Depression poll

My knowledge of depression is sketchy. It’s an emotive subject. It’s also a very personal one, and like UC, people are often afraid or too embarrassed to talk about it. Dealing with a long term chronic illness isn’t easy and according to doctors serious medical conditions like UC can contribute to depression. So this poll is about how UC affects us mentally. How are we all feeling? The poll is just over there on the right.

Get yer tats out

A shard of sunlight narrowly falls short of my table situated just inside the café door. Outside the unrelenting sun has taken the bustle out of the market. Passers-by stick close to the slither of shade provided by the shop fronts. This is the kind of heat that us Brits usually only ever experience when it hits us smack in the face as we step off the plane on our holidays to the Med. We don’t often get weather like this. And almost never during Wimbledon. A gang of loose-limbed youths drift past, each topless, proudly displaying their tribal markings of acne and West Ham tats and as I follow their slow progress out of sight my mind turns to men’s nipples. At the recent wedding in Munich I had the pleasure of meeting a young lady who works in the marketing department of a company manufacturing breast pumps. Given that most people you meet at social functions nearly always have boring jobs, with breast pump girl I really felt I’d struck gold. Conversationally she was a keeper, so I attached myself to her very much like a breast pump to the breast. I previously had no idea breast pumps were so fascinating or indeed that I was so fascinated in breast pumps. During the course of our conversation I learnt that it is even possible to get milk from my nipples. Apparently tests have been done, and if a man uses a breast pump every day, over the course of a year he will start to produce milk. I don’t know if this is true or she’s cleverly trying to double her potential customer base, you know what these marketing types are like. More shirtless men catch my eye and I find myself staring at the spot on their stomachs where my bag is on mine. I wonder what reaction I would get if I stripped off my shirt? It seems people will tolerate the sight of endless heavily perspiring sunburnt beer bellies with fag ash and crisp crumbs caught up in chest hair and even the fish-skinned bag of bones druggies that litter the lower end of the market, but what about a colostomy bag on show? There’s a time and a place for semi-nudity and I’ve never been one to unnecessarily inflict my pallid torso on the general public. Once on a beach in India, on one of the rare occasions I took my top off, I caused near hysteria amongst the local children who delighted in pointing at me and saying I looked like an ‘egg’. Their observation being my skin was the same colour as eggshells, which apparently in India are white. Ha-bloody-ha. So never having been much of sun worshipper, it would seem perverse to want to start now that I have a danglesack of plop stuck to my belly. But it would be interesting to see how people would respond to a bare-chested man walking down Walthamstow Market with a colostomy bag on display. In my opinion it’s far less offensive than some of the tattoos you see.

Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 6.6

Regular as clockwork, and as boring as a very plain £8.99 wall mounted kitchen clock from Argos, it's WDOAT.

Wednesday 1st July:
6.45am Change bag
1.15pm Change bag


Medication:
Breakfast 6 x mesalazine 400mg
Dinner 4 x azathioprine 50mg
Bedtime 6 x mesalazine 400mg

Comments:
Nothing to report. Seriously, nothing. Zilch.

To the grave

A little while ago, not long after my operation, my girlfriend and I found ourselves perusing the headstones in a local graveyard. We’re not Goths or Satanists or anything like that, but graveyards are a very much like ice cream vans in that you don’t deliberately go out to find them, but if you do see one they somehow draw you in. As we respectfully moved amongst the graves, reading the ones that took our interest, I happened to casually observe that people in the olden days didn’t generally live that long. I’d noticed there were quite a few headstones for people who died in their 40’s and 50’s. I was just leaning in to read the time-worn lettering on the headstone of one Henrietta Lucking, who died in 1845, when my girlfriend said, “Well if you’d lived in those days you’d probably be dead by now too.” Now there’s a cheery thought. Slowly I twist my head and fix my girlfriend with a long hard look. Eventually she realises I’m staring at her, “I’m just saying,” she pleads, “Without your tablets and operation and stuff your UC would probably have killed you.” She said it again! She said it again! I straighten, smarting from all her incessant talk of me dying young, but before I can respond she’s moved on. Now you wouldn’t know it to look at her as she sashays gracefully through the churchyard trailing her fingers in the long grass, but my girlfriend was born with her hips slightly skewiff and spent the first couple of months of her life in some sort of brace to realign them. Remembering this, I mutter under my breath, “Yeah, and if you’d have been alive back then, my dearest, you’d have been a cripple!” “Hmm?” “Oh, I was just saying there was a fella back there called Dibble.” I lie. Following my girlfriend out of the churchyard I concede that she’s probably right. If I’d lived in the 19th century, in a time before asacol, azathioprine, prednisolone, colonoscopies and colostomies, life would have been very different. And significantly shorter.

My body & soul

Every Sunday in The Observer magazine there’s a feature called My Body & Soul. Each week a different celebrity answers a set of questions related to physical and mental health, attitudes to sex, and smoking, cosmetic surgery, drugs, that sort of thing. And one of the regular questions that always interests me is Have you ever spent a night in hospital? I’ve pulled together a few of the answers given by various showbiz types.

Alan Carr, comedian, 33 – once kept a friend company over night
Sanjeev Bhaskar, actor, 44 – once had day surgery
Paul McGann, actor, 49 – once with an injured leg
Tamsin Greig, Actor, 41 – only to give birth
Jon Snow, journalist, 61 – had tonsils out aged 7
Alexander Armstrong, comedian, 39 – tonsils out as a kid
Bobby Charlton, football legend, 71 – for a week after the Munich air crash
Boy George, singer-songwriter, 47 – never
George Galloway, MP, 53 – not since childhood
Jasmine Guinness, model, 31 – only to give birth
Ann Widdecombe, Conservative MP, 60 – appendix aged 16

What always surprises me is how little time some of these people have spent in hospital. Some of them are no spring chickens either. Look at Jon Snow for instance; he hasn’t had a night in hospital for 54 years. Ann Widdecombe, too. She hasn’t so much as creased the sheets of a hospital bed in 44 years. But the one that amazes me is Boy George. He’s a former junkie for pity’s sake. The man has injected half of Afghanistan into his rotten veins. How the hell has he managed to stay out of hospital for 47 years? I totted up a rough estimate of how long I’ve spent in hospital over the years and it’s somewhere between 2 to 3 months. More worryingly UC only accounts for 6 weeks of that time. Laughingly I’ve always considered myself quite a healthy chap as well. But my extensive hospital CV clearly begs to differ. I’m now beginning to realise I’m the exception rather than the norm. When I think about it hardly any of my friends have spent a night in hospital. As sad as it may sound hospitals and doctors surgeries have just become part of my life, like going to the cinema or out for dinner. When I hear people say, “Ooh, I can’t stand the smell of hospitals.” I don’t understand what they mean. If hospitals smell funny I’m so used to it I don’t even notice. Desperately trying to find something positive to take out of my disturbing familiarity with all things NHS, I’m reminded of a text message I received from a work friend one Sunday night a few weeks ago: Dad taken into hospital. Could be serious. Not sure of my movements over the next few days. Might not be in. Quite an alarming message. Apparently my friend’s mum was in pieces. The whole family was on red alert. My mate didn’t even know if he’d make it into work in the coming days. Serious stuff. Now I don’t mean to trivialise things, but they let my friend’s dad out a few hours later. He didn’t even stay in overnight. Panic over. If my friend and his family overreacted slightly I think it’s partly because hospitals are unknown to them, it’s an alien environment. The minute they see tubes and needles they call for the priest. I’m not trying to be tough, or say that I’ve been there, done that and worn the hospital gown, but my eclectic hospital experiences over the years have left me a little more prepared than most and flashing blue lights, operating theatres and doctors sticking their fingers up your backside don’t generally faze me. Aren’t I just the lucky one.

Clear for take off

My flight to Germany last week was my first since the operation, so I was keen to experience travelling with an extra bag, so to speak. As with any trip it all starts with the packing. Now I’m an ostomate I can’t even go to Sainsburys without my colostomy bags and the whole kit and caboodle that goes with it, let alone a foreign country. So a little extra planning was required. Firstly I had to make sure I had more than enough bags to see me through the trip. I took about 50 for 7 days, which looking back may have been a little over-cautious. But better safe than sorry, I say. And because I wouldn’t be able to take my nail scissors with me in hand luggage, I pre-cut plenty of bags in advance. Also just in case my suitcase went missing I took the precaution of taking everything UC/colostomy related in my hand luggage. I can get by without underwear, toothpaste and travel plug, but without my medication and bags, I’d be on the next flight home. For drug mules, shoe bombers and ostomates airport security is perhaps the one part of flying we approach with most trepidation. As a first-timer I didn’t quite know what to expect. Would my hand luggage cause concern going through the x-ray machine? Would I be frisked so hard my bag would burst? Would they lift my top up for the whole airport to see? All I can say is the security staff were very discreet. I was frisked and obviously the security controller discovered my bag, but he took one quick look and then continued the search without even mentioning it. I guess in their job they see all sorts, and compared to say, a prosthetic penis concealing a nail bomb a colostomy bag is pretty run of the mill stuff. During the flight itself I wasn’t sure if cabin pressure would have any effect on my bag. At take off would I have to pop a boiled sweet in it or something? But it seems colostomy bags work just the same at 35,000 feet as they do at 3 feet. All in all travelling with a bag is no different to travelling without one. It perhaps takes a little more preparation, but being an ostomate doesn’t mean you can’t be a traveller, too.

To the happy couple - Imodium and me

Last Saturday I went to a wedding in Munich. Friends of my girlfriend were getting married. I hadn’t met the bride or groom before, and apart from one couple, who also live in London, I didn’t know any of the other guests either. Obviously I wanted to make a good impression. But I had a slight problem. My poo was more like wee. After fasting and taking the pre-colonoscopy laxatives my stools were really loose. In a matter of seconds my bag was going from empty to swinging heavily from my belly like a goldfish bag from the fairground. When I emptied it the contents oozed greasily down the inside of the toilet bowl like volcanic lava flowing down a mountainside. On contact with the water it spread out, creating a mushroom cloud effect under the surface. It was no thicker than Domestos. Technically you’d have to call it poo. You couldn’t fault its colour or smell; both were textbook, but it was just much, much runnier than what you might call your classic shit. Now I find the trouble with liquid shit is it’s more likely to leak. And a wedding is no place for a leaky bag. Not if you’re trying to make a good impression, as I was intent on doing. I had visions of standing to toast the happy couple and looking down to see a ring of poo seeping through my crisp white shirt. Something needed to be done. I was determined not to remembered by my fellow guests for years to come as ‘that nervous looking Englishman who smelt very much like a blocked drain’. That wasn’t going to be me. I wasn’t going to be the blocked drain guy. Smart, witty, charming, erudite, shiny of shoe and firm of handshake, yes; stinking of shit, hopefully not. So I decided to take action and take some Imodium. I’ve never had Imodium before. And I’m pleased to report it works a treat. My bag was as flat as a pancake all day. This meant I could pop it inside my trousers and wear my shirt tucked in, which these days is something of a luxury for me. (Personally I believe anyone over the age of 9 sporting an untucked shirt at a wedding should be frog-marched off the premises and given a severe ticking off, if not a damn good thrashing.) Such was my joy at having a non-filling, non-gurgling bag, all through the meal and the speeches I had to fight the urge to stand up and announce to the room, “Bet none of you can guess what I’ve got under my shirt?” This of course would have meant revealing my ‘secret’ and therefore defeating the purpose of taking the Imodium. So I bit my lip and kept schtum. I wouldn’t take Imodium regularly, but for those occasions where you would prefer to be free of the hassle of changing or emptying your bag, or you’d just like to wear you shirt tucked in for a while, then it’s definitely worth it. Pop a couple of Imodium tablets and you’ll be blocked up and freed up in no time at all.