I’ve been binge-watching the classic show, ER, the last few weeks. I loved the show when it first ran from 1994 to 2009. It has been nice to reconnect with the staff of Chicago’s County General Hospital.
As a viewer I identify with Dr. John Carter, the ernest, talented and flawed medical student who is in continual conflict with Dr. Peter Benton, his mentoring physician.
In an early episode, a student with a colostomy bag asks for a doctor’s note to keep her from gym class. She is embarrassed by the bag and her fellow students bully her for something she has no control over. If I were younger, I would completely empathize with the student. Having a colostomy as a young person has to be horrifying on a level I cannot begin to imagine.
Not that it’s exactly a piece of cake as an adult.
Fact is, today was one of those days where I can empathize with colostomares who might want to give up on life and spend the rest of their lives sitting on the couch.
Most of the day was great. Worked out with my buddy, Stan, first thing this morning. Had a meeting with my director and a colleague about marketing some of our company capabilities. Then went to the office to move the contents of my cubicle to a new space. I moved so some collaborative and alternate workspace furniture can be installed where my former cubical now stands. I gave one for the team while getting a new space with a great window view — see the photo accompanying this post — and to support the addition of collaborative furniture.
My plan was to get home and hit the gym to ride 15 miles and thereby add to my mileage for the Colon Cancer Alliance Tour de Tush virtual challenge. I’m behind my mileage. I have a goal to ride 300 miles either indoor or outdoor by the time I have parathyroidectomy surgery later this month. I was excited to get to the bike.
Then there was the drive home. Traffic on I-40 East was a bear. Standstill for miles. Idiots trying to fly through using the right shoulder.
I could feel my colostomy bag filling with both air (I prefer how Brits call it “wind,” but it’s still a bag full of farts) and, well, shit.
I was in the middle lane. Getting over to the right to get to an exit was impossible. I knew what was coming.
More.
More wind. More brown.
The seal between the barrier and my skin would break.
I needed off the interstate.
There was nowhere to go.
Code Brown.
After 45 minutes in traffic I made it home. As soon as I stood up I felt the telltale warm wetness of this particular form of incontinence. The mess was contained by my clothing. All I had to do now was make it to the bathroom.
Turn on the shower. Strip off the soiled clothing. Pull off the failed ostomy appliance. Step into the shower. Wash all traces away. Dry the area. Prepare a new appliance and attach. Dry off. Dress.
Marley dog was dancing to pee from the moment I walked in the door. Let her out.
Then I return to the bathroom to clean up the mess. You know those hospital emergency room scenes where after the trauma is over a member of the housekeeping staff comes to restore order and cleanliness to the room. I needed one of those guys.
Pile up the soiled clothing, rug and towels and head to the washing machine. Grab the bleach cleanser to wipe down the shower, sink and floor. Bag up the soiled Dude Wipes (I LOVE those things). Light candles and spray air freshener.
Breathe.
Hopes of going to the gym were dashed. A fresh appliance needs time to “cure” so it sticks. Sweating or showering after applying a fresh appliance will cause it to fall off.
It wasn’t the worst code brown I’ve experienced in the last 10 years but it was near the top of the list. I’d like to say I adjusted my cape and moved on. I will get over it but, as always happens in the moment, I cursed the day I was diagnosed with cancer. I wanted to crawl into a hole and not come out. A serious code brown screws with the mind.
In the moment, I empathize with the people who don’t want to leave the house for fear of smells and leaks. I know shit happens but why did it have to happen to me? Why did a health condition I didn’t ask for and a physical change I never anticipated ruin what was a perfectly good day?
As soon as I post this I know my well-meaning fellow ostomates will share their own horror stories of catastrophic appliance failures. I appreciate them, I really do, and I know everyone with a bag attached to their abdomen has been there.
I know having a bag is part of the reason I’m alive. And I’m grateful to be alive.
I’ll get over it. Right now, though, I’m tired of having this thing.
I’ll be okay. And that’s okay.
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