been in surgery for 8 hours. But from the
moment I woke up, I can remember it all. I looked at the clock. 6.35 am. So
much for appendicitis.
I started to move my hands onto my chest; it took some
effort as I had medicinal wires everywhere. I ran my hand down the right hand
side of my body. I felt 2 massive tubes. They were sticking out of me. I don’t
remember them being there for the previous 29 years, so these were new. I
wasn’t scared, or shocked. I pulled my hand back, and then felt in between my
moobs. I could feel a hard gauze like material, I looked down, and the bed
cloth was just below my boob line. I could see a blue strip running down my
chest towards my lower half. Again, this was new. As I did this, Lars came in,
and looked at me. He saw me messing, and told me not too and he pulled a chair
up to me. He asked me a few simple questions, to assess my level of awareness.
‘Dr, it’s just gone 6.40am, it wasn’t appendicitis was it?’ He looked down to
the floor, and ran his hands through his hair. Then I asked him. ‘I have a
colostomy bag don’t I?’
Lars was good, as he could have tried to fluff it up and
make it seem easier to take in, but he just told me that yes I had one fitted,
and it is why I am alive. I am being completely honest now; it wasn’t a shock
to me at all. I had read about them the week before when I was Googling
symptoms. We have all been there; we read one thing, then onto another and so
on. I truly think that reading about them was what made me accept it immediately.
There were absolutely zero feelings of pity. I wasn’t all woe is me. Was just happy that the pain was gone. He
told me that I was pain free due to the anaesthetic still being present in my
system, and he showed me the magic morphine button. I can press it when I want
and get immediate pain relief. But only once every 5 minutes. I trained my
finger to continuously be depressed on the button, so every 5 minutes it would
hit me up with the good stuff. He told me he was going to call my sister and mum
to let them know. I told him not too, as my sister had a funeral at 9am. If he
rang her and told her, she wouldn’t have gone, so I told him no. He asked me
for my date of birth and favourite song, the cheeky beggar did this to make
sure I was still aware of what I was saying, and he didn’t call them. Good lad
Lars. They were scheduled to come at midday, so I was happy for them to not be
disturbed.
I was wheeled into a room with space for one bed only. They put my bed in, and told me to rest as my
other surgeon wanted to see me. So I closed my eyes, and I fell asleep. I was
woken soon after by the noise of people walking around me. I opened the eyes,
and there was a nurse messing with my morphine, she was adding more to it. Another
nurse was messing with a couple of drip bags. I counted the cannula’s I had in
me. 8. There was another person in the room, a woman in her 50s, short hair,
glasses and she was flicking through a folder. She looked at me, and said
‘wow’.
I was confused, I said hello and she asked the nurses to
leave. She pulled up a visitor’s chair, placed the folder on the bed and smiled
at me. ‘I am Mrs Hall; I operated on you with the other Dr (Lars). I wanted to
see you myself when you woke up, because I need to speak with you.’ She
proceeded to ask me if I was aware of what had happened, I said I wasn’t but I
knew I had a colostomy bag. ‘How do you feel about having the bag?’ I wasn’t
bothered, it was easy for me to answer to be honest, Lars had told me I had
one, and I needed it to be alive. She seemed surprised by my answer, but
nevertheless, it was how I felt, it didn’t bother me. She told me that I had
suffered from diverticulitis, my colon had ruptured, and they needed to reroute
it to the side of my stomach, so my bum wouldn’t be used for having a poo. She
said she would be coming to see me properly the next day for a longer chat.
That was fine by me, I was a bit tired. So she left, and once again I went to
sleep.
I was woken next by someone wiping my hair out of my eyes. It
was my sister. ‘How are you feeling’, she asked me. I told her I was rough. She
asked me how long I was in surgery for, I told her 8 hours. She didn’t believe
me. ‘It doesn’t take them 8 hours to remove an appendix’ she said. She was
right, so I told her that my colon had exploded and I have a colostomy bag
fitted. She laughed. I didn’t. She laughed again; I looked at her, and said
once again that I have a colostomy bag fitted. She didn’t believe me again. So
I lowered the bed sheet, and she saw it, she welled up. She looked at me, and
the tears rolled down her cheek, she was visibly upset. This quickly changed to
anger, as she demanded to know why she wasn’t called after surgery, and I had
to explain to her that I had told them to not call as I knew if she was told
what had happened, she would have not gone to the funeral. I wasn’t going
anywhere, so I made them not call. She soon calmed down. My mum had a similar
reaction to my sister. I think I was the only one who wasn’t fussed about it, I
was happy to not be in agonising pain. There was a moment where we all just
said nothing, and let the quietness take over. I could see however that my
sister was shaken and she left the room. My mum stayed, and I knew why my
sister had gone out the room. She felt guilty, as in the week when I told her I
felt really bad, she assumed it was a stomach bug or something, I mean nobody
has a stomach pain and assumes their belly has exploded do they? She never once
needed to feel any guilt, this was nobody’s fault, and nobody was to know the
full extent of what had happened, as I was to be told the next day. She came
back and I tried my best to tell her it is ok, and I am ok. I felt great, as
the last proper feeling I had was that of wanting to die due to the unbearable
pain. I was happy with this, that pain was gone, I felt free and liberated,
which is funny as I was in a bed and couldn’t move. Although we spent the
majority of the time in silence, with the 2 of them taking turns to stroke my
forehead and rub my hands, it was nice, it was peaceful. I was content. They
had to go, and said they would be back later to see me, and soon after I was
asleep.
Next time I saw them,
was in the late afternoon, I think the time away had done them good. They both
needed time to take in what had happened, and process it for themselves.
Sometimes, we find it harder to deal with what has happened to someone else
rather than our selves, I know first-hand the difficulties faced when you see a
loved one in hospital, looking all beat up and knackered. I experienced that
with my sister in 2006. Now it was my turn. They looked refreshed, I could tell
they had both had a good cry, and probably questioned the whys and what’s of
the situation. They grilled me about it, and how I felt. Did I not feel pain in
the build up to it? I did, but I am a guy, we don’t like admitting when we are
ill. But, this was a bit more than being ill. This turned out to be a fight for
my life, and I didn’t even now I was fighting for my own life. We spoke about
other bits and bobs, and I told them some things I would need such as t shirts,
toothbrush etc. They were going to go to my house and collect some bits and
bobs, and come back tomorrow... That was fine with me, so off they went. Soon
after, I went to sleep. Again.
I woke the next day after a good 15 hour sleep, with a
lovely old lady asking me if I wanted breakfast. Well no, she told me I was
having breakfast. So I had my breakfast, a sliced of corned beef. It was
tasteless. Not long after Mrs Hall came back and she sat down on the same chair
as yesterday and smiled at me. She had
the same folder as before. She asked me
if I was ready. I was confused, and she could tell by my facial expression that
I was confused. The order in which she told me I cannot remember exactly, but
she told me what had happened; now I will tell you.
When they took me in for surgery, they knew it was something
serious, they knew before they cut me open, the scans had shown a huge mass of
something covering the entirety of my torso. They re-scheduled a transplant to
get me in, basically because my body would have given up if they didn’t fix me
then and there. When they cut me open, puss, poo and fluid burst out of the
incisions. I am not joking. In her words,
‘you covered me in what was inside you’. She had to change before investigating
further. They cut me from my tits down to my pubes. My body and all of my
organs were covered with faeces and infectious matter. It was on my heart, my
lungs, and intestines, everywhere. She told me that 2 weeks ago, my colon had
exploded, so every bit of food was leaking into my body, and onto my organs and
poisoning me. It was slowly killing me. She explained that I would have felt
moments of relief; the relief was the pressure of the faeces leaving the
ruptured colon and escaping onto my organs. This is why I hadn’t gone the loo
for 2 weeks, as my bumhole was no longer connected to the colon. So food goes
in mouth, down throat, into stomach, and then was going wherever it wanted too.
It was diverticulitis. This is where the colon has tiny pockets that can get
full of trapped food, the food got trapped, and caused an infection, my body
didn’t fight the infection, my immune system caved and the infection took over.
There are 4 stages to the disease. Stage 1 is a when the colon goes a bit
porous, medicine can fix that. Stage 2 is a tear, stage 3 is a bigger tear, and
stage 4 is complete separation. I was the first patient who has survived a
stage 4 separation during her entire career as a bowel surgeon. This started to
hit me. She asked me about how I had felt in the lead up to going in so I told
her about the pain, and the sweats. The mass of sweat was my body on its last
legs trying to fight the infection, I was lucky to have not had a heart attack
in my sleep and die. She told me that when someone’s colon ruptures fully, they
don’t live past 5 days without needing emergency surgery. I did 14. She told me
that I had been privy to a miracle, and that I should be dead. She told me that
in her entire career, she had never spoken with someone who survived, as he body
shuts down and gives up. It makes me cry thinking about this because to say I
am lucky is an understatement. It turns
out that my heart is incredibly strong, and she attributed that to doing heavy
resistance training at the gym, it had made my heart stronger. She estimated
that whilst I was sleeping, my heart was around 210bpm for 3-4 hours a night
trying to fight the infection that was on all of my organs. I was lucky that I
didn’t have a heart attack, I had septicaemia though, and peritonitis, but I laugh
in the face of these. They had to clean off all my organs, literally clean them
off. They had lifted my intestines out, and cleaned them all down, cut a big
chunk of the colon out and routed it to the left hand side of my belly. They
had cleaned it off my heart as well, lungs, everywhere. She said the procedure
itself was done in an hour; the rest of it was clean-up work. During the
surgery, with me being out of it, my body continued to fight, this was when it
was at its most vulnerable, and they were concerned a few times that I was
slipping away. When she told me that, it scared me like hell. But they had fixed
me, they had kept me alive. She stood up and told me that she doesn’t think she
will ever witness a miracle like this in her life again. With that, she left
me. I put my head down, closed my eyes and let the tears come out. I wasn’t
upset, I just think that a whole load of emotions were brewing, and the only
outlet I had was too cry. I did a lot of crying that day.
I had decided on this day that I could deal with this in 1
of 2 ways. I could mope about it, and question why, or I could crack on with
it. I started to crack on. I got a nurse in and asked when I could get out of
bed, and she told me not for a few days. I told her that this wouldn’t cut it
as I needed to go see Katy Perry in concert on the Friday. She told me I
wouldn’t be going. This destroyed me, I was so excited to go and see Katy, and
that destroyed me. Katy wouldn’t see me either. Poor girl. The nurse was the
head nurse, she was in charge. She said if I ate, and did what I was told, we
could get me out of bed the following day. I agreed.
I had another nurse pop around that day, she was a stoma
nurse. Stoma is the name given to the hole I now have on the left hand side of
the body. She was there to asses me psychologically and physically check the
wound. I told her I was fine, she told me that she would recommend speaking
with a psychiatrist, as these changes to someone’s life can mentally have an
impact. I told her that I am alive, when I should be dead, and that was Psych class 101 finished with. She smiled and that
was the last time psychologists were mentioned. She showed me a colostomy bag, and
let me have a good look at it. I told her that I had been reading about them
prior to me coming in and that I was aware that they just stick on, and you
change them every 3-4 days. She was impressed by this, and she told me. Clever
boy me. She was too come back tomorrow to change the bag, and show me how it
was done. I don’t know why, but this excited me.
The bed was warm, far too warm, and I was wet with sweat,
physically wet, all over. I asked for a fan, so they got me one, it made no
difference, the sweat was running off me. I couldn’t cope with this, so I
decided I was getting out of my bed. I wasn’t waiting any longer. I put my hand
under the cover and there were wires everywhere, like a tangled mess of wires.
So I slowly pulled the cover up from my feet towards my chest. The first thing
I saw was the sexy hospital socks. Proper trendy, I also saw an orange tube
between my legs, this was the catheter. Then I saw 2 other bags, filled with a substance
that looked gloopy, and thick, parts were red, parts were yellow, and parts
were green.it was grim. The bags had
tubes coming out of them, I followed them by sight, and they led to the 2 tubes
I had felt earlier in my stomach. I couldn’t see where the catheter line was
going too; this would be the tricky part of the operation. It was hurting to
look down, as I was lying down, and my stomach was hurting like hell when I
tried to move. I had a gadget next to me to control the bed, so I started
playing with that and lifted the bed up. About 5 seconds later, a nurse came
running in. I had inadvertently hit the ‘help me’ button and this calls nurses
immediately. What a chump. I told her that I need to get out of bed, I pleaded
with her. She held my hand and told me I couldn’t. She told me that my stomach
muscles were chopped up to bits, I have no abdominal strength, and I have a row
of metal staples keeping my stomach together. She pleaded with me to not get
out of bed, and I knew I had to admit defeat. I didn’t know yet about the
muscle thing, or that I had metal staples holding me together. She put the tubes in a more comfortable
position, and let me have the bed cover off me. She got another fan, so I now
had 2 big fans on me, yet still I was red hot. The sweat was running of me continuously,
I asked her if it was normal and she said my body was still fighting the
infection, and the tubes in my stomach were where the infection was draining
out. Until the bags stopped filling up, I would be sweating whilst my body
fought the infection, along with the drugs they were giving me. To give you
some context, the sweat was soaking the bed, the amazingly comfy mattress, and
dripping onto the floor. Again, people can testify to this. I had mashed potato
for tea that night. 2 spoons of it, it was tasteless. But it was good. I went
to sleep, for what would be another 15 hour sleep.
The next morning was when it started to get hard; this would
be the start of me helping myself. I did not want to be the person who was
confined to a bed and relied on others, of course there were lots I couldn’t
help or contribute to, but I was gagging for some aspect of independence. I
needed to show myself I wasn’t helpless. My stoma nurse came, and showed me how
to cut a bag, and how to change it, she did it for me, and this was to be the
first look at the hole in my stomach. I saw it and I nearly threw up. If I had
3 spoons of mash the night before, I would have chundered everywhere. It was
about 2 inches wide, an inch tall, and it was black, with blood on it, and just
grim internal stuff. I could see stitches around it, and the yellow iodine
colour of the antiseptic that but on the body before cutting it. It was vile,
grotesque. She told me that it would heal quickly and soon it would look
better. I hoped she was right, as this was vile. I cut out a bag, and she told
me that tomorrow I would be changing it. I wanted to do it now, I needed to do
something, but she told me she was applying the new one, but promised me I
would do one tomorrow. I agreed. Another nurse came in whilst the stoma nurse
was there, and asked her when I could be moved following a bag change, the
stoma nurse said I can move now. What did they mean by moved? I looked at the
nurse, and she told me I could get out of bed, but it was on her terms. YES!!!!
I raised the bed up, I was excited, she came around and
lifted the drain bags up, and pinned them to my gown so I didn’t have to worry
about them. She got the piss bag from the end of the bed, and hung that on a
wheely dolly. It was full to the brim; I can’t even remember taking a piss. I
was now sat up in bed, I just needed to swing my legs around, she started to do
this, I told her no. she frowned at me and told me we had a deal, I told her I
needed to break the deal, and she grinned. My legs were now dangling out of the
bed, and she dragged the big green chair over to the bed, it was right next to
me. I tried to move, but I felt shattered, I had used all my energy swinging my
legs around. 3 weeks ago I was squatting 200kg, pressing 55kg dumb bells above
my head, and now I was destroyed swinging my legs around. This upset me and
once again, the tears came. She rubbed my shoulder, told me to sit there and
she was going to give me 5 minutes. She left and I sat there crying. I felt
hopeless. I had no control over being this tired, and this was why they told me
that I should stay in bed. At this point, I could either admit defeat, or beat
it and get in the chair.
She came back in, with a cloth, and wiped my face, I was
still sweating profusely. She asked me if we were getting back into bed. We
weren’t. She smiled at me, and I told her I was getting out of bed, I needed to
do this, I needed to feel some degree of control. She stood in front of me, I
put my arms out and gripped her forearms. She slowly stepped backwards, and I
slowly started to stand up. This woman, who weighed about half of me, got me to
stand up. Once I was standing, I got a blood rush to the head, she steadied me,
and I said thanks. I stood just for a couple of moments, to take it all in. I
felt good, but shattered. She slowly lowered me into the green chair, and once
I sat down it felt amazing. I was butt naked, so my back, ass and legs were
pressed against a cold leather green chair. This was bliss!
She passed me my phone and told me she would give me some
privacy. I turned my phone on and I got loads of texts and messages asking what
had happened, and was I ok. People who I hadn’t spoken to for a while were
asking about me. 2 of my closest friends from work had seen on an email that I
was in hospital, and wanted to see me. So I told Nadia and Chloe they could
come whenever they liked. Nadia was there about 2 hours later, Chloe was coming
later in the afternoon. When NK walked in (I call Nadia NK), I felt relieved to
see a non-hospital face, and she sat down and we spoke about what happened. She
was looking at someone who was mega ill, but she didn’t let it show. Her face
was strong; she didn’t give away how bad I looked. She was a star. She brought
me some lad magazines, and we chatted, it was great. NK has always been there
for me, and I truly appreciated the visit. It was really really needed.
Later on that day, I had another set of visitors. My mum,
sister, cousins, 2 aunties, my brother in law and Chloe. So much for 2 to a
room, don’t they know they have a VIP in?! This was the hardest visit I had
when I was in, as I didn’t need a mirror to see what I looked like, their eyes
told me. Apart my mum and sister who had seen me, everyone else in the room
hadn’t seen me. I don’t think they were prepared to see me as I was, not able
to really move much, totally dependent on others. I was fragile, and they could
see it. My cousins looked petrified, and I could see they were shocked. My
brother in law, a humble giant of a man looked worried. My aunties were visibly
shaken, they tried to act normal, but even in my state, I could see straight
through it. My sister was fine, and she told everyone that I looked 100% better
compared to when they first saw me. This was a good look compared to earlier.
This gave them all some comfort, as they seemed to relax a little bit. We
spoke, me on the chair, sweating like hell and them on chairs, or leaning on
the walls. I cracked a poo bag joke, and they all laughed, they knew I was ok
as much as I could be.
I don’t know what triggered it, but I was overcome with
emotion, my throat dried up, and my eyes glazed over. I completely broke down.
I couldn’t stop it, it was uncontrollable. Floods of tears, I couldn’t speak
though, it was like it had been building up and I just needed to release it. I
am sure I wailed a few times. They obviously tried to tell me it was ok, but I
wasn’t crying through being upset. I was happy. I tried to tell them they were
happy tears, but I don’t whether I conveyed that message. I was happy that
people had been to see me, that they cared to take time out to come to see me.
I said I didn’t realise how much people cared. I think this is what triggered
everyone, as we all cried I think. I don’t think that there was a dry eye in
the room. I think that I had realised what had actually happened, and how lucky
I was. I was alive, when in theory I should be dead. It was a huge explosion of
emotions and feelings all dying to get out. In that little spat of emotions I
had, I had never before felt that exposed and vulnerable. These people here saw
a raw version of me, uncensored and pure emotion. That was a very very hard day
for me, one of the hardest, but ultimately it set me up to get better. They
left, as I was falling asleep, it was a tiring day getting into a chair. Some
nurses came in, and helped me into bed. And I slept. For about 15 hours.
The next day I wanted to try and walk, I was told under no
circumstances would I be doing that. By 12pm I walked a flight of stairs, ok I
had help and my bare arse was out, but I didn’t care. I felt like I was
escaping prison. I gingerly leant on the drip stand I had wheeling around with
me, but I did it. I felt fucking immense. I felt powerful. Unbeatable, then I
was knackered again, so back to my room it was. My stoma nurse was waiting for
me; they are relentless these folk are. She had a trainee nurse with her and
asked me if I was ok with having someone present when I change my bag. I wasn’t
bothered one bit. She told me that they would leave for a few minutes so I
could prepare myself. I wasn’t sure what they meant, so I took my robe off and
stood there. Imagine, naked lad, poo bag, catheter hanging out my dick, and 2
bags of puss held in my right hand. I didn’t need to get naked, but I thought
that they were leaving so I could de-robe. The stoma nurse and I laughed, the
trainee nurse didn’t know what to do, and she looked a bit thrown off. ‘Hey, it’s
better than seeing me butt naked in Revs isn’t it?’ She laughed at that and she
felt at ease. I changed my bag, right first time like an absolute boss. The
stoma nurse needed to go and get some supplies so she went and put her file on
my bed. I had a quick glance at it, and it was on an evaluation page. I saw a
header that said ‘Patients Mental State’. Her hand written response said ‘Surprisingly
optimistic, zero concerns’. That felt epic.
My mum and sister had brought me loads of supplies, I had
some trainers ready for my treks I was going to take around the hospital, and
they had brought some t-shirts and shorts for me to wear when I could get out
of the gown. I wanted to go for a walk later that day, so I decided I was going
too. I didn’t tell anyone, I got my trainers on, got the piss bag and puss bags
secured, and went for a wander. Just down the hall and back, but I did it. It
knackered me but I did it. I decided that after each meal from this point on, I
would go for a walk. Try and get some normality. Not long after I got back from
this first expedition, the nurses came into my room, and asked me how I felt
about being transferred to a ward. I was ok with this, as long as I could help
move the stuff. They would let me!
I moved to a ward literally 10 feet away from the room I was
in, I was in the corner right by the entrance door, I was happy with this as It
meant I had a bit more privacy. It also meant I could perve on the hot nurses
as I could see straight out into the corridor. I had plenty more visits from my
friends, Chloe came and saw me again, and she came with Lorna who bought me
some lovely flowers. Unfortunately flowers aren’t allowed in that ward, so she
couldn’t bring them in, but they looked nice. The ward was my home for a few
days, and at times it was hard. Every hour or so I was being checked upon as my
doses of medicines were increased in the drip. The infection needed to be gone
so they upped the meds. This made me a bit weaker, but it was for the best. I
had regular injections in my stomach which were horrific, as well as countless
blood tests. I literally cannot remember the number of needles I had poked into
me, but it was all for the cause.
On one of my walks, I saw a familiar face, it was Lars. He
was shocked that I was up and walking around, I told him that I needed
normality, and he told me he believed it was also a miracle. I knew I had been
lucky, but when people kept reminding me on, it caused a tidal wave of
emotions. I made a Facebook post about
it, and being honest I down played the severity of it. People were asking my
friends what had happened, so I decided to tell people myself, rather than
people hear dribs and drabs. It was one of the hardest things I wrote, and once
I posted it, I felt extremely relieved. The outpouring of support was gigantic,
it helped me hugely, and I thank everyone for it.
The Thursday soon arrived, and I got moved again. They moved
me to another ward just about 10 foot away, but it was a less dependent ward.
The guys in there told me it was where you went before you were going home.
Home? Like home home? We exchanged stories, and when I told them what I was in
for, they didn’t believe me. I had to get a nurse to tell them, as they were in
shock about it. Some of the guys in there had horrible horrible ailments, bowel
cancers, stomach cancers, it was just so upsetting. At times, I would catch
them just staring into space, you could see in their eyes that they were deep
in thought, contemplating what they were going to do. I have never seen people
be surrounding by others, yet look so lost and alone. It was hard to witness.
On the Friday, Mrs Hall came around with some other Dr’s;
she introduced me as the miracle patient. She went through all of my
observation reports, the bloods were good, and the infection was dead. She
looked at my puss bags, and demanded they be gone, so 2 nurses came in and
literally pulled them out. I had 2 foot of plastic tubing inside me, and as it
was being pulled out, I was sick. It caught me off guard; it felt weird,
feeling these tubes moving around inside me. She then saw my catheter. That was
ordered out as well. Now, let me explain. Having a catheter removed, is
horrible. It’s embarrassing, painful, but worse of all, it pulls on your dick.
Like literally pulls. It looked like an extendable telescope being pulled out.
And once it was out, I pissed everywhere. I had no bladder control; it had been
emptied by gravity for the previous 5 days! That was embarrassing. Did I
mention that they were all still there when this was being done? So if any of
your pals have told you about a guy having a catheter pulled out in front of
about 6 dr’s and pissing everywhere, this was me.
I had to then go to the loo to do my wees, but it needed to
go into a measuring jar to make sure I was pissing enough. The first time I
forgot to do this, and a nurse went mental. She wanted to know how much I
wee’d, was it a little amount or a big amount? I told her that I was peeing for
about 2 minutes non-stop. ‘My bladder is fine!’ I told her. About 30 minutes
later, I gave her a present. A 750ml present in a cardboard jar. I think she
then knew my bladder was ok.
My care was passed over to another team now; they arrange
the end of the stay, so I was thinking that I would be out in say the next 4-5
days. A new Dr came around, she read all of my observations, and put a file on
my bed. I picked it up, and she told me not too. I wanted to read it though, so
she said I could. I found some pictures. They were pictures of me in surgery.
The camera was positioned right above my tummy, and it was held open with big
metal claws. I could see all my insides. The intestines were rested on a tray, and a pair of hands were cleaning
them. They were a fresh red colour; they looked healthy when they were cleaned.
She pointed out various bits and bobs of my body, it was fascinating. Grim, but
still fascinating. It is quite strange to know that someone has held my organs.
She looked at my files a bit more, and noticed it was my
birthday on the 27th. She looked at me, then back at the file, then
back at me. She asked me how I felt about spending my 30th in
hospital. I told her it was better than spending it in a grave. She smiled at
me, and told me I could go home tomorrow.
WHAT!!!!!
I was ecstatic, I could go home?! I was going to be ok. In
the 36 hours prior, my body had jumped into gear, and it was fighting hard. My
bloods were perfect, the infection was gone, and I was moving around. I could
go home. I was shocked, but over the moon. She told me that I would need to self-inject
for a month at home, but provided I could do it, I was free. I text my mum ‘hi
mum, can you pick me up tomorrow and take me home?’ She obviously thought I was
joking, but I wasn’t. News spread, I was going home. Home. Finally.
My sister blitzed my room, she got rid of the sweat smell,
and she blitzed my bathroom ready for when I got back. The day I left was
emotional, I felt guilty. There were these older people who were in here, they
had been for weeks, and here was me. I come in, nearly die, they whip me open
chop me up, staple me back together, I say thanks and then go home. All in 6
days. I felt guilty that I could go, why was I any different from anyone else.
It wasn’t that I was getting better treatment, just I was 40 years younger than
everyone else, and age was on my side. But still, seeing their eyes look at me
as I left was horrible. They weren’t nasty eyes; they were full of hope and
sadness at the same time. You could tell they wanted to go, they wanted the
normality and independence I had gained, however their age was against them.
Walking out of that ward was heart-breaking, but amazing at the same time. I
told myself that I have to look after number 1, so I walked out, said my
goodbyes and thanks to the staff, and walked to my mum’s car. I carried my
bags, I wanted to do this. I got in my mums car, she had a Yankee candle air
freshener hanging. I cried.
I got home, my mum and sister made a fuss of me for a bit
obviously, and then I asked to be left alone for the night. I needed to gather
my thoughts. I needed some me time. They agreed, and they left. I spent 2 hours
sat on the settee and I didn’t move. I left the TV off. I put my phone down and
I just sat. I thought about a lot of things. I could see the carpet where I had
lay the week before screaming out in pain. I think I could actually still hear
the screams at that moment. I could smell the disinfectant smell from the
cleaning stuff my sister had used. I looked around the room at my things. My TV, my DVDs, my PlayStation. They were
just objects. What would happen to these if I died? I looked at things, and
asked myself ‘what would have happened to that’. Who would have had my toolbox?
Who would get my TV? I haven’t got a will, how would they have sorted this? I
knew I was going to dark place. I stood up (slowly) and walked to the hallway.
I stood in the same place I had laid when the ambulance was here. I felt the
bannister that I clinged onto when I was being given gas and air. I closed my
eyes, and I could see myself laying there. I could picture what I looked like
based on what I heard the paramedic and my sister saying. I walked upstairs,
again slowly; it took me about 3 minutes to start off with. I went into my
room, and sat on my bed, picked up a pillow and put it on my face. I screamed
for as long as I could, and as loud as I could. I told myself that I don’t
deserve to be here, I didn’t know why, but I felt like it had been my time, and
I cheated my way out of it. I went through something so serious, and I felt
like I had shown it disrespect by being out in 6 days. I felt like my time had
been called, and I had avoided it. So I started to think that if I had avoided
my time being called, does that mean someone else’s time had been brought
forward? I thought things in my room at that time, which I can’t write. I can’t
justify the thoughts I had, or the actions I thought about doing. I was in a
very dark place, a very dark place. I have never told anybody about this, until
now, but my sister saved my life. As I sat on my bed, an absolute wreck, racked
with guilt and multiple other feelings, my phone made the noise for a message. It
was my sister. I still have it saved.
‘Scott, we all love you so much. We are so happy you are
home, you are so strong it is amazing. You have been through so much, and we
are all so very proud of you. We all love you so so much x x x x ‘.
I wiped my tears away, and stood up. Just like that I was
out of my dark place, and I would never return to it again.
One of the things I didn’t like was injecting myself daily
with delta parmin fragmin. It stops the blood from forming clots, as it is
quite common following on from surgery. I am a pussy, the needle was tiny, but Jesus
I hated it. I ended up using a Red Bull can I had in the fridge to numb the
area, jab it in and job done. It never got easier, and I looked like a crack
head taking my sharps box to the Dr’s to dispose of it. I was taking around 32
pills a day for pain management, and I had a routine. It was get up, shower (this
took time) go downstairs, and sit down. I ate little amounts of chicken, but
routinely throughout the day. Then I would busy myself with TV, I became
obsessed with Animal Planet and documentaries. I was sleeping for about 14
hours a night for the first month. My body needed a rest.
I work on a night pattern with some exceptional people. They
know who they are, and they know what they did. Their support during the
ordeal, after it, and even to this day has been unwavering. When it all kicked
off, they had just started the working night’s week. We had planned that I was
having a bbq for my 30th but obviously this happened. But, I got out
early on the Saturday, and I messaged the WhatsApp group we have and said ‘BBQ
on Tuesday?’ Sharon replied with, ‘yeh we will all come the hospital.’ I told
them I was going home, so we were on for Tuesday.
I had wanted to spend my 30th surrounded with the
people I love, and this was a bit of a spanner in the works, but we did it. I
got a bbq the lads assembled it, and everyone waited on me hand and foot. Every
time I moved, they wanted to know where I was going, what I wanted. They would
get it for me. I spent the day sat down, with all my friends around me,
laughing and joking. They bought me presents for my birthday and for being a
boss and not dying. They got me a Katy Perry pillow, which I still have, a Katy
Perry cardboard figure, which I still have, and a poster which I still have.
They also got me candles, moisturisers and other little bits and bobs. I loved
that day, it was probably the best birthday I have ever had, as weird as that
may be. I wanted to cry all the time, because I was so happy, I struggled to
maintain my composure, and a couple of times, tears popped out. I felt elation,
joy, happiness. Seeing their smiles made me feel amazing, everyone was happy,
we were having fun. I couldn’t taste food; it was just mush to me as the
morphine had temporarily killed my sense of taste and smell. But I was with my
friends, eating burgers, and enjoying the company of people who truly care for
me. I rarely moved that day, it hurt to move. I was absolutely shattered; I
could have fallen asleep on countless occasions. But I needed this day, it gave
me some sense of normality, it was the best birthday ever. I went to bed that
night with a massive smile on my face.
I had a lot of follow up appointments for 4 weeks after, I
was going to the Dr’s every other day to have the dressing changed on my bad
ass cut on my chest. Then it was time to remove the metal staples. They had
fused into my skin, and were covered by scabs and skin growing over them. This
was going to cause me a bit of pain.
Ok, I lied. It was torture. It felt like I was being cut
open again, but this time I could feel it. I screamed in the Dr’s, literally
screamed. So loud, that the reception heard it, and came in to check what was
going on. I couldn’t hack it, and I told her that I couldn’t take it; I was
going to pass out. We rescheduled for later in the week. I bought some
bepanthem nappy rash cream, as I remembered it helped my tattoos heal real good.
The day I went to have the 2nd attempt I emptied a full tube onto
the staples. I went the Dr’s, wiped the bepanthem away, and she took the
staples out. 48 staples out in less than 3 minutes. Amazing stuff, it melted
the scabs so the staples fell out. The follow on appointments were for the dressing,
and to pack the wound when it opened up a few times. It was quite weird seeing
the inside of my stomach.
I ended up going back to work about 7 weeks after I went in
hospital, I needed to go back, sick pay doesn’t pay the bills. Work were, and
still are exceptional to my ailment as such, they know that sometimes I have to
dart off with no notice to the loo, to sort things out.
So, what is life like with a colostomy bag? Well, for me it
has been amazing. Every day I look down at the bag and smile. This little
contraption means I am alive, and even though sometimes we have bad days,
ultimately I never forget that I am alive. It has become a part of me now; I would
feel weird without him. Poois came into my life unexpectedly, but now he is
part of me. There have been times when it has had a slight leak, but three
times tops in a year is pretty good. I can still do what I always did, apart
from squats which is a bitter point, but again the bigger picture always
prevails. I can still sleep how I want, and at times I forget he is there. It really
is no burden to me at all. I have a feeling I will have it for life as the
infection was bad, and they have pre-warned me to prepare to have it for life.
Ok, I am prepared.
It is a huge source of hilarity as well, I can’t control
when it does what it does, if he wants to poo, he does. If he wants to let a
massive fart, he does. And he chooses his moments amazingly. The farts can be
loud, and as it goes into a bag, it echoes, so the farts are proper loud. It is
hilarious. He farts at work, he farts at the cinema. He doesn’t care, he is
Poois Vuitton and he does what he wants. There are also huge benefits. Toilet
roll-not needed. I can eat a dodgy curry, and not need to run to the loo. I can
poo sitting down at my desk at work. I can poo in my car. The hours of poo time
on a toilet I have saved has allowed me to enjoy other activities more. If I swallow
a jelly bean whole, it comes out the bag intact, the colour is gone, but it
looks like a jelly bean. He also looks ok now, it’s a hole about an inch in
diameter, and you can see part of my bowel. It’s not scary. People were afraid
to ask questions at first, I welcome them. It is normal to want to know how it
works, and how I change it. It is simple. I have a hole in the left hand side
of my body. I cut a hole in the sticky side of the bag, peel of the backing
paper, and stick it over the hole. When he poos, it goes into the bag. I change
it by spraying a spray onto the glue, which dissolves the glue, and bag peels
off. Clean it up, and fit new bag. Job done.
I have caught some people staring at it, but I don’t blame
them, it is human nature to query things we don’t always see. I have only had 2
bad things said about it by mean nasty women, but they got fucked off pretty
quick. Ha-ha!
I was down Asda once, and a little boy was holding his mums
hand, and he saw my bag. He looked at it, and then looked at his mum. She saw
me, and she saw him staring. Her face was so apologetic, so I walked over to
him and leant over to him. He pointed and asked what it was. I told him that I didn’t
eat my vegetables when I was younger, so I now have this special bag fitted. He
looked up at his mum, and said ‘mummy can we get some vegetables’. She looked
at me, and mouthed ‘thank you’. I was once paying for a bottle of water in the
co-op and Poois decided it was the best time to let out a ripper as I was
entering my pin number. I looked at the young lad serving me, he couldn’t have been
older than 22, and I said I was sorry and I showed him my bag. He lifted his shirt
to reveal an ileostomy bag. That choked me up.
My life has improved since the events of May 2014; I have a
stronger respect for life. I did before anyway, but this cemented how I already
felt. I have a very very laid back outlook, some may say too much, but it is
how I am. I haven’t grown up properly; I’m single, 31 and live in a rented
flat. I don’t do the normal grown up things. People younger than me have
mortgages and babies. I don’t. But I don’t overly care. I have learnt to accept
things for what they are. A lot of people dislike me; I am too brash and crude
for some people. I speak my mind too much, but it is how I am. Why live a life
conforming, when you can live your life actually living? I do what I want, when
I want. I have learnt once again that life is too short. When you wake in the
morning, you have 2 choices. Be in a good mood, or be in a bad mood. I choose
the former every day. I try to always smile; I try to see my friends as much as
I can. I take the piss out of myself. You cannot offend me about my bag, because
I take the piss the most. I chat with people online who have just had colostomy
bags and I give them advice on what I did and how to cope. I have a lad from Los
Angeles emailing me about his progress. I have an elderly woman in Leeds whose granddaughter
Facebook messages me thanking me just for talking to her Nan. I have over 1900
likes on Facebook of a picture of my bag cover. I have tweets from people who
have Chrons, and Instagram followers from Colostomy bag support groups. I raised
£675 by shaving my beard off that I started to grow in hospital. All this came
about due to my colon popping one day. It may have been daunting at the time,
but looking back, it has changed me for the better, and I truly believe I am
better person for everything that has happened. I am proud to wear my bag, he
is my Poois Vuitton. Oh, and sex isn’t an issue, because I know that someone
must be wondering. If I could give anybody some advice about the last 12
months, I wouldn’t actually focus on the bag, but more about what the bag has
made me realise. We are here for the one time only. There is no second chances
in this game, so take every opportunity by the balls, if you want something, or
someone go and get it, or at least make a concerted effort to get it. Failing is
better than not trying. You have one life, so live it.
Oh yeah, shit happens!
Peace.
