Back in December 2020 I had to be rushed to the emergency room because I had a ruptured colon. The biggest salvo that this motherfuckin cancer has lobbed at me trying to kill me. Even though I was surprised that it happened, I did mention in a previous post that I felt, or knew, that I could suffer from some kind of gastric failure and die from that, so it was not totally unexpected.
When I was in the emergency room, writhing in pain, the surgeon came in after they had run all of their preliminary tests and delivered the news. He told my wife and I that I required emergency surgery to correct/ address my ruptured colon but the chemotherapy cocktail that I was on presented potentially fatal complications.
One of the drugs in the mix was, essentially, a blood thinner and something that attacked fast growing cells. Ideally, they’d want you to be off that drug for at least 6 weeks before they perform any surgery, but I didn’t have that much time. They had to cut me open and fix the rupture immediately. My wife and I agreed that I needed the surgery and took the risk.
Well, I’m still here, ha!
Anyway, as a result of the ruptured colon, they gave me a temporary ostomy. Basically, since they cut out a portion of my colon, they made an opening on my abdominal wall so that my waste exits my body through there instead of out the back door.
To collect the waste, I have to wear a little see through plastic bag on my belly. It is not the sexiest look. Right now, because of all the bandages that I have to wear because of my incision, the bag sits a little off center and requires me to constantly monitor the seal to make sure that nothing leaks out.
I did name the bag, but my wife doesn’t like the name and she doesn’t want me sharing the name because of the political nature of it. Anyway, even though the bag is a part of the life saving surgery that I received, I am not a fan of it.
I hate the ostomy so much that I made a list of “how do I hate thee”
Here are my top 10 reasons:
- It’s a bag, with my shit, that hangs from my belly.
- It’s unsightly. It’s an ugly, see through bag that hangs from my belly.
- It doesn’t stick well. Since it doesn’t stick well, I can occasionally smell the contents. although this could just be psychosomatic.
- I have no control over it. It farts and expels shit whenever it wants to. When it does, it makes a little lump that is visible through my clothes.
- It’s expensive to maintain. These bags cost money and they have to be replaced, frequently.
- I have to manually empty the bag. This is not fun, but I am getting better and faster at it.
- I don’t like how it makes me feel. I feel like a sick person, and I hate that feeling. It also finished taking away the little sex appeal that I thought I had.
- I have to constantly be mindful of it. I worry that it’ll leak when I’m in public, or that I’ll have a lump on there and not notice it. It just takes a up a lot of my awareness.
- I can’t really exercise with it.
- I can’t sleep well with it. I can’t lie on my side, I can’t turn too much, I basically have to lie flat on my back when I sleep. Gross.
Like I said earlier, I totally understand and realize that the partial colectomy and this ostomy bag essentially saved my life. Without it, who knows what kind of shape I’d be in, or if I’d even be here but that doesn’t mean that I have to like the bag though.
I guess I just feel embarrassed by it. It’s something that I always figured old or sick people would have.
Fuck, I just realized that I am both old and sick.