Happy feet

My legs are bending and clacking straight again like a builders tape measure. Bend, straighten, bend, straighten, bend, straighten. This is me dancing. Well, the lower half anyway. The upper half is doing its own thing entirely. My arms are bent at the elbow. I know this much. But past the elbow it’s anyone’s guess. Some sort of twirling might be occurring. It’s hard to say. Perhaps windmilling is a better description. So, to recap – legs: bend, straighten, bend, straighten, bend, straighten. Arms from the elbow down: twirl, windmill, twirl, windmill. Sounds about right. I’m fairly certain if I ever danced like this in a club a 24hr vet would be called out and I would be shot with a sedative dart. Fortunately I’m in the privacy of my spare room. Blinds closed. As are my eyes. Clinging for dear life to my wildly bucking head is a pair of headphones, through which blasts Eye of the Tiger by Survivor. Perhaps better known as the theme song from Rocky. 3 minutes 53 seconds of pure testosterone-pumped cheddar. And I’m doing the full Travolta to it in my back bedroom. Legs: bend, straighten, bend, straighten, bend, straighten. Arms from the elbow down: twirl, windmill, twirl, windmill. Oh, for pity’s sake what now. Cripes. I’m triumphantly punching the air with a clenched fist, which is odd because a 37-year-old man rocking out to Survivor on his own isn’t anything to feel particularly triumphant about. I’m too English for this. I do feel ever so silly. But I’m possessed by the steady rhythmic beat of the drums, which sound like the pounding feet of Hannibal’s war elephants on the march. As I pirouette out of a deft little Northern Soul spin I remember Guru Cohen’s words, “Really go for it and dance and celebrate being well again, feel the joy and happiness just like you’re completely better, really get into it and feel those emotions, be grateful for being healthy.” So as my legs bend and straighten and my arms twirl and windmill and punch the air I focus my mind on what it would feel like to be well. I summon up the spirit of Rocky and imagine myself as victor. I try to visualise myself totally fit and free of ulcerative colitis. I try to feel it as if it were true. It’s a huge mental effort, but I start to smile, and for a fleeting moment I do feel something, and it feels good.

Every day after I’ve finish my hypnotherapy session I put my headphones on and dance to Eye of the Tiger. I no longer feel such a berk and I quite enjoy it now. I’m not sure if it’s having any effect on my UC, but my dancing is coming on in leaps and bounds, and I’ve been called back for a second audition for Grease: The Musical.

Back to the future II

I’m still drawn to this time machine idea.

Having lived with ulcerative colitis for a few years now, I’ve got a pretty good understanding of how it impacts on my life.

I suppose it’s called experience.

But just because I have all this ‘experience’ it doesn’t mean I think I know all the answers.

I really, really don’t.

Although there is some stuff I know now that I wish I’d known when I was first diagnosed.

And I suppose that’s called hindsight.

For example, it would have been good to know about Guy Cohen and some of his ideas 4 years ago.

There are lots of things that I would like to have known earlier.

But they were either not available to me or I wasn’t looking hard enough for them.

And I didn’t turn up in a time machine with a handy little UC guidebook from the future either.

So, I’m not sure where I’m going with this.

I’m just really intrigued with the idea, that if I could go back to 2005 what would I say to myself?

Or if I could give myself a notebook full of advice, what would be written on those pages?

Bedtime reading

Foyles sits on the edge of Soho like a bookend. Established in 1903 it is the Harrods of bookshops. In its heyday Christina Foyle held literary lunches on the premises, attended by famous writers of the time. If ever the Oxford English Dictionary were stuck for a definition of ‘intimidating’ then ‘Foyles literary lunch’ would sum it up well for me.

Recently I did something in Foyles I’ve never done before. I went downstairs to the basement floor in search of the self-help section. It’s ironic that you have to go down to find the books that will make you feel up. What immediately struck me about the self-help section is its size. The shelves are floor to ceiling with books written by gurus of every description; businessmen, entrepreneurs, doctors, hypnotists, healers, religious leaders, celebrities, sportspeople, professors, scientists, philosophers, weathergirls (probably); the selection is mind-boggling. In fact someone should write a self-help guide to self-help guides. It would probably sell.

There clearly is money to be made in the self-help business. I’ve read a few articles recently suggesting the current popularity of the genre is largely down to the credit crunch and modern life being a bit stressy and shit. There’s probably some truth in that. A couple of journalists even go as far as to actually blame the banking collapse on self-help books themselves, which they claim are responsible for psyching up city traders and making them feel invincible. At this point it all gets a bit chicken and egg and I need to lie down.

Whilst flicking idly through various books, with bombastic titles such as Want it, See it, Get it! I surreptitiously took a peek at my fellow browsers. They didn’t look desperate, unstable, depressed or haunted, like they were about to throw themselves under a tube train. Nor did they particularly look like pumped up little Gordon Gekkos. They actually appeared an incredibly normal bunch. Although I did note we were all men. Perhaps women solve their problems by talking about them, whereas men prefer to furtively underline key phrases and scribble notes in the margins of self-help books?

There’s a lot of scepticism about the self-help industry. And when you read some of the titles, like Happier Than God and Awaken The Giant Within it’s easy to see why. The style of some of the writing doesn’t help either. A couple of books I picked up read like nothing more than extended penis enlargement ads. But I decided to hold back on my cynicism. After all you don’t dismiss John Steinbeck because he happens to be on the same shelf as Danielle Steel, do you? Like any genre, there must be good self-help books and bad ones. It may be a case of not judging a book by its cover. Or even its chest-beating, testosterone-enhanced title.

On the recommendation of Guy Cohen I bought Paul McKenna’s Control Stress book. I like it, a lot of it makes sense to me and it dovetails nicely with Guy’s therapies. If you feel stress may be an issue for you I think it would be £10.99 well spent. Since my trip to Foyles I’ve started to amass a small library of self-help books and related newspaper articles. (I’ve found quite a few books in charity shops, which perhaps isn’t a good sign.) Some of the stuff I’ve read seems a little fanciful, but on the whole I find them really useful to dip into for a nugget of wisdom or a piece of fresh thinking. A few pages a day seems to help keep me focused and heading in the right direction. For me, self-help books can be a great resource if you open them with an open mind.

Bloody Redgrave

A word of advice to anyone newly diagnosed with ulcerative colitis.

Chances are until recently you’d never heard of ulcerative colitis, and as soon as you got home from the hospital you probably did what most people do and went straight on Google. Maybe that’s how you ended up here?

And amongst the flotsam and jetsam of UC related stuff on the internet you may have read that Olympic legend, Sir Steve Redgrave also has ulcerative colitis. This is true, he does. He’s one of the very few public figures who are happy for the world to know they have a bowel disease. This is to be applauded.

Now, when you come to find yourself explaining to your friends, family and colleagues what exactly UC is, it may be tempting to drop in the fact that Sir Steve Redgrave has it. This is perfectly natural. It somehow helps normalise it for people. In their heads they’ll think “Oh, if Sir Steve Redgrave’s got it, it can’t be contagious because he had to sit in a boat with other people and I’ve seen him shake hands with the Queen.” It helps people contextualise it.

It’s understandable that anyone with any sort of illness would seek out a celebrity with the same condition. I imagine Professor Stephen Hawking often told his friends, “You know that Davros from Dr Who? Well he’s got what I’ve got.”

But if you were thinking of telling people you have the same disease as Sir Steve Redgrave, don’t.

It’s not worth it. And I’ll tell you why. Next time you phone in sick, or cancel a night out, or try to get out of going to Ikea and you use your UC as an excuse, Sir Steve-sodding-Redgrave will be thrown back in your face. Gold medals and all.

You see, somehow Sir Steve managed to go and win gold at five consecutive Olympic Games all whilst having ulcerative colitis. And he wasn’t doing shooting or bowls or some namby-pamby sport, he did it in rowing, one of the most physically demanding events you can do.

Up against that your excuse that you’re too tired to go to Aunt Jean’s birthday party suddenly sounds a bit lame.

So if you want an easy life, mark my words, don’t ever, ever tell anyone that Sir Steve Redgrave has UC.

What I get up to in the shower rooms at work

Take shampoo and conditioner into the shower? Not me, I just take my laptop and headphones and go. In the basement at work there are two small shower rooms and recently I’ve been using them to do my relaxation therapies. The slatted wooden bench that runs along one wall is a little uncomfortable and the smell of Imperial Leather slightly overpowering, but once I’ve locked the door, turned off the light and put my headphones on, I’m perfectly cocooned from the outside world. It’s important to be in a place where I know I won’t be disturbed. The background noise of a colleague repeatedly ramming the paper tray into the photocopier’s innards, whilst swearing like a Tourettic sailor, is not going to help me achieve a state of deep relaxation. It’s hard to imagine myself floating and swaying at the best of times, without being interrupted by phones going off and members of the management team screaming for more soy chai latte. The shower room gives me all the peace and quiet I need. Of course I could just wait until I get home, but it’s becoming clear that to do the therapies properly takes time. You have to commit yourself to it. And with everything else going on in your life, it’s not always easy to find an hour or so to spend flat on your back in a dreamlike state. So now every day at work, usually around lunchtime, I try to sneak off to the shower rooms for half an hour. It’s something I look forward to. A little moment of calm in the middle of the day. Like a coffee break, but instead of loading up on caffeine, I pour relaxing, positive thoughts into my ears. One thing does slightly concern me though. The other day as I was coming out of the shower room with a beatific, post-hypnotic smile on my face, I bumped into one of the girls from the office. She didn’t give me a chance to explain what I was doing in a locked, darkened room with a laptop, because as soon as she spotted it tucked under my arm, she gave me a very queer look and hurried for the stairs. In future, to avoid people jumping to the wrong conclusion, I wonder if I should roll my laptop up inside a towel?

The shower room at work - an ideal place to cleanse the mind.

Magic tips

Sleight of hand depends on the use of psychology, misdirection, and natural choreography in accomplishing a magical effect. Misdirection is perhaps the most important component of the art of sleight of hand. The magician choreographs his actions so that all spectators are likely to look where he or she wants them to. More importantly, they do not look where the performer does not wish them to look.

In the few months since becoming an ostomate I have learnt to hide my colostomy bag by using sleight of hand, much as a magician does. At my disposal I have a bag of tricks that help me disguise the fact I have a bag. Here are a few of them.

“The Back Turn” If I’m in public, somewhere like a café, and I stand to put on my jacket or coat, I’ll simply turn my back on the room, so in the process if my shirt lifts up, no one gets a peek of my bag. Then I can take a moment to straighten everything up down there before I turn round and no one is any the wiser.

“The Left-Handed Carry” I mainly use this one in the office. If I’m walking from A to B anywhere at work I might carry a cup of water or a notepad in my left hand, held roughly in front of the area where my bag is. It is often possible to see the outline of my bag through my clothes, but as far as I’m aware no one has ever been able to see through a Moleskine notepad.

“The Lean Forward” Again, if I’m in a café or bar, I find there’s less likelihood of the poop bag popping out if I lean forward in my chair. So that’s how I tend to sit, hunched over like I’m sat on the loo, ironically.

“The Bag On Bag” During rush hour on the tube you’re crammed in so tight you can usually tell if the person standing on your toes uses Colgate or Crest. No one has their own personal space. So to stop any short-arsed commuters seeing anything they shouldn’t, I position my manbag over my shitebag. It also helps protect it from stray elbows.

“The Larry Grayson” Left hand bent limply at the wrist, held in front of my bag. I very rarely use this one for fear of sending out the wrong signals.

“The Awkward Teenager” By thrusting my left hand deep in my trouser pocket, rolling my shoulder forward and my elbow inwards towards my body it covers up my bag, but it also makes me look like a 37-year-old trying to look like a 17-year-old. Which is never a good look, is it Bobby?