Look, I’m not going to sugar-coat this. Getting a stoma wasn’t on my bucket list, and I certainly didn’t think I’d end up here. But here we are, and honestly, it’s not as bad as you might think. Let me tell you how it all went down.
It started with a poo test. Yeah, one of those. My partner and doctor basically nagged me into doing it because apparently I thought I was bulletproof. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t. The test came back positive, which meant I needed a colonoscopy to see what was actually going on.
After the colonoscopy, the doctor said I needed to make an appointment to discuss the results. When I went in, he showed me the pictures. There it was, cancer, shaped like a crown, about 2.5cm, sitting right inside my anus about two inches up. Not exactly the imagery you want to see on a Tuesday afternoon.
Being me, I mostly ignored the whole thing between the colonoscopy and that doctor’s appointment. That’s just how I deal with things – or don’t deal with them, I suppose. The doctor, while very good at his job, didn’t exactly have a great bedside manner. He just came straight out with it: I was going to lose my anus. That took a minute to sink in. Thankfully my partner was there and immediately started asking about other options like chemo, radiation, anything that might save the plumbing.
They referred me to a radiation oncologist. After a few visits and a couple more scans, he gave me the odds: 60% chance of recovery. Basically, I had a 60% chance of being able to poo properly again if I went through with the treatment. Those odds weren’t amazing, but they were better than the alternative, so I said yes.
What followed was six weeks of radiation and chemotherapy. The first half was actually a breeze, barely noticed it. The second half? Not so much. Then, just before my last treatment, I caught COVID. Oh, and we had to move house at the same time. To say I was feeling rather poorly would be a massive understatement. I’d never felt that bad in my life before, and I genuinely hope I never do again.
But you know what? It was worth it. A few months later, I was cleared of cancer. Clean bill of health. We celebrated, life went back to normal, and for almost a year, everything was fine.
Then came the next colonoscopy. Unfortunately, the cancer had returned, roughly in the same spot as before. This time, there’d be no radiation or chemo. That site had already been blasted once, and doing it again would just destroy what tissue I had left. Even if it worked, my quality of life would be ruined. The only option at that point was surgery: an end colostomy.
The timing was interesting, to say the least. We had an overseas trip booked right when the surgeon wanted to schedule the operation. Thankfully, the cancer was caught early enough that waiting another month or so wouldn’t be a problem. So off we went to the UK and Paris, determined to have a good time before I lost my arsehole.
As luck would have it, at the end of the first week of our trip, I bought a pre-made club sandwich from a leading UK supermarket chain. What followed was the worst food poisoning of my entire life. I was violently ill for the rest of the trip. Looking back, I reckon my arse would have been pretty useless after that anyway, so maybe having it removed was for the best.
On the way back home, our plane broke. Twice. Thanks, Qantas. We ended up spending a couple of days in Singapore, which of course made us late getting back. The three days I’d planned to have before surgery turned into one. Essentially, I just had time to do the bowel prep.
I walked into hospital feeling a bit off and tired, but I put that down to food poisoning and jet lag. Everything went as normal, paperwork, bed assignment, met the anaesthetist, got wheeled into surgery. First thing I did when I woke up was feel for the bag. Nothing. Didn’t have long to wait before the doctor came in and told me I was off to Intensive Care. Turns out I had malnutrition and dehydration from the food poisoning, and there was no way they could operate with me in that condition. What a letdown.
Fast forward two weeks. I’m feeling a lot better, and it’s time for the operation to actually happen. I went into hospital a day early this time so they could be sure I was alright before they started cutting.
The next day, I went in for surgery. It went pretty well. I woke up with a bag where it should be and wasn’t really in too much pain. Things were looking up.
Then the next few weeks got interesting. My new poo hole wasn’t working like it should. In fact, it wasn’t working at all. I ended up vomiting quite a bit, and they suspected I had a blockage. X-rays and scans confirmed it, and back under the knife I went. This time it was full open-gut surgery, not laparoscopic like the original procedure.
I’m not going to lie, I woke up to quite possibly the worst pain I’ve ever experienced in my life. Absolutely brutal. Thankfully, drugs are marvelous, and they soon sorted me out.
My recovery took probably another week to ten days, punctuated by varying degrees of pain whenever I sat up, both from the most recent surgery and from my new ‘Barbie butt’. I’d had an end colostomy because of where my cancer was located. That means they took out the last 30cm or so of my colon, including my anus, to give me the stoma. The wound where my butt used to be was sewn shut, and let me tell you, it prevented me from sitting comfortably for a good three months post-surgery.
[TO BE CONTINUED…]