I was a 30-year-old happy-go-lucky traveler/sailor/environmental activist of sorts when my troubles began whilst working on a private yacht in the South of France. At first, I thought it was a touch of food poisoning as myself and my then partner went out to dinner and tasted France's finest cuisine, which involved lots of snails and frog legs, well… when in Rome and all that.
Two weeks later, on returning back from my partner's hometown in Italy, I decided I was literally full of crap! and went to seek medical attention in Monaco. I remember lying on the bed in the very fine triage ward, all marbled with paintings on the wall and having just had a finger rammed up my butt, thinking to myself, “I wonder if any of Monaco's finest have lain here with the very same finger exploring their inner self." It kinda amused me, this visualization, and sidetracked me from the dilemma I was in.
“Mr. O'Donnell,” he said in his very French accent, “we think you may be a little constipated and we would like to give you this to use when you get home,” and he proudly presented me with a small bottle of Microlax as if I had just won it.
Upon application of the Microlax, which involves squirting it up one's butt, I suddenly realized why the consultant was smiling proudly as I left the hospital. The solution I had just squirted up my butt sent my anus into uncontrollable spasms, which left my teeth marks in the toilet door. Still didn't work, still hadn't had a crap for over 2 weeks, and I was feeling a bit full…and sore!
So it was off back to the highlands of Scotland for me to get checked out...
It sounded quite convenient at the time, it was late October, the end of the yachting season in Europe, and I was to pick up my brother from the highlands. We'd both be going to work on a yacht that was due for a refit in the Marseilles dry dock, so I'd kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Easy Peasy…
Just before my hospital appointment, unfortunately, I was run over by a car whilst walking into my local village (to the pub actually), which involved myself in dark clothing, walking on the wrong side of the road of all things, a mild autumn night, and a Volvo Estate. Needless to say, the Volvo Estate won hands down, resulting in my neck breaking in 2 places, a broken back, a broken knee, and a foot. Typical, I get whacked in my own village, just friggin' marvelous. Although I didn't know about my injuries at the time, the medical staff at accident and emergency, because I requested to go for a cigarette, decided I was okay and would only stay overnight as I was concussed and would be discharged in the morning.
The next morning, the doctor visited me before signing my discharge papers, and I made him aware of the fact that I couldn't feel my left arm. He sent me for a C.T. scan and realized I had 2 fractures in my neck. Six weeks later, when they took the Philadelphia Collar from my neck and x-rayed it, I asked the dude in the x-ray department if he could x-ray my knee also. I was horrified to discover I had a clean break just below my knee. The consultant never even attempted to make an excuse, other than a sheepish look.
Some months later, I discovered I had actually fractured my spine and foot also. It really felt like I was in the Simpsons or something. I vowed I was going to sue the b*****d, but never did.
It was a trying time for me, to say the least, as now I was unable to move and unable to s**t. Over the next six weeks, I had been going in and out of the hospital for my bowel problem. My consultants were coming up with all kinds of excuses as to what might be causing the blockage: chronic dehydration, constipation, I had an anal fissure that was causing a spasm, it's all in the mind….? When they came up with the last bright idea, I flipped out and told them I was not going to leave the hospital ward until they did their job properly and they stuck a camera up my butt to determine what actually is going on up there, like they should have done in the first place… albeit there were a few more colorful words thrown in around that last statement, but I won't bore you with the range of linguistic skills we highlanders can come up with in such circumstances.
Realizing they had no option but to give me a colonoscopy, and to get me the hell out of their ward for Christmas, they gave me the bowel prep, oh yes, the dreaded Picloax, floats like a butterfly and stings like a bee. Subsequently, I was diagnosed with advanced rectal carcinoma/stage III rectal cancer on Christmas Eve. Yeh, nice one Santa, just what I always wanted. Why don't they do the test for cancer at the start? It would have saved them all the trouble. One in four people are diagnosed with cancer in the U.K., you'd imagine it would be the first thing they check for, but oh no, that's too much like common sense, isn't it?
So it was off to the oncology suite for me, a nice new shiny ward of Raigmore Hospital, all pleasing to the eye, where you can help yourself to tea and coffee and read the flyers on the wall about all the help and assistance that's available if you need it, new headscarves, and old people. That was the most prominent feature of the oncology suite, it was full of old people, no one my age there nor younger, just old people and really nice staff.
Radiotherapy and chemotherapy started in March of 2005. I had to wait over 3 months for treatments as the oncologist that was dealing with me had recently passed away and the hospital had very conveniently forgotten to refer me to the new one.
By this time, I had to be admitted to the hospital for the full 6 weeks of treatment as my consultant thought I may be too weak to make the 100-mile round trip every day for treatments. Raigmore Hospital has a patient lodge for such circumstances and yet again, it was full of old people, nice old people. I had been pretty much bed-bound since my meeting on that October evening with Mr. Volvo and had eaten very little since then either, so I fitted in quite well actually, hmmmm milkshake again.
Chemotherapy is a strange thing to go through, being hooked up to a drip and being slowly fed this poison that makes you feel soooo ill, it felt like WW3 had just been declared on my body. Urgh, it was awful. Thankfully, my hair never fell out, guess I didn't need the crew cut after all lol. Also, whilst I was in the hospital having my butt and genetic lineage nuked, my only daughter suddenly passed away. She was 11, and I can safely say, it was the worst day of my life. I don't remember much of that day, fortunately, except for feelings of guilt, deep sorrow, and pure rage.
After the effects of the nuclear war waged on my butt had settled down and all parties had signed treaties, it was very clear that radio and chemotherapy had done nothing to shrink the tumor and it was off to the chopping shop for me.
Again, I can't remember too much about before the op apart from a stoma nurse putting 2 purple ink spots on either side of my groin area. I do remember asking her, "What's that for?" to which she replied, "Just in case." An hour later, I was out cold.
When I finally came round again, all my alarm bells were ringing "Ouch, ouch, f*****g OUCH!!" I looked down and there was a bag on either side of my pelvis, and tubes sticking out of me all over the place. I thought, "B*****ds! What have you done to me?" Unbeknownst to me, I had just received a colostomy and a urostomy. Not long after, I was told that the surgeons had to remove my rectal stump, bladder, and prostate.
After being discharged from the hospital 10 days later, my mood was not good. Not only had I been cut up like a side of beef, I realized I couldn't have sex again. "Not quite the crown jewels down there now, my son," I thought.
Anyhow, 2 weeks later, I was rushed back in with chest pains. I can't remember anything about the incident, but I was told that I tried to leave the emergency room and dropped dead in the hallway. My heart had stopped. It was due to all the meds they were giving me, all kinds of junk: tramadol, gabapentin, morphine sulfate, steroids, and other kinds of pills I can't remember. No wonder my heart packed up.
There were a lot of trying times during those early days, too many leaks, aches, and pains, confidence battered. Looking in the mirror was a hard one, seeing 2 bags hanging off me. Many times I had that talk with myself, "Dude, you've had some good innings, done a lot, you've had your fill, my son, how's about packing it all in and go searching for the ultimate question?" and all the time I would bring myself back with the “things will get better” trick, and they have.
The day after I got home from the hospital for the heart attack, I stopped all meds and went to Amsterdam for a bit of self-medicating and cold turkey. Funny inexplicable days they were. Then off to the South of France for 6 weeks. After being on the beaches in France, my batteries were recharged and I was ready for the biggie. Lounging about on a beach in St. Martin for 3 months is good therapy for any ostomate, gets rid of all those gremlins, worked a treat it did.
I am still alive to tell my tale and I haven't looked back since. I have had no problems with my stomas of any kind, recovered well, and am back to a resemblance of my normal self again, dancing, drinking, the odd flirt, still the cheeky chirpy dude I always was!.....and I can still party till the sun comes up.
But I have to admit if I may, if it wasn't for the support of the amazing people I have met in a similar situation as myself on the internet, I don't think I would still be the same person mentally or physically for that matter.
2 years on, I asked my consultants at Raigmore Hospital in Inverness to be put forward for an Indiana Pouch, please. My consultants/surgeons are Mr. Docherty for the colorectal side and Mr. Bramwell for the urostomy side. They had a meeting together and decided that this was a procedure that would be possible for me to have, although not in their hospital, and sent me off for tests, most of which were at the Western General Hospital in Edinburgh under the watchful eye of Mr. Stewart, senior consultant, urology surgeon, and Mr. Alhasso.
Meeting with them in Oct. of '07 was very productive and they decided to forward my name onto the waiting list for, in their words, "a procedure which will involve converting your ileal conduit urinary diversion (urostomy) to a continent urinary diversion with a catheterizable stoma (Indiana pouch)" with a fixed date as soon as possible.
So I went down to Edinburgh for a kidney test in Nov. '07, which is a wee holiday for me as I live up in the Highlands of Scotland some 200 miles from Edinburgh. The nice people give you traveling and living expenses, so I stayed in a hotel on Princess Street and made a night of it. 'Tis a very nice wee holiday to the capital, might I add hehe..
The kidney test went well. I had no scarring or damage at all, which surprised them somewhat (I don't know why, but I'm happy about that). Next stop, the CT scan.
The C.T. scan was done at Raigmore Inverness, my local hospital, in Dec. '07, which was a full scan of my chest, abdomen, and pelvis. If anyone has ever had one of these, they will tell you that the worst part is the drink that you have to drink the night before and on the day of the scan. It's not too nice ('cept for the French reading this who love Ricard and Pernod). Sambuca is the taste I liken it to. I think the solution is called Gastrografin and the procedure is called a Gastrografin pull-through. Anyhoo, once I drank that, I had to go through the big polo (CT scanner), but not before they gave me an injection of something that made me have an instant hot flush and a taste of sucking copper in my mouth. It's actually an isotopic tracer. Ach, it's not that bad really, honestly it's not. Anyhow, the scan showed no abnormalities.
So that's me passed the test with flying colors and am only to wait for the big day, which came on the 18th of March 2008.
So there I was, packing up the house and stuff, getting everything ready for my op on the 18th of March. My father was flying back to India on the day before, so he arranged to fly out that evening from Edinburgh instead, which was some doing, I'll tell you. My mother had arranged a week off work to stay down in Edinburgh with me whilst I was in the High Dependency Unit after the op. So it was all set... or so it seemed.
On the Friday before the op, I got a phone call whilst I was in the bath from the waiting list woman from the Western General asking if I could go in the day before, about early afternoon, as it would take a few days to prepare my bowel for surgery. Damn! So after all the preparations and flight changes for my folks to drive me down to Edinburgh, I ended up having to take the bus on my own as my folks couldn't change their plans. They were to meet me the following day as planned. No worries.
So I arrived at the hospital slightly stressing as it was now 3 pm and I had been told to arrive early afternoon... hehehe they didn't even have a bed for me until 9 pm. There I was, wandering around the hospital trying to waste time for 6 hours, unable to eat and only drink clear fluids.
Eventually, they found a bed for me in ward 57, a urology ward. Settled down, everyone is getting the option of tea, coffee, or hot chocolate. I have to drink a liter of Kleenprep, with the promise of another one to follow. This stuff is awful; it tastes like a liter of salty cod liver oil. I could only manage two glasses of the stuff and went to sleep, vowing to make them compromise in the morning.
When the sun came up and the doc came to see me, we came to the agreement that I should be given Picolax instead, which is a better taste (like lemon Cremola Foam), and you only have to drink half a glass of it too.... wee tip for y'all here, if you gotta empty your bowels for any reason, ask for Picolax. I have tried many different types of emergency bowel evacuation solutions and Picolax is by far the better tasting of the lot.
Also, I discovered one of the many benefits of having a colostomy that day. You don't have to sprint to the loo when you got the squirts, nor do you get ring sting after lol.
So finally the hour came to be wheeled down to the theatre. I was washed and gowned with my wee stockings on to prevent deep vein thrombosis, and the hour went, and it came again, then it went. I would have been a bit miffed had it not been for the 2 very pleasant student nurses keeping me company. It turned out they were coming into the theatre with me to watch the operation being performed. 'Tis quite strange sitting laughing and joking with 2 young girls knowing that they are going to see you as you've never seen yourself, but I tried to put it to the back of my mind.
Yehaaa!! Now they are wheeling me down to the theatre. They tag my legs and wrists, read me my rights (joke), and I sign my life away. They wrap me up in an inflatable plastic thing that's blowing hot air over me and wheel me straight back up to the ward again, apologizing profusely about the complications that they are having just now...
2 hours later, I get the injection and I am out cold.
Ok, so the easy bit is over. Upon waking, I notice that the worst pain was in my shoulders. It felt like someone had been dancing on them. They wheel me up to the High Dependency Unit, which was my home for the next five days. They put an epidural in my back and left me to my spewing (which isn't that pleasant, I tell you). I was spewing my ileum apparently, as my bowels didn't know which way to move as they had used a section of my colon to form the pouch and attached the loose end to the piece of colon that led to my colostomy. Never before had such an operation of transforming a frostily into an Indiana Pouch been performed in Scotland, or so I am told, hence all the students present during my operation.
The H.D.U. was an endurance, I have to admit. My refusal to take morphine and opting for a lesser analgesic called fluorine (I think, was a bit spaced at the time) meant I could still feel a little sharpness from the op. The ward had four beds in it, one nurse to two beds, and they did absolutely nothing to help. On the second day, you had to wash yourself and they help you wash your feet!!! My dressings weren't changed and on the third day, I had to sit on my seat for most of the day, which was awful. The place was brutal and not that clean. I remember counting how many times the cleaner swung her mop on the floor, 17 wipes of a whole ward! Not like other H.D.U.s I had been to where the nurses are only too happy to even help you sip your water, and the ward smells like a bottle of bleach, but hey, I survived.
When I got taken to the urology ward, I was delighted. The place was clean and tidy and the nurses were lovely. They showed me with great patience how to do my own dressings and syringe my pubic catheter free of mucus, as I have to go home with it in for 4 weeks.
The doctors put me onto a drug called oxycontin/oxynorm, which is an analgesic and super efficient, also an antibiotic and some anti-sickness pills which didn't really work as I was still having a wee spe
Two weeks later, on returning back from my partner's hometown in Italy, I decided I was literally full of crap! and went to seek medical attention in Monaco. I remember lying on the bed in the very fine triage ward, all marbled with paintings on the wall and having just had a finger rammed up my butt, thinking to myself, “I wonder if any of Monaco's finest have lain here with the very same finger exploring their inner self." It kinda amused me, this visualization, and sidetracked me from the dilemma I was in.
“Mr. O'Donnell,” he said in his very French accent, “we think you may be a little constipated and we would like to give you this to use when you get home,” and he proudly presented me with a small bottle of Microlax as if I had just won it.
Upon application of the Microlax, which involves squirting it up one's butt, I suddenly realized why the consultant was smiling proudly as I left the hospital. The solution I had just squirted up my butt sent my anus into uncontrollable spasms, which left my teeth marks in the toilet door. Still didn't work, still hadn't had a crap for over 2 weeks, and I was feeling a bit full…and sore!
So it was off back to the highlands of Scotland for me to get checked out...
It sounded quite convenient at the time, it was late October, the end of the yachting season in Europe, and I was to pick up my brother from the highlands. We'd both be going to work on a yacht that was due for a refit in the Marseilles dry dock, so I'd kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Easy Peasy…
Just before my hospital appointment, unfortunately, I was run over by a car whilst walking into my local village (to the pub actually), which involved myself in dark clothing, walking on the wrong side of the road of all things, a mild autumn night, and a Volvo Estate. Needless to say, the Volvo Estate won hands down, resulting in my neck breaking in 2 places, a broken back, a broken knee, and a foot. Typical, I get whacked in my own village, just friggin' marvelous. Although I didn't know about my injuries at the time, the medical staff at accident and emergency, because I requested to go for a cigarette, decided I was okay and would only stay overnight as I was concussed and would be discharged in the morning.
The next morning, the doctor visited me before signing my discharge papers, and I made him aware of the fact that I couldn't feel my left arm. He sent me for a C.T. scan and realized I had 2 fractures in my neck. Six weeks later, when they took the Philadelphia Collar from my neck and x-rayed it, I asked the dude in the x-ray department if he could x-ray my knee also. I was horrified to discover I had a clean break just below my knee. The consultant never even attempted to make an excuse, other than a sheepish look.
Some months later, I discovered I had actually fractured my spine and foot also. It really felt like I was in the Simpsons or something. I vowed I was going to sue the b*****d, but never did.
It was a trying time for me, to say the least, as now I was unable to move and unable to s**t. Over the next six weeks, I had been going in and out of the hospital for my bowel problem. My consultants were coming up with all kinds of excuses as to what might be causing the blockage: chronic dehydration, constipation, I had an anal fissure that was causing a spasm, it's all in the mind….? When they came up with the last bright idea, I flipped out and told them I was not going to leave the hospital ward until they did their job properly and they stuck a camera up my butt to determine what actually is going on up there, like they should have done in the first place… albeit there were a few more colorful words thrown in around that last statement, but I won't bore you with the range of linguistic skills we highlanders can come up with in such circumstances.
Realizing they had no option but to give me a colonoscopy, and to get me the hell out of their ward for Christmas, they gave me the bowel prep, oh yes, the dreaded Picloax, floats like a butterfly and stings like a bee. Subsequently, I was diagnosed with advanced rectal carcinoma/stage III rectal cancer on Christmas Eve. Yeh, nice one Santa, just what I always wanted. Why don't they do the test for cancer at the start? It would have saved them all the trouble. One in four people are diagnosed with cancer in the U.K., you'd imagine it would be the first thing they check for, but oh no, that's too much like common sense, isn't it?
So it was off to the oncology suite for me, a nice new shiny ward of Raigmore Hospital, all pleasing to the eye, where you can help yourself to tea and coffee and read the flyers on the wall about all the help and assistance that's available if you need it, new headscarves, and old people. That was the most prominent feature of the oncology suite, it was full of old people, no one my age there nor younger, just old people and really nice staff.
Radiotherapy and chemotherapy started in March of 2005. I had to wait over 3 months for treatments as the oncologist that was dealing with me had recently passed away and the hospital had very conveniently forgotten to refer me to the new one.
By this time, I had to be admitted to the hospital for the full 6 weeks of treatment as my consultant thought I may be too weak to make the 100-mile round trip every day for treatments. Raigmore Hospital has a patient lodge for such circumstances and yet again, it was full of old people, nice old people. I had been pretty much bed-bound since my meeting on that October evening with Mr. Volvo and had eaten very little since then either, so I fitted in quite well actually, hmmmm milkshake again.
Chemotherapy is a strange thing to go through, being hooked up to a drip and being slowly fed this poison that makes you feel soooo ill, it felt like WW3 had just been declared on my body. Urgh, it was awful. Thankfully, my hair never fell out, guess I didn't need the crew cut after all lol. Also, whilst I was in the hospital having my butt and genetic lineage nuked, my only daughter suddenly passed away. She was 11, and I can safely say, it was the worst day of my life. I don't remember much of that day, fortunately, except for feelings of guilt, deep sorrow, and pure rage.
After the effects of the nuclear war waged on my butt had settled down and all parties had signed treaties, it was very clear that radio and chemotherapy had done nothing to shrink the tumor and it was off to the chopping shop for me.
Again, I can't remember too much about before the op apart from a stoma nurse putting 2 purple ink spots on either side of my groin area. I do remember asking her, "What's that for?" to which she replied, "Just in case." An hour later, I was out cold.
When I finally came round again, all my alarm bells were ringing "Ouch, ouch, f*****g OUCH!!" I looked down and there was a bag on either side of my pelvis, and tubes sticking out of me all over the place. I thought, "B*****ds! What have you done to me?" Unbeknownst to me, I had just received a colostomy and a urostomy. Not long after, I was told that the surgeons had to remove my rectal stump, bladder, and prostate.
After being discharged from the hospital 10 days later, my mood was not good. Not only had I been cut up like a side of beef, I realized I couldn't have sex again. "Not quite the crown jewels down there now, my son," I thought.
Anyhow, 2 weeks later, I was rushed back in with chest pains. I can't remember anything about the incident, but I was told that I tried to leave the emergency room and dropped dead in the hallway. My heart had stopped. It was due to all the meds they were giving me, all kinds of junk: tramadol, gabapentin, morphine sulfate, steroids, and other kinds of pills I can't remember. No wonder my heart packed up.
There were a lot of trying times during those early days, too many leaks, aches, and pains, confidence battered. Looking in the mirror was a hard one, seeing 2 bags hanging off me. Many times I had that talk with myself, "Dude, you've had some good innings, done a lot, you've had your fill, my son, how's about packing it all in and go searching for the ultimate question?" and all the time I would bring myself back with the “things will get better” trick, and they have.
The day after I got home from the hospital for the heart attack, I stopped all meds and went to Amsterdam for a bit of self-medicating and cold turkey. Funny inexplicable days they were. Then off to the South of France for 6 weeks. After being on the beaches in France, my batteries were recharged and I was ready for the biggie. Lounging about on a beach in St. Martin for 3 months is good therapy for any ostomate, gets rid of all those gremlins, worked a treat it did.
I am still alive to tell my tale and I haven't looked back since. I have had no problems with my stomas of any kind, recovered well, and am back to a resemblance of my normal self again, dancing, drinking, the odd flirt, still the cheeky chirpy dude I always was!.....and I can still party till the sun comes up.
But I have to admit if I may, if it wasn't for the support of the amazing people I have met in a similar situation as myself on the internet, I don't think I would still be the same person mentally or physically for that matter.
2 years on, I asked my consultants at Raigmore Hospital in Inverness to be put forward for an Indiana Pouch, please. My consultants/surgeons are Mr. Docherty for the colorectal side and Mr. Bramwell for the urostomy side. They had a meeting together and decided that this was a procedure that would be possible for me to have, although not in their hospital, and sent me off for tests, most of which were at the Western General Hospital in Edinburgh under the watchful eye of Mr. Stewart, senior consultant, urology surgeon, and Mr. Alhasso.
Meeting with them in Oct. of '07 was very productive and they decided to forward my name onto the waiting list for, in their words, "a procedure which will involve converting your ileal conduit urinary diversion (urostomy) to a continent urinary diversion with a catheterizable stoma (Indiana pouch)" with a fixed date as soon as possible.
So I went down to Edinburgh for a kidney test in Nov. '07, which is a wee holiday for me as I live up in the Highlands of Scotland some 200 miles from Edinburgh. The nice people give you traveling and living expenses, so I stayed in a hotel on Princess Street and made a night of it. 'Tis a very nice wee holiday to the capital, might I add hehe..
The kidney test went well. I had no scarring or damage at all, which surprised them somewhat (I don't know why, but I'm happy about that). Next stop, the CT scan.
The C.T. scan was done at Raigmore Inverness, my local hospital, in Dec. '07, which was a full scan of my chest, abdomen, and pelvis. If anyone has ever had one of these, they will tell you that the worst part is the drink that you have to drink the night before and on the day of the scan. It's not too nice ('cept for the French reading this who love Ricard and Pernod). Sambuca is the taste I liken it to. I think the solution is called Gastrografin and the procedure is called a Gastrografin pull-through. Anyhoo, once I drank that, I had to go through the big polo (CT scanner), but not before they gave me an injection of something that made me have an instant hot flush and a taste of sucking copper in my mouth. It's actually an isotopic tracer. Ach, it's not that bad really, honestly it's not. Anyhow, the scan showed no abnormalities.
So that's me passed the test with flying colors and am only to wait for the big day, which came on the 18th of March 2008.
So there I was, packing up the house and stuff, getting everything ready for my op on the 18th of March. My father was flying back to India on the day before, so he arranged to fly out that evening from Edinburgh instead, which was some doing, I'll tell you. My mother had arranged a week off work to stay down in Edinburgh with me whilst I was in the High Dependency Unit after the op. So it was all set... or so it seemed.
On the Friday before the op, I got a phone call whilst I was in the bath from the waiting list woman from the Western General asking if I could go in the day before, about early afternoon, as it would take a few days to prepare my bowel for surgery. Damn! So after all the preparations and flight changes for my folks to drive me down to Edinburgh, I ended up having to take the bus on my own as my folks couldn't change their plans. They were to meet me the following day as planned. No worries.
So I arrived at the hospital slightly stressing as it was now 3 pm and I had been told to arrive early afternoon... hehehe they didn't even have a bed for me until 9 pm. There I was, wandering around the hospital trying to waste time for 6 hours, unable to eat and only drink clear fluids.
Eventually, they found a bed for me in ward 57, a urology ward. Settled down, everyone is getting the option of tea, coffee, or hot chocolate. I have to drink a liter of Kleenprep, with the promise of another one to follow. This stuff is awful; it tastes like a liter of salty cod liver oil. I could only manage two glasses of the stuff and went to sleep, vowing to make them compromise in the morning.
When the sun came up and the doc came to see me, we came to the agreement that I should be given Picolax instead, which is a better taste (like lemon Cremola Foam), and you only have to drink half a glass of it too.... wee tip for y'all here, if you gotta empty your bowels for any reason, ask for Picolax. I have tried many different types of emergency bowel evacuation solutions and Picolax is by far the better tasting of the lot.
Also, I discovered one of the many benefits of having a colostomy that day. You don't have to sprint to the loo when you got the squirts, nor do you get ring sting after lol.
So finally the hour came to be wheeled down to the theatre. I was washed and gowned with my wee stockings on to prevent deep vein thrombosis, and the hour went, and it came again, then it went. I would have been a bit miffed had it not been for the 2 very pleasant student nurses keeping me company. It turned out they were coming into the theatre with me to watch the operation being performed. 'Tis quite strange sitting laughing and joking with 2 young girls knowing that they are going to see you as you've never seen yourself, but I tried to put it to the back of my mind.
Yehaaa!! Now they are wheeling me down to the theatre. They tag my legs and wrists, read me my rights (joke), and I sign my life away. They wrap me up in an inflatable plastic thing that's blowing hot air over me and wheel me straight back up to the ward again, apologizing profusely about the complications that they are having just now...
2 hours later, I get the injection and I am out cold.
Ok, so the easy bit is over. Upon waking, I notice that the worst pain was in my shoulders. It felt like someone had been dancing on them. They wheel me up to the High Dependency Unit, which was my home for the next five days. They put an epidural in my back and left me to my spewing (which isn't that pleasant, I tell you). I was spewing my ileum apparently, as my bowels didn't know which way to move as they had used a section of my colon to form the pouch and attached the loose end to the piece of colon that led to my colostomy. Never before had such an operation of transforming a frostily into an Indiana Pouch been performed in Scotland, or so I am told, hence all the students present during my operation.
The H.D.U. was an endurance, I have to admit. My refusal to take morphine and opting for a lesser analgesic called fluorine (I think, was a bit spaced at the time) meant I could still feel a little sharpness from the op. The ward had four beds in it, one nurse to two beds, and they did absolutely nothing to help. On the second day, you had to wash yourself and they help you wash your feet!!! My dressings weren't changed and on the third day, I had to sit on my seat for most of the day, which was awful. The place was brutal and not that clean. I remember counting how many times the cleaner swung her mop on the floor, 17 wipes of a whole ward! Not like other H.D.U.s I had been to where the nurses are only too happy to even help you sip your water, and the ward smells like a bottle of bleach, but hey, I survived.
When I got taken to the urology ward, I was delighted. The place was clean and tidy and the nurses were lovely. They showed me with great patience how to do my own dressings and syringe my pubic catheter free of mucus, as I have to go home with it in for 4 weeks.
The doctors put me onto a drug called oxycontin/oxynorm, which is an analgesic and super efficient, also an antibiotic and some anti-sickness pills which didn't really work as I was still having a wee spe
