Adventures and Misadventures of a Poo Bag Blogger

Wednesday, 20 July 2011

Amazing sponsorship opportunity

I do not know who I think I am, and who might actually want to read this. I do sometimes suffer from delusions about my writing. I think it may be the tramadol (so many side effects), but I took it upon myself to contact the marketing director of Coloplast and tell him what an amazing marketing opportunity I am with this blog, like writing exclusively about his poo bags will suddenly improve sales. It's not as if I have a mass of followers hanging on my every word. I have, in fact, 3 (you know who you are), and one of those is myself.

He politely wrote back to say that 'the firm was not looking at sponsoring presently, and good luck with the biopsies.' Not leaving it at that, and now having full access to his personal email, I have barraged him in stalker-like proportions with handy hints, tips, and suggestions for his products. I just can't help myself. For instance, why do all poo bags have to be light beige? How about some denim effect ones or some pastel colors? And why put instructions in every box? We got it the first time. And what about the environment? Don't get me started on the cheap scratchy wipes they expect us to use. And how dare they call the bags flesh color when IBD is not restricted to white people. I was only half-joking when I suggested the holly garland round the bag pattern to be worn at Christmas; it would be a laugh.

He did say he would take my comments on board, but the different color bags 'were not going to be a runner due to the low profit margins on prescription goods.'

I could not help but notice the Coloplast employee of the year won an all-inclusive break in some South American country for themselves and a friend, all expenses paid. He has stopped answering my polite suggestions and has passed me on to the people in Denmark who do customer feedback.

I have taken a blue felt tip to a bag or two to fill my day.

Urine therapy!!!

My 14-year-old daughter Ella was 'looking at me funny' all night. "What is it, dear?" I knew something was up.

'Mum, you are grossing me out.'

Ella had been poking about in my special cupboard under the sink, the cupboard which holds my various poo-related paraphernalia: sprays, wipes, disposal bags, pouches, enemas, other stuff to make you go, stuff to stop you going, stuff to cover up smells, stuff to protect the stoma, a length of pipe, and a turkey baster (don't ask what they are for).

Ella had told me a story of a girl she knew who had a row with her mum, and as payback had dunked her mum's toothbrush in an unflushed toilet full of urine. How terrible.

However, my ex-husband, who looks a youthful 50, is actually 60 and was not averse to having the odd half of his own wee of a morning during the early '90s. He had read about it, and some crazy English actress had also advocated this as therapy, citing the Bible as proof. There is a verse allegedly which says that the water from your own body provides the cure for all your body's ills. Well, it all sounds a bit homeopathic to me.

Getting back to the funny look, Ella emerged from the loo with the cupboard again. 'What the hell, Mum! What is this? Are you drinking your own piss?' I had to think for a moment if I was. Indeed, she was holding in an accusing way a huge bottle of piss, and it had my name on it. It was only when I read the small print that I realized it was a bottle of lactulose, which did look surprisingly wee-like.

This has got me thinking that if Ella does take the wee-on-the-toothbrush route, she may be inadvertently curing me of my IBD.

I feel a row brewing.

Tuesday, 5 July 2011

Someone has trod in s....

I had every shoe in the house lifted and fully inspected and sniffed at (by my youngest, I don't do that sort of thing). Someone had trod in dog shit, it was definite. I only got an occasional whiff of it, as you do on these occasions. It was bugging me all day, and the nail brush had been sacrificed on all the shoes in the hall, but still, it persisted. Such is my trust in the poo bag that the thought did not cross my mind for a second that I could be the guilty one. One thing I don't like about wearing a poo bag is that I always sound like I have a couple of empty crisp packs shoved down my waist; there is a persistent rustling sound. So when a new rustle-free product was launched, I was first in the queue to try it. It was bigger than my normal cap/pouch, but I thought in order to get rid of this autumn leaves-style all-year-round rustle, I would give it a go. It seems the bag did not suit and had opened at the top only a few millimeters, but enough for me to have launched the full-scale investigation of 'who had brought the soiled shoe into the home.'

I don't think they read this blog. I will not tell if you don't.

What's in this curry?

I am quite blasé about this whole poo bag-wearing thing these days; it doesn't represent much of a problem to me. It is the views and feelings of other people that can cause issues.

I am meticulous about using the little black plastic disposable bags that they give you to dispose of my 'pouches.' After popping the contents in the loo, I put them in the plastic and tie up. Only on one occasion did I not bother. Why is it I can never get away with anything like this without being discovered?

A friend of mine came for lunch, and as she is celiac (gluten intolerant), we always have an extended discussion about our mutual bowels, what irritates, what new products are out, and other general issues of intestinal interest. I had made a chicken curry using a Loyd Grossman sauce. I always check the labels for gluten when this friend visits. I don't know why, but she did not seem to trust me on the gluten issue, and before I could stop her, she was rummaging through my dustbin to locate the label. No need to tell you, this was the lazy day where I had not bagged up.

I don't know on what other feasible occasion a friend would rummage elbow-high through one's waste bin, so I did not know what to say when she held the used appliance aloft and asked, 'What's this?' I saw her face change as it dawned on her what 'this was.' Nothing else was said of the matter; neither of us ate much curry.

Health update

I got the letter today from my consultant that they may not be able to reverse the stoma. The biopsies taken were dodgy (not his words), and they are sending them off for more analysis. I could live the rest of my life with my bum hole at the front, but this hernia that is as big as a football is another matter.

It seems the secret diary will continue till I know more.

Phantom pregnancy

This story was a moment captured of what my life was like before the operation.

Imagine my panic: I was five minutes into a sixteen-mile drive to my home, and having previously plotted out all the public toilets from Eastbourne to Saltdean, I knew that the next public toilet abundant with soft toilet paper was in Peacehaven.

I am afraid that terrible urge came on. This was a bad one, cold sweats, and raging cramps with the feeling of utmost urgency; only otherwise ever felt during the last phases of childbirth.

I knew I wasn't going to make it, and so pulled into the first pub I saw. I would purchase a Britvic in compensation for using the conveniences. It was 11:30 on a Sunday morning, so conceivable that they may be open.

I tottered down the steep pub steps and tried the door, then hammered on the door. No answer. I looked to the pub garden, but it was exposed to the road (yes, that bad).

A large Waitrose was 200 meters behind the pub, so I pigeon-stepped and bottom-squeezed my way there and conjured up a story of why I needed the loo, as I recalled they had no public facilities.

I took a young check-out girl to one side, rubbed my protruding IBD-style belly, and lied, "I am heavily pregnant, please may I use your toilet?"

She could not have been kinder and led me through what felt like another half mile to the back of the shop, to the staff 'rest rooms.'

The trousers were down in record time. The relief! The sound effects were like a warm-up session of 'the horns' of the London Philharmonic.

I will

Oh, thanks again so much for sharing these insights. We all have been in similar situations but maybe not seen the funny side. Instead of feeling down about situations we've found ourselves in, let's take a page from this lady's book and see the witty side. Laughter is indeed the best medicine....except immediately after surgery! LOL! ;-) Just wish we lived a little closer so we could meet up and get a daily dose of laughs! Thanks again for sharing!

Wowee darlz, I hope you're off the Tramadol. I was SUPER WOMAN for 3 years on that stuff, and on here my posts were all over the place. Considering I was on the liquid Tramal for referred pain, as I'm told from a few operations, 2000mg. I can't believe I'm still alive... But I enjoyed your blog, diary, whichever one. Great humor, just the way I like it. Hey, why don't you do a DVD or talking book thingy? Oh, if you do, I want in! Lolol. Cheers! And yes, still on pain meds, from one pit into another, hoping not... xxMooza

Thank you for your kind comments. I finally got off the Tramadol by going on the dissolvable one and taking out 5ml every week. It took 3 months, but I am finally free of the stuff. What a nightmare. I feel like I was living in an emotional fog. Lovely to hear from you xx

Sunny, I am sitting here chuckling, thank God for a sense of humor. I recently had to go for an interview to see if I was fit for work. I tried to explain my situation to the person doing the interview, how difficult it would be for me to work currently with a stoma and 6 holes in my abdomen from two rectovaginal fistulas until they repair them. He wasn't amused to hear that. I currently think if he stuck a hose up my backside, I'd make a very good water feature! But not fit for much else currently. Thanks for the smile. Star

Living with Your Ostomy | Hollister

I just read funny blogs about poo stuff I've written -- I love your thinking! I'd love to buy denim printed bags, or Christmas bags, etc. And who does that guy from Coloplast think he's kidding when he says there is no profit in medical stuff? I wonder what HIS annual salary is? His profit sharing? His 'benefits'? And, I wonder what his email address is -- I wonder what he'd have to say if he suddenly got all these requests for denim-colored bags, Christmas-decorated bags?

I am continuing to read your other blogs. I got a chuckle out of your search for the mystery item and about your friend digging through your garbage. I'm always afraid that skunks or raccoons, or others, will knock over my garbage and dig through it, leaving a soiled bag, etc., on my driveway for all to see. Fortunately, my garbage is picked up at 7:30 a.m. -- but -- if the garbage guys leave it lying on my driveway... I rarely go out to the end of my driveway until about 2 p.m. to pick up my various garbage/recycling containers! I'm not shy about telling people about my bag -- but I wouldn't want them to actually SEE the ugly side of it!

Great to read your comments. Thank you. I agree they must be raking it in, no competitors and they must be cheap to make. I will email him again asking him for more validation for his decision.

I think they should make female bags with lace covers in pretty colours with bows and fancy trim, and the guys could be animal prints. With what we pay for them, we should have something better, right?

Very clever and entertaining, yet real and truly relatable... I loved it! Thanks for the smiles, Sunny... Keep them coming! Good luck and great health always, my friend. Sincerely appreciative, BEG