Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 4.6

A date, some times, a few poo descriptions, drugs and a pithy sign off; it can only mean one thing - WDOAT!

Wednesday 28th May:
6.30am Loose
10.15am Loose

Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
3 x Azathioprine 50mg
3 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg

Comments:
Pith off.

Pub chats: Part II

“Hey, how’s the health these days?” asks a mate of mine. “Yeah alright, the tablets have got it all pretty much under control,” I reply, before adding, “Sometimes I feel a bit older than I actually am, with the aches and tiredness and that.” My friend takes a gulp of Strongbow and says, “Ah well I feel like that and all, mate, that’s what happens to us when we’re pushing forty.” I shrug in a ‘guess so’ kind of way. But his comment jars with me. It niggles me. It worms around in my noggin. It irritates me that my ‘aches and tiredness and that’ – my ‘aches and tiredness and that’ caused by ulcerative colitis – have been casually dismissed as mere symptoms of getting older. Symptoms everyone ‘pushing forty’ experience apparently. I know I shouldn’t let his comment bother me. He didn’t mean to be insensitive; he was just being jokey and flippant. If he had responded by giving me a big hug, whilst kissing the top of my head and softly murmuring ‘there, there, there’ that would have been worse. Jokey and flippant I’m fine with. I guess the main thing is he asked how I was. It’s hard not to feel a bit peeved when someone likens your symptoms to something they’ve had or something their sister’s husband had whilst on holiday in Crete, but I suppose you have to remember they’re only trying to be supportive. I can’t expect everyone in my life to be an authority on UC. I can’t even claim to be one and I’ve been living with it for 3 years. Just acknowledging it and asking how I am is enough. But I’ll tell you what really annoyed me though, what really bugged me, what really got under my skin, and right up my nose, and what I do really resent is my mate saying I’m pushing forty. I’m not chuffing well pushing forty! I’m 36. Only just 36 at that. Insensitive twat.

Pub chats

Big Chris is a lad who drinks in a bar I go in. I forget how we first got talking. It probably started with a nod of recognition and a ‘how’s it going?’ Over time that simple three word greeting would have stretched out and grown into the usual pub conversations us men have; football, music, work, that sort of thing. We would have bought each other a pint or two. At no point did we ever swap numbers or arrange to meet up. If we happened to bump into each other in the bar, we’d have a drink and a blather; football, music, work, naturally. And another evening would pass in an uncomplicated blokey way. Then I got ill and stopped going out. It was a few months before I ventured back to the bar. When I did I was a couple of stone lighter and off the booze. My life may have changed, but life at the bar had trundled on in much the same way. I was pleased about that, and I was also pleased to see Big Chris sitting on his usual stool in his own inimitable way. (You know how small children sit in school assembly with their legs crossed? Well Big Chris somehow manages to sit like that perched on a bar stool, which is a pretty impressive feat given his bulky frame.) Chris asked how I was. Word had reached the bar that I hadn’t been well, and he knew I had some sort of stomach problem. I explained how I had something called ulcerative colitis and gave him a crash course in all its little quirks and complications. It was new conversational territory for us. Football, music and work took a back seat as Chris asked lots of questions and I spilled out all the gory details. After a while Big Chris revealed he was diabetic. Our roles reversed and it was my turn to ask lots of questions. As we talked it became apparent that although we have two very different illnesses, they affect our lives in very similar ways. We both have to be careful what we eat and drink, we’re both reliant on medication; we both have to take things easy and have had to change our lifestyles accordingly. We both know that we can’t always do the things other people take for granted. If we have a bit of a mad night, we know that we might pay for it with more than just a hangover. But to the casual observer we’re just two ordinary blokes in a bar, most probably talking about football. Which I think is how we like it. No one needs to know any different. Now when we see each other and nod and ask ‘how’s it going?’ it has a slightly different, deeper meaning. We can now add UC and diabetes to football, music and work.

Dock and dump

I’ve never wanted an iPod before, but now I’ve seen this I really, really want one. This rather smart iPod docking system-cum-toilet paper dispenser must surely have been invented by someone with an IBD. Who else would bother? So in honour of this piece of technological genius I have compiled a suitable playlist for the smallest room; poop songs, if you like.

Go Now Moody Blues
Here I Go Again Whitesnake
Sit Down James
Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On Jerry Lee Lewis
Ring of Fire Johnny Cash
Don’t Look Down David Bowie
I See Red Split Enz
Blowin’ in the Wind Bob Dylan
Stuck On You Lionel Ritchie
Release Me Elvis Presley

The name of your game

Baker, Miller, Smith, Archer, Carpenter, Sadler, Tanner, Thatcher, Cooper, Shepherd, Farmer, Groom, Fisher, Cook. Many common English surnames are derived from ancient occupations. If your name is Mason you most certainly would have had ancestors who were stonemasons. If you’re called Abbott you can safely assume that at some point in history you had a senior member of the clergy in the family. And if your name happens to be Handcock, well, it might be best not to dwell on it too much. But when you think about all the Cooks and Carpenters going back through time, back through the centuries, some of them would probably have had ulcerative colitis. There must have been a Baker who was always burning his loaves because he had to keep dashing off for a poo. They may not have had a name for ulcerative colitis in olden times, but it would have existed. And it would have been just as disruptive to livelihoods then as it can be now. It would have stopped people from working, possibly with devastating effects. Even with today’s wonder drugs UC can stop you working. Last year I had about 7 weeks off in total. Whilst not exactly devastating, it did put a hefty dent in my earnings. I’m freelance, so if I don’t work I don’t get paid. In short I can’t afford to be ill. Even taking a morning off to go to the hospital costs me money. Now I’m mortgaged up to the eyeballs it’s become more of a concern. I simply have to stay fit and healthy. If I get really sick again there’ll be no sick pay for me. Which is why I’ve squirreled away some money just in case. Not so much for a rainy day, but a shitty day. I suppose when you’ve got an illness that comes and goes like ours you have to be prepared. I can think of loads of things I’d rather spend my emergency UC fund on, but as long as I’m self-employed the best place for it is earning interest in the bank. All very grown up and sensible indeed. Who says UC doesn’t have any upsides? Anyway, going back to surnames, I wonder if people called Crapper had ancestors with ulcerative colitis? Hmmm.

Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 4.5

If WDOAT doesn't satisfy all your diary needs for today, may I suggest you try this.

Wednesday 21st May:
2.20pm Normal
5.15pm Gassy, solid
10pm Gassy, solid

Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
3 x Azathioprine 50mg
3 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg

Comments:
An improvement on last week. You can't ask for much more than that.

Street farting man

Contrary to popular belief the streets of London aren’t paved with gold, they’re paved with people. Lots and lots of people. Crowds of ‘em. Everywhere you turn, people, people, people. Hustling, bustling, nudging, pushing, shunting. Shoppers, shoplifters, loiterers, free newspaper thrusters, clipboard-wielding charity muggers, chain-gangs of Hari Krishnas, clumps of bewildered out-of-towners, Big Issue sellers, traffic wardens, truants, God botherers, slack-jawed shopgirls, media tossers, bike couriers, Armadas of babbling Spanish schoolkids and a whole host of other characters whose sole purpose in life seems to be to stand on your toes and generally get in your way. London is like one giant film set, and 7 million of us have been cast to play the part of ‘man in crowd’. It’s easy to become anonymous in London. You’re just another blobby face among many. Which is wonderful when you really need to fart. You can just let one go, and then go. A little jink here, a side-step there, quick turn of pace and you’ve put a dozen shoppers and a coachload of Joseph fans from Barnsley between yourself and your lingering stink. As you nonchalantly stride up the street like the Artful Dodger, you’ll leave a small mob in your wake, wrinkling their noses and eying each other accusingly. They’ll never know it was you. You're nowhere near the scene of the crime, you’re long gone, one more nameless, faceless, blameless bobbing head on Oxford Street. And if you need to trump again, you simply repeat the process – parp, jink, side-step, pace. So next time you’re out and about and you feel those all too familiar rumblings, just remember, there’s safety in numbers.