I give my address, date of birth, next of kin, nationality, occupation, and with a big cheesy gnash, confirm that yes, I do have all my own teeth. I know the drill and as the nurse goes through the admissions form I try to keep the smartarse answers to a minimum. She’s heard them all before. The nurse asks me if I have a hearing aid and it takes every ounce of self-control to refrain from saying, “Pardon?” Mentally I pat myself on the back and wonder if she’s aware of the pure comedy gold I’m holding back solely for her benefit. A young male nurse who remembers me from before comes over to shake my hand. Others nod friendly hellos as they pass by. It’s all very chummy in a slightly back to school kind of way. And judging by the winks and smiles coming my way I am no longer the new boy. Nope, I’m one of the old faces now, one of the lads, one of the Crazy Chestnut Ward Gang. The nurse finishes inserting an IV drip into the back of my left hand and leaves me to unpack my stuff. My stuff consists of 1 towel, 5 pairs of boxer shorts, 3 pairs of big socks, 1 pair of pyjama bottoms, 4 t-shirts, a warm cardigan, a wash bag containing toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, shower gel, hair wax, roll-on deodorant and a disposable razor. Most importantly amongst my belongings are my MacBook, headphones, mobile phone and charger, the complete Blackadder DVD boxset, Graham Greene’s Brighton Rock, Ten Story Love Song by Richard Milward and a biography of my second favourite British writer, Alan Sillitoe. I also have my diary, a Moleskine notebook and two Edding 55 fineline pens. All packed with the intention of keeping boredom at arm’s length for the duration of my stay. Worryingly by the time I’ve stowed them away in my bedside cabinet I am thoroughly bored. I fiddle with the sliding latch on one of the cabinet doors for a bit. Another 23 seconds positively fly by in a blur.
It’s late Friday afternoon and my surgeon is sitting at the end of my bed. Tall, dark with Mediterranean good looks, he looks like a leading man on an Iraqi version of Crossroads. “If it came to surgery how do you feel about that?” he asks. “I’d rather avoid it if I can,” I reply, trying to form a sentence that suggests I’ve actually given the matter some serious thought. I haven’t, of course, because I’m still clinging to the belief that surgery is what happens to other people, not me. “But I have heard that the operation can be quite successful and that would be the end of my UC for good?” I add. “And do you know what the operation involves?” Unspeakably brutal pain akin to medieval torture comes immediately to mind. Deep breath, “You remove part of the bowel and I’m fitted with a bag, then a few months later you reverse things and I won’t need the bag anymore?” Get me, Mr Amateur Surgeon. “That’s right,” says the only professional surgeon amongst us, “we remove part of the large colon and fit you with a colostomy bag, which most patients find makes them feel much better almost straight away. Some people even get on with the bag so well they decide to keep it and not have a pouch fitted.” What some people? He must mean the crazies. Surely sticking with the bag is like sticking on 13 in a game of Pontoon? Why would anyone in their right mind want to keep the bag? We’re not talking Louis Vuitton here, let’s not beat about the bush, this is a bag of shit on the outside – which is so obviously not the correct side – of your body. “But after a few months I could have the bag removed, right?” I insist, just to make sure he’s in no doubt as to which camp I’m in. Best plant that thought into his head early on. Set my stall out from the off, I reason. Don’t want him thinking I’m one of those bag-carrying freaks. I ask how much time I can expect to be off work and the surgeon explains how I would maybe need 4 to 5 weeks to recover post-op. Then I would have the bag for a few months until I’m strong enough to have the second operation. Start to finish he reckons I’d be looking at about a year. 2009 is suddenly shaping up to be a memorable one. Which makes me faintly nostalgic for 1993, a year in which literally nothing interesting happened to me at all. Seriously, nothing.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Whipped into Whipps Cross
“Well, we’re going to have to bring you in again, mate,” says my gastro consultant gently. “You’re not responding to a really quite hefty dose of drugs, so we should get you back on the intravenous.” It’s Friday 20th February and I’m in outpatients at Whipps Cross University Hospital for my 10.25am appointment. As my doctor taps an extension number into his desk phone, he casually enquires over the rim of his designer glasses whether anyone has ever talked to me about the possibility of surgery. “I think it’s maybe time we got the surgical team to see you,” he says before directing his attention to the person on the other end of the line, leaving the word ‘surgery’ searing into my brain. Surgery has been mentioned before, but for some reason it never really felt like it directly applied to me. Surgery is something that happens to other people. Surgery is for people who have had ulcerative colitis all their life. It’s the final throw of the dice. The last resort. And in UC terms I still consider myself a rookie. Surely it’s too soon for the last resort? With a sympathetic smile the doctor says, “So if you go home and get your stuff and then make your way to Chestnut Ward for early afternoon. The surgical team will be expecting you.” Christ on a bike, I’m being fast-tracked.
A quick bus ride later and I’m ambling home with a comforting Greggs Steak Bake clutched in my hand. I pack my bag and call a minicab.
Gospel music blares loudly from the minicab stereo promising to deliver me into the arms of angels in the Glorious Kingdom of Our Lord. Bit of an over claim I think to myself as the taxi drops me off at the extremely terrestrial and un-holy looking main entrance of Whipps Cross University Hospital. As I suspected there are no angels to greet me either. I make my way inside through the automatic doors, which cause me to briefly wonder whether high above in the Glorious Kingdom of Our Lord, has Saint Peter’s Gate succumbed to progress and gone automatic yet or is it still the old fashioned manual type? I imagine something mock antique kitted out with all the latest electronic security gizmos. The kind of gates you’d find outside one of the Beckham’s homes, probably. If the purpose of gospel music is to make the listener reflect on all things heavenly, it’s worked a treat on me. Halle-bloody-lujah.
Once inside the hospital direction signs come at you from every direction. It gives you the impression that any location in the world can be reached from this point; A&E, X-Ray, Cardiology, Outpatients, Clapham Junction, Wigan Pier, The Moulin Rouge, The Hanging Gardens of Babylon. I ignore the direction signs because I know exactly where I’m going; Chestnut Ward, Junction 3, straight up the stairs. This is to be my second stay here in under a month. Chestnut Ward is a large old-fashioned ward, which holds 20 beds, 9 along the right and 11 down the left. The beds on the right are colour coded red, and on the left, blue. I report to the nurse at the front desk, who doesn’t seem at all convinced I am what I say I am, a patient. This happens quite a lot because unlike most patients in Chestnut Ward I don’t actually look like I’m in any danger of croaking it before crumble and custard is served at dinner. I am pretty certain I’m the only one on the ward in possession of my own teeth. The nurse points me in the direction of bed number 4 (colour coded red) still eying me suspiciously. As I make my way to my bed I consider trailing my leg and hunching my back for full invalid effect, but instead I stride manfully across the ward with my bag slung across my shoulder like a stout-hearted sailor on shore leave. I feel like a fraud. I take a moment to scan the ward for familiar faces. Only a poor Indian guy appears to remain from my time before. I throw my stuff on the bed and take a seat in my bedside chair. Here we go again.
A quick bus ride later and I’m ambling home with a comforting Greggs Steak Bake clutched in my hand. I pack my bag and call a minicab.
Gospel music blares loudly from the minicab stereo promising to deliver me into the arms of angels in the Glorious Kingdom of Our Lord. Bit of an over claim I think to myself as the taxi drops me off at the extremely terrestrial and un-holy looking main entrance of Whipps Cross University Hospital. As I suspected there are no angels to greet me either. I make my way inside through the automatic doors, which cause me to briefly wonder whether high above in the Glorious Kingdom of Our Lord, has Saint Peter’s Gate succumbed to progress and gone automatic yet or is it still the old fashioned manual type? I imagine something mock antique kitted out with all the latest electronic security gizmos. The kind of gates you’d find outside one of the Beckham’s homes, probably. If the purpose of gospel music is to make the listener reflect on all things heavenly, it’s worked a treat on me. Halle-bloody-lujah.
Once inside the hospital direction signs come at you from every direction. It gives you the impression that any location in the world can be reached from this point; A&E, X-Ray, Cardiology, Outpatients, Clapham Junction, Wigan Pier, The Moulin Rouge, The Hanging Gardens of Babylon. I ignore the direction signs because I know exactly where I’m going; Chestnut Ward, Junction 3, straight up the stairs. This is to be my second stay here in under a month. Chestnut Ward is a large old-fashioned ward, which holds 20 beds, 9 along the right and 11 down the left. The beds on the right are colour coded red, and on the left, blue. I report to the nurse at the front desk, who doesn’t seem at all convinced I am what I say I am, a patient. This happens quite a lot because unlike most patients in Chestnut Ward I don’t actually look like I’m in any danger of croaking it before crumble and custard is served at dinner. I am pretty certain I’m the only one on the ward in possession of my own teeth. The nurse points me in the direction of bed number 4 (colour coded red) still eying me suspiciously. As I make my way to my bed I consider trailing my leg and hunching my back for full invalid effect, but instead I stride manfully across the ward with my bag slung across my shoulder like a stout-hearted sailor on shore leave. I feel like a fraud. I take a moment to scan the ward for familiar faces. Only a poor Indian guy appears to remain from my time before. I throw my stuff on the bed and take a seat in my bedside chair. Here we go again.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Only me
On Monday 26th January I was admitted to hospital in an attempt to bring my grumbling ulcerative colitis under control.
It had some success and after six days I was allowed home.
Unfortunately once off the intravenous steroids things soon deteriorated.
I was going to the toilet ten plus times a day, three or four times during the night. It was exhausting and kept me under virtual house arrest. I’ve not been able to work so far this year.
So on Friday 20th February I was admitted to hospital for a second time.
This time the intravenous steroids had even less effect.
It soon became apparent surgery was very much on the cards. It was increasingly looking like the only option.
And on Friday 27th February that’s exactly what happened.
I went to theatre for an ileostomy.
Some time later, many, many wibbly-wobbly, woozy hours later I awoke to be told I’d had a colostomy instead.
Now I am learning to live with a stoma or colostomy bag or poo holster or whatever you want to call it.
I came home on Saturday 7th March.
Keeping this blog throughout my previous flare-ups really helped me keep sane, so I’m going start writing again. There’s a lot to talk about, and no doubt there’ll be a few ups and downs.
But hopefully it will prove to be the final chapter of my UC story.
If you’re new to Number Twos, welcome, and if you’re an old reader, glad to have you back.
It had some success and after six days I was allowed home.
Unfortunately once off the intravenous steroids things soon deteriorated.
I was going to the toilet ten plus times a day, three or four times during the night. It was exhausting and kept me under virtual house arrest. I’ve not been able to work so far this year.
So on Friday 20th February I was admitted to hospital for a second time.
This time the intravenous steroids had even less effect.
It soon became apparent surgery was very much on the cards. It was increasingly looking like the only option.
And on Friday 27th February that’s exactly what happened.
I went to theatre for an ileostomy.
Some time later, many, many wibbly-wobbly, woozy hours later I awoke to be told I’d had a colostomy instead.
Now I am learning to live with a stoma or colostomy bag or poo holster or whatever you want to call it.
I came home on Saturday 7th March.
Keeping this blog throughout my previous flare-ups really helped me keep sane, so I’m going start writing again. There’s a lot to talk about, and no doubt there’ll be a few ups and downs.
But hopefully it will prove to be the final chapter of my UC story.
If you’re new to Number Twos, welcome, and if you’re an old reader, glad to have you back.
Friday, January 16, 2009
New blog, kind of
Hello.
Like a ghost town round here, isn't it?
Well, I'm in a flare up again.
So I'm sort of covering it in a new blog.
It's here, if you want to take a peek.
Like a ghost town round here, isn't it?
Well, I'm in a flare up again.
So I'm sort of covering it in a new blog.
It's here, if you want to take a peek.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
365 days
On Saturday Number Twos will be 1 year old.
This, then, will be the 184th post, and also the last.
I’ve given it a lot of thought and I think it’s time to take my final bow.
I always intended this blog to be an honest account of the ups and downs of my life with ulcerative colitis.
But as my UC has settled, there are fewer ups and downs.
It’s all become rather middling.
Which is great from a health perspective, but it doesn’t necessarily make for very interesting reading.
Basically I’ve run out of material. And the last thing I want to do is start repeating myself.
So, Number Twos will be no more.
I’ve had a good run. It’s been fun. I’ve written something like 49,000 words, mostly on the subject of poo.
Which is a shitload of words when you think about it.
There have been 51 WDOATs. Thankfully I stopped squirming with embarrassment after the first few.
And finally, I never dreamt that you lot out there would join in with your comments, suggestions and kind words.
You made writing this blog all the more enjoable. I’d like to thank you all for reading.
I don’t want to prattle on.
My blogging days may not be over though. I have a germ of an idea. And it’s UC related. I’m not sure where it’s going to go yet. But that’s how Number Twos started…
If anything comes of it I’ll post the details here. Let’s call it Number Twos: Chapter Two.
Until then, go in peace. And less often.
Martin
This, then, will be the 184th post, and also the last.
I’ve given it a lot of thought and I think it’s time to take my final bow.
I always intended this blog to be an honest account of the ups and downs of my life with ulcerative colitis.
But as my UC has settled, there are fewer ups and downs.
It’s all become rather middling.
Which is great from a health perspective, but it doesn’t necessarily make for very interesting reading.
Basically I’ve run out of material. And the last thing I want to do is start repeating myself.
So, Number Twos will be no more.
I’ve had a good run. It’s been fun. I’ve written something like 49,000 words, mostly on the subject of poo.
Which is a shitload of words when you think about it.
There have been 51 WDOATs. Thankfully I stopped squirming with embarrassment after the first few.
And finally, I never dreamt that you lot out there would join in with your comments, suggestions and kind words.
You made writing this blog all the more enjoable. I’d like to thank you all for reading.
I don’t want to prattle on.
My blogging days may not be over though. I have a germ of an idea. And it’s UC related. I’m not sure where it’s going to go yet. But that’s how Number Twos started…
If anything comes of it I’ll post the details here. Let’s call it Number Twos: Chapter Two.
Until then, go in peace. And less often.
Martin
Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 5.1
As I wrote yesterday I've been feeling a bit bloated. No idea what's causing it. I haven't drank any Fizzy Lifting Drink. Promise. Seriously, I haven't. Not a drop has passed my lips.
Wednesday 2nd July:
6.10am Constipated feeling, bitty stool
2.50pm Constipated feeling, looser stool
3.30pm Constipated feeling, bitty stool
6.50pm Spluttery
Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
3 x Azathioprine 50mg
1 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg
Comments:
As my mum would say with a weary sigh, if it's not one thing it's another.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Martin and the chocolate factory
"Oh, those are fabulous!" cried Mr. Wonka. "They fill you with bubbles, and the bubbles are full of a special kind of gas, and this gas is so terrifically lifting that it lifts you right off the ground just like a balloon, and up you go until your head hits the ceiling and there you stay."
"But how do you come down again?" asked little Charlie.
"You do a burp, of course," said Mr Wonka. "You do a great big long rude burp, and up comes the gas and down comes you! But don't drink it outdoors! There's no knowing how high up you'll be carried if you do that. I gave some to an old Oompa Loompa once out in the back yard and he went up and up and disappeared out of sight! It was very sad. I never saw him again."
"He should have burped," Charlie said.
"Of course he should have burped," said Mr Wonka. "I stood there shouting 'Burp, you silly ass, burp, or you'll never come down again!' But he didn't or couldn't or wouldn't, I don't know which. Maybe he was too polite. He must be on the moon by now."
Ah, the wonderful Fizzy Lifting Drinks scene from Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Haven’t we all wanted to be Charlie Bucket at some point? The Wonka Factory had such an impact on my young imagination that even now old Victorian factories fascinate me. Even though very few remain, and those that do are dilapidated husks or have been turned into trendy apartments, whenever I catch a fleeting glimpse of one from a train or bus window my mind conjures up images of life behind those gargantuan brick walls; the hustle and bustle; the round-the-clock whir and whiz-clank of the magical machinery bellowing plumes of soot and pungent smoke from the chimneys, out over the Peter Pan London skyline; the smell of jam or tea or hops or vinegar that once soaked the air. And of course the sweet aroma of chocolate. These last couple of days I’ve felt some affinity with one of the characters from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Sadly it isn’t Charlie, or even Grandpa Joe. No, I’ve felt a bit like the old Oompah Loompah who drank the Fizzy Lifting Drink and couldn’t burp. I’ve been extremely bloated this week. I’m writing this now with the top button of my jeans undone. It’s uncomfortable and feels like something is pushing into my bladder or something. I don’t know. My knowledge of human anatomy is based entirely on the game Operation, which doesn’t really help much. All I can say is my tummy feels like a balloon and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I too started to float up, up and away. But instead of burping the only thing that will bring me back to Earth is a massive fart. In an ironic twist, for once I can’t fart. All those thunderous trumps I wish I hadn’t done, and now when I really need to sneak out some gas, when I really need to let one go, I can’t. My wind is trapped. Sealed in. So I have every sympathy for the Oompah Loompah. I fear he may not be alone on the Moon for much longer.
"But how do you come down again?" asked little Charlie.
"You do a burp, of course," said Mr Wonka. "You do a great big long rude burp, and up comes the gas and down comes you! But don't drink it outdoors! There's no knowing how high up you'll be carried if you do that. I gave some to an old Oompa Loompa once out in the back yard and he went up and up and disappeared out of sight! It was very sad. I never saw him again."
"He should have burped," Charlie said.
"Of course he should have burped," said Mr Wonka. "I stood there shouting 'Burp, you silly ass, burp, or you'll never come down again!' But he didn't or couldn't or wouldn't, I don't know which. Maybe he was too polite. He must be on the moon by now."
Ah, the wonderful Fizzy Lifting Drinks scene from Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Haven’t we all wanted to be Charlie Bucket at some point? The Wonka Factory had such an impact on my young imagination that even now old Victorian factories fascinate me. Even though very few remain, and those that do are dilapidated husks or have been turned into trendy apartments, whenever I catch a fleeting glimpse of one from a train or bus window my mind conjures up images of life behind those gargantuan brick walls; the hustle and bustle; the round-the-clock whir and whiz-clank of the magical machinery bellowing plumes of soot and pungent smoke from the chimneys, out over the Peter Pan London skyline; the smell of jam or tea or hops or vinegar that once soaked the air. And of course the sweet aroma of chocolate. These last couple of days I’ve felt some affinity with one of the characters from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Sadly it isn’t Charlie, or even Grandpa Joe. No, I’ve felt a bit like the old Oompah Loompah who drank the Fizzy Lifting Drink and couldn’t burp. I’ve been extremely bloated this week. I’m writing this now with the top button of my jeans undone. It’s uncomfortable and feels like something is pushing into my bladder or something. I don’t know. My knowledge of human anatomy is based entirely on the game Operation, which doesn’t really help much. All I can say is my tummy feels like a balloon and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I too started to float up, up and away. But instead of burping the only thing that will bring me back to Earth is a massive fart. In an ironic twist, for once I can’t fart. All those thunderous trumps I wish I hadn’t done, and now when I really need to sneak out some gas, when I really need to let one go, I can’t. My wind is trapped. Sealed in. So I have every sympathy for the Oompah Loompah. I fear he may not be alone on the Moon for much longer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
