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Would my loo trauma finally reveal what was wrong with me?
Unpacking the last of my clothes, I sighed with relief.
‘We’ve officially moved in now,’ I said to my boyfriend Gary, then 18.
It was September 1992 – and just six weeks into our relationship, we’d left Southport for London.
Loose jeans were evidence of the stress of the move.
‘Better get some food in you!’ Gary teased.
It wasn’t the worst thing in the world, shedding a few pounds – but soon, the weight was dropping off me...
Three weeks later, pains seared through me.
Then came the sickness – uncontrollable vomiting after each and every meal – plus horrific diarrhoea.
Rushing to the loo when out, sometimes I didn’t make it, so I started to wear incontinence pads.
My GP recommended an over-the-counter antacid – it just gave temporary relief from sickness, but not the pain.
Feeling miserable, I missed my mum Maureen, 43. So we moved back to Southport in March 1993.
Mum was horrified that I’d lost two stone, my collarbones jutting out...
I continued having regular sickness and diarrhoea until I fell pregnant in April 1994.
During those nine months, I ate again, even put on weight.
But when Declan was born in January 1995, all my problems started up again.
Back to the doctor, they had a new diagnosis for me...
‘You have bulimia nervosa,’ my GP told me.
Gary took care of Declan, while I was admitted to an eating-disorder clinic. ‘I’m not bulimic, I’m not trying to lose weight,’ I insisted. ‘You have to stay here until you feel better,’ a nurse told me. Crying to Mum, I knew that I didn’t have bulimia. After 12 weeks in the clinic, having a series of group talks and one-on-one therapy, I was no better – still being sick and suffering with diarrhoea. So Mum took me to A&E at Southport Hospital. I had blood transfusions, steroids and other medicines, all of which my body rejected. Then on Easter Friday in 1995 I was taken to theatre with a cross on my belly. When I awoke the next day, a stoma bag had been fitted, which leaked, so my poo and urine were falling out of me! That April, I was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis. For 18 months, I got to grips with the stoma bag, but then, after a while, I opted for a J-pouch – a surgical procedure to make a hole in the small intestine, so that I could go to the toilet normally. It worked. For nine years, I was pain-free. But then, while I was on the toilet one day, horror swept through me.
Poo was leaking
from my vagina! ‘How has that happened?!’ I gasped. ‘Did you say something?’ Gary called out to me. ‘No…’ I stuttered. So I booked an appointment with my consultant at the Royal Liverpool University Hospital. ‘It looks like you actually have Crohn’s disease,’ she explained. I didn’t have colitis. I was diagnosed with perianal fistulising Crohn’s, which meant that my Crohn’s was creating narrow tunnels between the gut and another organ. I had four, and one connected my vagina and bowel. I’d need surgery to close them up – but, hopefully, that would help my bowels return to normal working order. Since then, I’ve undergone multiple operations. The future holds some unknowns but, for now, I’m on biological medications – which, thankfully, seem to be working – and I just laugh everything off.
A lot of people with my
condition hide away, which is why I work with Crohn’s & Colitis UK and the Ileostomy & Internal Pouch Association to share my message.
My condition is not always pretty, and simple tasks like popping to the shops can be a logistical nightmare.
But I plan to embrace my life – poo and all!