The day I learned to appreciate my new bag of crap

Today, my family had its annual Thanksgiving celebrations. It's always a large, joyous affair, with an obscene amount of food, which is only matched by the amount of love in the room. Coming from a large American family, Thanksgiving has always been my favourite holiday. As a child, it was the one day of the year where I could have as many friends as I liked over to play, and we could eat as much cake as we could stand. As I grew older, it became the one day of the year when I knew I would see the best of all of my loved ones. This is because, before we are allowed to eat anything, we all have to say out loud what we are thankful for. Every year, my closest friends and family (this year, a mere 30 of us,) stand before each other and declare what is in our hearts. It's a beautiful thing to be a part of. I spend the week leading up to it thinking about what I am thankful for. Each day I think of more and more things that I want to give thanks for. Each day, I am reminded just how blessed I am.For the past decade, I have mentioned the National Health Service as one of the things that I am most grateful for. For the past two Thanksgivings, I have given thanks for my Bert, my Stoma.

Today, I didn't. Partly because Bert is no longer with me. He was replaced in April with Ernie. But I couldn't bring myself to give thanks for Ernie, because for the past few weeks I have been seriously pissed off with him (Yes, my stoma is a him).


I have had a rough couple of months with my ileostomy. I fell out of love with it. Ernie is nowhere near as easy to deal with as Bert was.

With Bert, I could go three days without having to change my bag (leaks non withstanding). Ernie wants a fresh pouch every morning.

With Bert, I rarely leaked, and when I did, I caught it before it became a horrendous disaster. Ernie is a sneaky mister, who will throw a leak just for the fun of it, and often I won't know realise it's happening until it's running down my legs.

Bert was a quiet little thing, discreet, respectful, shy almost.  Ernie is a loud show off, who will sing the songs of his people at the most inopertune moments, and loud enough for everybody in the room to hear.

I loved Bert. Bert was well behaved, did as he was told, and knew who was the boss. Ernie is a little shit, who never listens, thinks he runs the show, and up until a couple of hours ago, I hated him.

9pm on a Sunday night. XFactor has just finished, I'm a celebrity (not Downton, which I am still quite sad about) was next on the agenda.

The other half stands up, laptop in hand, and starts to walk out of the room. This can only mean one thing - he needs a dump. So I ask him if he would mind if I went in first for a quick bag empty. He graciously sits back down, and I head to the throne room.

"SHIT! BOLLOCKS, FUCIKTY FUCKBALLS."

"What's the matter?" Calls the other half, with genuine concern in his voice.

"I'M COVERED IN SHIT." I scream back.

The next few minuets are spent with me cursing both under my breath, and very loudly, as I try to stem the flow and clean myself up enough so I can find a new bag, cut it, and head to the bathroom for a wash and a bag change.

I exit the throne room to find my other (and at this point, better) half waiting for me in the hallway with a freshly cut bag. As he hands it to me, I know that THIS is love. I also thought that he really should have got higher billing in my "things that I am thankful for" speech of a few hours ago......

I head to the sink, fill it with hot water, look for my adhesive remover spray, dry wipes, black waste bag, stoma powder, barrier ring, whilst holding a sodden, soiled tissue against my abdomen.

I take the bag off. Mess is everywhere. I can hear my other half in the throne room next door, watching a video of a Dot matrix printer "singing" The Eye of the Tiger, chuckling to himself whilst he takes a dump.  Meanwhile, I am stood at the sink, trying to clean myself up, while Ernie erupts with stool like Mount Versuvious. As quickly as I am clearing it up, he is pumping it out. Bert never did that. Bert always seemed to know when I didn't have a bag on, and he would wait to "go" until it was safe and clean to do so. Ernie, it appeared, also knew, and decided to have a party. All over my sink, tummy, legs, and bathroom floor. The swearing got louder, and more obscene. It would be quicker to tell you the swear words I didn't scream. My other half, at this point, joked that he was recording me. It was as I was telling him that I didn't effing care, that I noted just how ludicrous the situation was. It was also when I realised that I would much rather be stood at the sink, covered in my own crap, swearing at my stoma, than sat on the toilet, having a dump the old fashioned way whilst watching stupid shit on the internet.

Because going to the toilet the old fashioned way means I would still have my colon. Having my colon means pain, and blood, and disease. It means accidents in public, and extreme fatigue, and joint pain, and swollen eyes, and not being able to leave the house, and not wanting to be more than 10 ft away from a toilet. It means not being able to travel, or have days out with my children. It means spending weeks on end in bed. It means worrying about when the next flare up will hit. Going to the toilet the old fashioned way was awful, and I never want to do that again. For every day I suffer with fatigue with Ernie, I had 10 with my colon. For every day I haven't got the energy to get dressed with Ernie, I had 20 with my colon. For every time I have stood up to find myself covered in my own crap because of Ernie, I had a dozen accidents with my colon. For every day I didn't take my children out 

 because of my colon, I have doubled the fun times I have spent with them because of Ernie.

As I stood there begging Ernie to stop giving me shit so I could get a clean bag on, I remembered what my life was like before him. So I stopped begging him to stop, let him do his thing, and when he was finished, I thanked him for giving me back my life, and apologised for not thanking him earlier in public. No he isn't as well behaved as Bert was,but he isn't Bert, He is Ernie, and it is up to me to stop complaining and comparing him to his predecessor, and take the time to get to know him, for him. He's going to be with me for the rest of my life, after all.

discovering that you are covered in your own crap because of your ostomy, is seriously rubbish. The alternative though, for me, was far worse.