Panic in the toilet

Let’s turn back the clock to January 2017, a time that marked a significant turning point in my life. It was a chapter filled with bold moves and exciting changes. I had stepped out of a marriage (that makes it sound easy. It wasn’t), switched to part-time work, leapt into pursuing a master’s degree, and immersed myself in the vibrant local theatre scene. And yes, amidst all this, I got my very first tattoo, which, to my amusement, seemed to shock my Dad more than anything else. I was reliving my 20s and loving it.

I had run full pelt into December 2016, celebrating completing my Masters, producing the epic production that was Dick Barton, and bringing the New Year in with a bang with some amazing people. My life was buzzing with energy.

January 2017 brought me two significant and contrasting experiences that would change my little corner of the world as I knew it. The first was Marco, who would become my husband and the Sicilian of Chatty Sicilian. The other was the emotional rollercoaster of my IBD (inflammatory bowel disease) and fertility journey.

Fast forward to today and I’ve reached a point in the journey where I can pause and reflect without getting too angry.

So it begins

It all kicked off with this ‘uh oh’ moment in the bathroom. A bit of blood – nothing major, but with my family’s history, I didn’t wait around to call my doctor. At the time, I was blind to the path that it’d take me down.

It was still a time when I took doctors at their word, I trusted them to read through my medical history before coming to any conclusions. It never even crossed my mind to question them (before you comment remember the caveat in the blog introduction). Unbeknownst to me at the time what I was experiencing was just an irritating pimple.

My doctor’s referral led to a waiting list for a colonoscopy scheduled for July.

In the beginning, talking about bowel issues was so not in my comfort zone, except with my mum. I mean, discussing poo stuff? I used to giggle at the mere mention of the word when I was a kid. It was a topic reserved for whispered tones and blushing cheeks. Now it really doesn’t bother me, I have to mind my audience, over-sharing is something that just happens. In some cases I’ve found that others have opened up because of my frankness. There’ll be some of that later on but for now, it’ll stay U-rated.

Thankfully, during this early phase, I didn’t have any major bowel control issues. I wasn’t yet at the point of scouting out toilets, worrying about emergency dashes or if there was toilet paper! This possibility hadn’t even entered my head… no, that delight came later.

The run-up to the procedure

I’d just met Marco. We met online, through the Badoo app (if you’re familiar with that one) and our first date was at the Black Lion in Brighton. I listened while he chatted on about ‘his city’ – Catania, not Palermo (I wouldn’t advise mixing them up, think the US and Canada). He was a Chatty Sicilian at one point and still is when I’m trying to sleep 🙂

Anyway, I digress, I didn’t want my new beau to know so I barely mentioned it. He knew I was going into the hospital but didn’t know the nitty-gritty. And honestly? I was nervous about the whole ‘farting-in-front-of-the-new-guy’ scenario. Growing up, I was told that girls don’t fart. Little did I know…

It turns out I shouldn’t have been worried. In the last few years I’ve discovered that my farting makes him laugh, he finds it hilarious and actively tries to make me fart which at times, quite frankly, could have been dangerous. Farting is healthy, don’t hold it in. Fart loud, fart proud!

Through this journey, I have discovered that there’s a farting sweet spot. It’s a little bit like Goldilocks and the three bears, you shouldn’t fart too little or too much, it should be just right. I think farting the alphabet in a day should be fine.

Back to the story. I had my colonoscopy. The diet, the unpleasant drink that had me running for the bathroom multiple times whilst trying desperately not to fart so loudly that I woke Marco up. Having to bear my arse to a perfect stranger while wearing a backless gown, wide awake under local anaesthetic. Yeah, not fun. Luckily it didn’t take too long and I could move on with my day with a pint of cider.

While I was waiting

Afterwards, at the follow-up with a specialist nurse, my symptoms had mostly subsided. It felt like a distant, uncomfortable, memory. They diagnosed me with mild proctitis, gave me a hotline number for any future flare-ups, and sent me on my way. No mention of potential food allergies, dieticians, or logical reasons why and I didn’t have the experience to ask, I was just thankful that it was over.

I thought that was the end of that chapter but life had more in store for me when it kicked me in the arse again a year later…