In 2001, I shat myself as an adult for the first time. I was living in a shared house with 5 other people, and we only had one toilet. I was in my bedroom, which was at the top of the house, when I suddenly got an extreme urge to go. I jumped out of bed, and started to run down the two flights of stairs to the bathroom. I only made it to the first landing. I spent the next three days camped out in the living room, as it was closest to the bathroom, and I was needing to go upwards of 20 times a day, often with very little notice. I didn’t bother going to the doctor, as I assumed that I had food poisoning. Although it was a horrific experience, I thought very little of it once I recovered, and I told nobody. Would you have told anybody that you shit yourself, and you weren’t drunk?
A few months later I decided to get a second, part time, job. I had been working with my Mum at her restaurant, but we were only busy at the weekends, so a week-day - day time job was required to top up my income. I worked from 9-1 Monday - Friday, at my day job, and from 5-10, midnight at the weekends. It may sound like a lot, but I was used to working double those hours, and staying out partying while I was at University, so it really should have been a doddle. The first two weeks were. After that though, I was finding it difficult to stay awake at my desk. In fact, I nodded off a fair few times, and it was only the loud beeping sound in my earpiece that kept me from falling into a deep slumber at work. The office was 10 minuets away from the restaurant which I now lived above. I’d be home by 1.20, and asleep by 2pm. Every day. Without fail. I had to set an alarm to wake me by 4.15, so I could splash some water on my face, and head downstairs to open the restaurant. Often I would sleep through, and find myself being gently shaken awake by our lovely head chef, or shouted awake by my mother. I just assumed that I was naturally tired from the extra hours, and that I must be getting old- I was 23!
In 2003, I shat myself as an adult for the second time. Like the first time, I was at home, unlike the first time, I didn’t have two flights of stairs between myself and the toilet as I had an en suite, and I still didn’t make it to the bathroom on time. Like the first time, I explained it away as a bout of food poisoning. I didn’t go the the Dr’s, and I didn’t tell anybody what had happened. Just like I didn’t tell anybody about the crippling stomach pain I had been suffering with every month since I was 15. And the fact that the pain got worse when I opened my bowels, and that fact that most months I would be sitting on the toilet in a cold sweat because of the pain, and I would then have to lie on the bathroom floor for the best part of an hour trying to regulate my breathing, whilst shaking with white hot pain, trying to convince myself that eventually the pain would pass. I told myself that it was silly to bother anybody, as every girl suffered from painful periods. I did, however, go to the GP when my wrists started to throb. I was diagnosed with Repetitive strain injury, thought to be caused by the computers at my second job, and I was signed off for a month, on full pay, whilst I recovered. I shat myself again during that month off. I decided that I must be allergic to prawns. I told everyone I knew about the prawn allergy. I didn’t tell them how I had come to that conclusion. Two years passed in a constant cycle of fatigue, wrist pain, hip pain, crippling tummy pain, food poisoning, and just making it to the toilet in time. I had myself and everyone else convinced that I was allergic to seafood, and that I wasn’t taking said allergy seriously enough, as my bottom kept on exploding.
Then, in 2004, on a combined holiday to Portugal and then Dublin, I bled from my bottom for the first time. I continued to bleed for a week. Every time I used the toilet, bright red blood would fill the basin. This time, I did tell somebody - My mother, and she made me go to the DR. I was diagnosed with piles, and sent home with a cream to rub on my bum. Then I started to bleed again. And again. And again. And each time the blood got darker, and more goey. As a woman, I am very used to seeing blood in the toilet - aren’t we ladies? I have bled every month from the age of 11. You become desensitised to it. It’s a normal, monthly occurrence. I have bled every month, for up to seven days, 180 times. Approximately 1260 days of bleeding. I am not afraid of, nor phased by the sight of blood in the toilet. Until it started coming out of my rectum. So I went to the Dr again. Again, I was diagnosed with piles. My mother was not satisfied with this diagnosis. She was growing sick and tired of the constant hysterical phone calls. Let’s be honest, I am prone to the dramatic - I come from a long line of Drama Queen.
My mum told me I should take a sample for my Dr to take a look at. I told her that I couldn't possibly, as I hadn't been asked to do one, and I didn't have a sample pot. My mother insisted that I didn't need one, that I should poo into a clear plastic bag.
So I did as she said. I made an emergency appointment to see my GP, walked into her office, placed the sandwich bag containing my bloody, mucus filled stool sample, with the words, “tell me this is normal”
As you can imagine, she was shocked. That shock quickly turned to disgust, and then to anger. As she ushered me out of her office she told me she would refer me to a Gastroenterologist, but she was sure that it was nothing serious, as I had already had a hemorrhoid diagnosis. It wasn’t like I had Cancer or anything. She actually said that to me - "it's not like you have cancer or anything." And just like that, I was out of her office, in a state of shock and bewilderment . I couldn’t believe that I had been fobbed off again. I stood in the street outside the Doctors surgery, shaking and weeping with fury. Enough was enough, and I had had enough. I walked home, I sat down at my desk, and wrote a complaint letter to the manager of my GP’s surgery. Within a week I had an appointment for a colonoscopy at the Digestive Diseases Centre at The Royal Sussex County Hospital.
For those of you that have never had one, a colonoscopy is when a camera is inserted into your anus, in order to take photographs / film your large intestine.
As you can imagine, in order to get a good picture, the entire large intestine needs to be clear of any waste. This is achieved by drinking the worlds strongest laxative. For those of you yet to go through the joy of Colonoscopy prep, I have this advice - a decent film or television series on your tablet or laptop, and ultra soft toilet paper - preferably flush able wet wipes will make a miserable day a tiny bit less miserable.
I was strangely excited about having the procedure. I’m one of those weirdo’s who loves watching medical procedure’s on the telly. I’m not at all squeamish, love getting my hands on a pussy pimple,or even better, a blackhead. I was somewhat disappointed that I was being sedated, as I was intrigued to see what my insides looked like. I needen’t have worried. The sedation was light. I saw everything. I had no idea what a healthy colon should have looked like, but I knew that what I was looking at wasn’t it. My insides were a bloody mess. Literally. And then I heard the Consultant mutter the words “Oh my goodness”, as he took some biopsies, and I knew that the prognosis wasn’t good.
