This blog, I don’t know what it is, a chance to vent. and maybe, someone will search “ostomy” like I did, and stumble across this - Not a blog that preaches that it’s not a big deal, or that tries to convince you that life goes on as normal. It doesn’t. And man it’s rough a lot of the time. So, this is me- someone still dealing with it in their own way. Some days, I’m so proud of myself for being. other days, I hate it so much my whole body is tense. it’s a rollercoaster. 

To date, I’ve told 12 friends about my ostomy. Not one of them judged, squirmed or abandoned me. I don’t give my friends enough credit. 8 girls. 4 boys. 2 boy boys. and I’ve spent so long being so scared of saying anything, to anyone. The first 3 people I told was only because something went wrong and I needed someone to take me to the hospital, the next two were also by necessity, and then all of a sudden it was like a floodgates opened. It was like, a test for myself and a test for my friends. 

Life is so much easier once a friend knows. I no longer have to make excuses for going to the bathroom annoyingly frequently, or to worry about whether it’s getting too full to be inconspicuous. And to be honest, it’s opened up a whole world of new jokes. 

Actually, I shouldn’t understate how hard it is. Three times I’ve been drunk, and once I just wrote him a letter before I left the country, so I never really had to confront him about it. I had always told him “I have body image issues, don’t touch my stomach” - it’s not fun always being on guard. I do regret that letter. I wish I’d been brave enough to say something in person before it was too late. Lessons. 

It’s still a big deal. and they are a lot of friends I haven’t told. There’s a very fine line between wanting to share something that has really shaped who I am with my friends, and wanting to the “that girl with the bag” if it ever became common knowledge. 

On November 17 2005 I was released from hospital. 17 years old, weighing in at 35 kilos, wearing a bag. One month later, we were at the international airport, about to move country. Sitting in the departure lounge, I felt something warm on the side of my stomach and went to the bathroom to investigate. My bag had leaked. I was alone, without my supplies, in a cubicle, breaking down. At that moment in time, nothing else mattered. I was defined by my bag, I hated my bag, I hated myself, I hated God.