Cruciferous Veggies Strike Back: 18 Sept 2005

I got up very early Sunday morning and cleaned the house, because we were having guests. I scrubbed, polished, dusted, and tidied everything in sight. And, yea, I did sweat like a pig. And, yea, neither food nor drink did I partake of until the time of the shindig. Whereupon I did gorge upon chopped cruciferous vegetables and dip. And, yea, did I also drink beer.

(Yes, no food or water all day and then I stuffed myself with indigestible fiber as well as that fine depressant, beer).

And, verily, I did feel unwell. And I did partake of water, but it was too late. The cramps and bloating were upon me and there was nothing for it but it pace the house and low like a wounded bovine and sip water and beseech the heavens for relief.

But there was no relief. Yea, there was vomiting, but it was full of false promise. It said "lo, you hath vomited and shall feel better," but the relief was short lived and further vomiting only brought exhaustion.

So we did journey unto the emergency room and, yea, we did spend many hours repeating ourselves until a diagnosis of "gastritis" was handed down and, shot up with painkillers, I was sent home.

Alas, the gastritis it was not and, yea, the pain returned and there was no living with it. So we called the gastroenterologist and said "Verily, I have a blockage" and the good doctor had me admitted to the hospital.

And so three days passed in which much interest was expressed in one's poopage, but none was output. And then, lo, output did occur and one was allowed cream of chicken soup and it was like the finest of ambrosia.

The end (more or less).

Of course, you all see where I went wrong? Not eating and then gorging on fibrous things? Not drinking and then imbibing beer? Waiting to go to the hospital? Not arguing with the emergency room doctor and his "gastritis?"

Gastritis ... that's the symptom, not the cause.

Weight Loss: 24 July 2005

Since I started losing weight around Easter, I've worried about my stoma. Different sources I've read have told me that weight loss can affect stoma behavior just as much as weight gain. Since I'm losing the weight faster than I gained it, I've been waiting for some kind of craptastic disaster.

So far, nothing extraordinary has happened. Despite the increase in vegetables and fruits (both raw and cooked) in my diet, my output pretty much remains the same. If anything, my body seems to be getting better at handling foods it used to balk at.

Weird, but pleasantly so.

No Forbidden Foods: 17 May 2004

Betty Crocker's Living with Cancer is a pretty nice cookbook that may appeal to new ostomates on a low residue (low fiber) diet. The recipes are all pretty easy and make the restrictive diet a bit more appealing than it might originally sound.

I remember how horrified I was when the ET nurse handed me a set of dietary guidelines after my surgery. Damn near everything I liked and had dreamed about eating once I was well again was verboten. Happily, the ET nurse told me to experiment and see what agreed or disagreed with me. Today, I pretty much each all the "forbidden" foods -- popcorn, nuts, corn, peas, oranges, seeds, etc. --- but I make sure I drink plenty of fluids with them and I haven't had any real problems.

Yes, I did have a blockage once and it was pretty freaky, but that was more due to my own ignorance than anything else. At the time, I didn't know about massaging my belly, or about drinking hot cups of a digestive tea (mint, ginger, etc), or even about taking a warm shower or bath. I was completely ignorant. All I knew about blockages was that they were bad to get and that I should try to avoid getting one by avoiding about a billion different foods.

Dear Sexy Knickers: 19 April 2004

I'm a sexy woman and I deserve sexy knickers, right?

Well, living with an ostomy it never really occurred to me that I could wear anything other than high-waisted granny pants. Oh, I'd look at all the pretty bits of lace and silk in the shops and I'd wish, but it didn't seem possible. Either the low waist was going to cut into my stoma or the high legs would cut across my pouch or, well, it'd just look so stupid and unsexy with the pouch sticking out, now wouldn't it? Finding sexy knickers isn't anything the ostomy books cover, you know, and I wasn't going to just start chatting other ostomates up about what they're wearing under their trousers so ... granny pants it was, then.

Ah, but along came a pair of fuck-me-red lace boyshorts I couldn't say no to. They were so soft and sexy and clingy and, wow, the amount of ass cheek they'd show! They were also on clearance, so if they didn't work out, what did it matter? Well, they turned out just fine -- nicely supportive in front with no unfortunately placed elastics, but sexy++

Burn all the granny pants, I say.

Three Times Lucky: 19 June 2003

So that's three times in the last 48 hours I have been covered in shit. I'm at the point where all I want is go off on a jag of hysterical weeping, but that wouldn't really accomplish anything, would it?

Last night, either because my pouch was too full and my underwear snagged it or because the sticky flange decided to stick to my clothes rather than my skin or because of all of the above ... when I pulled down my jeans everything else came down, too. Warm oozy shit all over me, my clothes, the bathmat, and the tile floor. So that's the first time.

The second time, when I was getting dressed after showering, the clip somehow snagged somewhere on something and went skittering across the bathroom floor. Shit all over my clean legs, my fresh clothes, and the bath mat. So back into the shower with me.

The third time, I was at work and I know not how but the clip snagged on something and a nice river of shit started sliding down my leg. Ran to the restroom and washed me and my jeans off as much as possible with cold wet paper towels. Got a coworker to cover the desk while I went home, changed, and started another load of laundry.

I'm feeling really stressed this week and overwhelmed by a variety of things -- it's only fitting that my normally easily managed ostomy should start being a complete pain in the ass. Probably, this is the universe's way of telling me to relax and be mindful before my whole life turns into a river of shit.

Not My Sheets: 21 May 2003

A story from The Husband:

So I was up again at 5:30 this morning, and was in the office before 6:30 ... why?

Was it because I had a pile of work to do early on? No.

Was it because I'm just a great little cog? No.

Was it because I woke up at 5:30 with half of me and half of the bed covered in shit .... ahh yes, that might been it.

Probably the most surreal part of it is that I didn't think much of it, just woke up and felt wet ... felt around under the covers and was like "Ahh, thought so, I'm covered in shit again"

Felt a bit weird trying to explain to the women at the reception desk why they might want to get my bed clothes out of the bath now instead of waiting 4 hours "Thank you, Mr. <The Husband>, I'll inform the head of laundry".

Of course going to the toilet later and finding out that there were a couple of small surprises waiting for me under the skin of my head, was nice too.

More of the Same: 20 Nov 2002

Repeat 27 Feb 2002 excluding The Husband and cat elements.

I was lying in bed at 4 am wondering whether I should get up and take a migraine tablet or not. Deciding not, I rolled over. The sudden delicious aroma of Chicken Sonoma filled the room as the Hollister CenterPointLock Drainable White Pouch separated from the CenterPointLock Flextend Skin Barrier. Jumped out of bed, and fighting urge to run directly to bathroom, bundled the bottom sheet so it wouldn't bleed onto the waterproof mattress pad. Then jumped in shower, ripped everything off, sluiced, soaped, sluiced some more, applied new barrier and pouch, staggered back into bedroom.

Thought there was no way I had the energy to strip and re-make the bed. Ripped off bottom sheet. Juices had bled onto cover, but very lightly. Sprayed a little Woolite Pet Stain Remover on it (shit's shit, you know). Blotted it. Febreezed it. Threw soiled sheet in wash. Decided to not make bed, but instead sleep on remaining sheet. Upon lying down realized remaining sheet was covered in shit, as well. Ripped sheet off bed, stuffed in washer, took migraine tablet, wrapped self in duvet and tried to get back to sleep.

Except, of course, it was too late. Laid there thinking about how I could deal with human shit, but being covered in guinea pig shit made me want to vomit. I wondered what would've happened if this "accident" had occurred while I was in bed with someone. Someone not as nice or understanding as The Husband, I mean, shit has some pretty strong taboos on it. Aside from health care providers, new parents, a few weird fetishists, and ostomates, most people have as little to do with it as possible. So what happens when you're an ostomate, you've just slept over your sweetie's for the first time, and you've leaked all over her sheets?

I found myself wondering, if I had been an ostomate when I met The Husband would we have gotten this far? Is it because he loved me before the ostomy that he could keep loving me after? Or is it just because he's A Nice Person and it doesn't matter so much to him? Of course, now he's an ostomate, as well, and I find myself navigating a whole new set of problems. If your partner never complains about your pouch, dare you complain about his? How do you politely ask someone to go empty their pouch when they're trying to have sex with you? How do you give oral sex without getting your partner's clip stuffed up your nostrils?

Public Restrooms: 12 Jun 2002

We're looking at rubber stamps and I feel something warm start to slide down my thigh. I tell my friend I'll meet her outside and do that stiff legged please-please-please-you-fucking-shit-don't-slide-down-anymore walk to the door. Once outside, I desperately look around for a toilet and, after following the toilets sign in what looks suspiciously like a circle, I finally find a fucking public rest room. No line and the only stall empty is, mercifully, the handicapped stall! So I run in, bolt the door, start to chant fuck, fuck, fuck very softly to myself because I can feel the shit moving quite steadily towards my knees and because there is not a fucking changing table in this stall. Nor a shelf. Nor anything that will pass for a shelf. So I fish my emergency kit out of my bag and prop it up against the toilet pipe and then I take a look at the damage. Not too bad, just breakfast and lunch forcing themselves under the skin barrier and out into my jeans. (It's not as if the clip had worked loose the way it did at work one day and half a bag of shit just went sliding straight down my trouser leg onto my shoes. Oh now, that was a fucking exciting experience.) So it's thank god for the full toilet paper dispenser and off with the completely wasted panties and a mental so sorry to whoever empties those little metal bins, because they're going to get a bit more than bloody maxis today.

Drug Cocktails: 30 Apr 2002

Drugs The Husband has been on at one time or another since last spring:

Results: No real fucking improvement at all. He doesn't vomit (much) anymore, but he still looks like a fucking Holocaust victim. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Travel Tips: 12 Apr 2002

When traveling by car with incontinent people, keep a few paper bags or newspapers handy (for sitting on, so the shit doesn't bleed through onto the car seat). Also, it may be a smart idea to keep a spare change of underwear, socks, and trousers in the trunk.

More Laundry Tips: 04 Apr 2002

Don't fret. Mom was right -- there's nothing a little bleach or Lestoil can't fix. Weirdly, Clorox (makers of Lestoil) also own Hidden Valley Ranch. Yes, salad dressing. No, I'm not eating it.

Toilet Tips: 10 Mar 2002

Leave toilet lid up. The incontinent people will thank you. The cats will like it, too.

Laundry Tips: 03 Mar 2002

Well, since we're all shitty at my house, I've learned a number of interesting laundry tips:

Salad Shooter: 27 Feb 2002.

So I woke up in the wee hours of this morning full of shit. Yes, fell asleep a normal human being, but woke up a shit covered freak. There's shit all over the flannel sheets and the duvet and my pillowcase. So I'm madly scampering around the bedroom looking for clean underwear and a new pouch cover and chanting shit, shit, shit at the cats (playing trip the shit encrusted owner) and at my husband (for being completely asleep -- although if he were awake and underfoot, I'd probably slap him), and at myself (for being covered in shit at 3 a.m.).

Get to the bathroom and ... what do I do? My boxers are full of shit. Obviously, must remove boxers to get at cause of problem, but am afraid removing boxers will spread shit to other thus far virgin portions of my body. Also, I am still trying not to be completely awake at this point as once awake, I will have to accept the reality of the situation. Finally, jump into shower and very carefully remove boxers.

I am covered in shit because the Hollister CenterPointLock DrainableWhite Pouch has separated from the CenterPointLock Flextend Skin Barrier with Tape and all the shit has run free. Why has it separated? Probably, I rolled over in my sleep onto the full pouch and the pressure popped it free. Or maybe evil pixies crawled into bed and ripped it free. Who the fuck cares, it's 3 a.m. and I'm covered in shit.

Of course, the stoma isn't going to be quiet right now when I need it most to be. No. Of course not. It's time to engage in some shit shooting. You try trying to sponge fresh shit off your body while your stoma is trying to machine gun the bathroom walls with bits of salad.

Finally, get a new bag, cover, and panties on. Still chanting shit, shit, shit very loudly at the cats (still playing trip the shit encrusted owner), at the husband (awake and changing the bed linens because he is a nice human being I do not deserve), and at myself (for having been covered in shit at 3 a.m.).

Make bed. Snip at husband. Stuff as much shit encrusted linen into washer as will fit. Snip at husband. Crawl back into bed. Get cuddled back into happiness by husband. Fall asleep. Wake up at 10 a.m. to loads of shit encrusted laundry.