Poem:- Shy Bowel

Memories

(More Toilet Problems)

 

“PARCOPRESIS”

as the medical folks (and WIKIPEDIA)

like to define

is psychogenic

faecal

retention

 

or “the inability to defecate

with other people

around/in other toilets

that aren’t our own.”

 

Let’s call it a fear about going:

 

those (like me) will find it’s often in a crowded, public

place

(like a shopping centre

or the services on the motorway).

No cubicles free/there’s always a queue

 

and the first reaction

is your guts start to rumble

 

you get the sweats

 

and your legs quiver in panic

(knowing full well you should’ve gone before

you left).

 

Or it could be there’s always someone in the cubicle

on either side

of you (whose trousers you can see round

their ankles)

always putting you

off.

 

It’s a mental thing

 

and some of you may laugh

 

but why, oh, why does the throne have to be so close

to everything

 

 

and why does the porcelain

always have to echo

every one of my farts

so everyone outside can hear

me?

 

I wouldn’t give a shit

(even if I could)

 

but I often find myself asking these questions a lot when I’m on

my own, locked

behind a door

 

killing time, trying to take a load

off my mind

(and body).

 

I like my comfort/I like my space

 

with a clean toilet and plenty of toilet roll (but I’m not snobby

or fussy)

 

and I don’t want people going in before

or after
me.

 

[VERSE]

from TALKING OUT MY ARSE (poems inspired by Crohn’s Disease, Hospitals, Public Toilets, Food/Drugs).

 

TALKING OUT MY ARSE ALT FINAL

Crohn’s [Disease] Diaries PART 13: Living with My Intestine on the Outside of My Body

I was rummaging through some old writings. Came across these short diary-like entries from stints in/out of hospital 6 or 7 years back.

These began at a time when I was pretty vulnerable, with no proper diagnosis of the developing illness I had. Gradually, over the weeks, I became more and more aware of this “CROHN’S DISEASE” and started writing about its day-to-day struggles/speculating a lot about its causes.

To this day, Crohn’s has no known cure, but it is more common than people think.

Just no one ever talks about it.

Empty

[Each entry is how it was when I wrote it, except maybe for a few spelling/grammar edits. Don’t use them as a guide; they are merely the experiences of a patient coming to terms with an illness (written mostly on a variety of different meds.)]


 

> Part 13: Living with My Intestine on the Outside of My Body
(Part 12 HERE)

 

Whatever the docs/nurses tell you about “LIVING A NORMAL LIFE” after having an Ileostomy/colostomy op isn’t true.

 

Medically, yes, some might consider it a blessing in that it allows the large intestine time to heal after surgery; there’s noticeably less pain; and it’s not always a permanent “solution” (in my case, temporary).

 

Next year or so, my bowels are gonna be re-connected and everything will work as normal again. But for now, I’m uneasy.

 

A month or so since the Stoma Nurse first lifted by shirt up to show me my “bag”, I’m struggling to get used to the fact that I now have a shit pouch on the right-side of my abdomen.

 

My (bright red) intestine pokes through and I can see whatever I’ve eaten squeezing out and dropping in the sack; and the only thing I get coming out my arse these days is mucus.

 

The pouch needs to be emptied 8-10 times a day (the contents are always runny); rashes are regular obstacles when it comes to bag-changing; and where there’s excess wind, it’s advisable to double up on layers to try and hide the inflation.

 

Still young, I like to think (25 – single), but it ain’t easy going out and mixing with new people.

 

All I can think about is where the next bog is, or if my pouch is leaking.

 

Intimacy? Not likely. The last time I got remotely “close” to anyone was during the last days spent with Selena.

 

The bag had been playing up all that week. Till it eventually burst; and I ended up leaving that shitty colostomy bag in her bed.

 

We haven’t spoken since.

 

Crohn’s [Disease] Diaries PART 12: Selena

I was rummaging through some old writings. Came across these short diary-like entries from stints in/out of hospital 6 or 7 years back.

These began at a time when I was pretty vulnerable, with no proper diagnosis of the developing illness I had. Gradually, over the weeks, I became more and more aware of this “CROHN’S DISEASE” and started writing about its day-to-day struggles/speculating a lot about its causes.

To this day, Crohn’s has no known cure, but it is more common than people think.

Just no one ever talks about it.

Empty

[Each entry is how it was when I wrote it, except maybe for a few spelling/grammar edits. Don’t use them as a guide; they are merely the experiences of a patient coming to terms with an illness (written mostly on a variety of different meds.)]


 

> Part 12: Selena
(Part 11 HERE)

 

We’ve been in touch ever since I got admitted in. But for months she’s been saying she’ll come to visit me… and today (close to over 5 months since I last saw her) it finally happened.

 

2 days late of my birthday. She bought me a Rocky mug and a DVD – Starship Troopers 2 (which I later found out was from Jamie).

 

She looked good/healthy. Hair was a brighter red than usual; but she had that smile… that made me want to sit up in bed.

 

So I did; and she gave me a hug. She asked how I was (I said shit) and we spent most of the visiting minutes just talking.

 

She missed out the part about her fucking my mate (JAMIE), though. It must’ve slipped her mind…

 

… somewhere in-between watching some old quiz show on TV and her asking if I wanted to see her shake her behind in front of the bed (“like old times”).

 

I thought we had something.

 

Them years we spent together we probably some of the happiest. We’d get pissed and have late-night/early morning BBQs on the beach; she liked to paint/draw; she was a Gamer; and I still think of her whenever it comes to that game, Shadow of Colossus.

 

She used to play that a lot; but now she’s playing me.

 

For months I’ve been stuck in here, restrained to the point that I can’t do anything remotely productive (cept flush out my bowels). While she gets off on fucking him, being the gutless piece of shit that she is

 

… and coming from me, that’s pretty ironic.

 

 

 

 

Crohn’s [Disease] Diaries PART 11: Just Another Day…

I was rummaging through some old writings. Came across these short diary-like entries from stints in/out of hospital 6 or 7 years back.

These began at a time when I was pretty vulnerable, with no proper diagnosis of the developing illness I had. Gradually, over the weeks, I became more and more aware of this “CROHN’S DISEASE” and started writing about its day-to-day struggles/speculating a lot about its causes.

To this day, Crohn’s has no known cure, but it is more common than people think.

Just no one ever talks about it.

Empty

[Each entry is how it was when I wrote it, except maybe for a few spelling/grammar edits. Don’t use them as a guide; they are merely the experiences of a patient coming to terms with an illness (written mostly on a variety of different meds.)]


 

> Part 11: Just Another Day
(Part 10 HERE)

 

I’ll always remember 2Pac saying in some interview in prison that being stuck inside kills your inspiration. This isn’t the same, but it’s not far off.

 

Hospital is a morgue. Getting out of bed is challenging enough (the Physician helps); everyone’s miserable/screaming or shouting about something; and no one really wants to be here (but it’s either this or die).

 

The TV in my room (one of the few luxuries you might think) doesn’t help anything. Nothing but cooking programmes/re-runs of TOP GEAR (on DAVE).

 

I could use the time productively, maybe write a few poems. But I crave something easy; something basic…

 

… like Hulk Hogan’s autobiography (by my bedside).

 

Coming up to tea time and I’m nil by mouth (again). The smell of microwaved curry coming from the corridors is a blessing and a craving.

 

Can’t remember the last time I ate proper food/anything remotely edible.

 

Starving…

 

and it’s looking unlikely that I’ll be getting out of here before Christmas.