It’s the week before Christmas and I’m hosting the final trivia night at the London Hotel before the holiday break. Everyone is in high spirits. There's a full house of party hats, reindeer antlers, candy canes and bon-bons. The room is tipsy. I take a moment towards the end of the night, to thank everyone for their support throughout the year and to let them know my plans for 2012.
The microphone is off, the final quiz is in the bag and it’s time for me to pack up. I gather my things and say farewell to the few remaining patrons and bar staff.
And then it hits me; just a whiff that all was not alright. I made a bee-line for the door and once out on the street, reached for my stomach. The now too familiar ring that juts out from my gut - an integral part of my colostomy bag, was no longer where it should have been. I swallowed hard, feared the worst and got to work under my t-shirt - replacing the dislodged bag and snapping it back into place.
But, ultimately, I knew the damage had been done.
Wounded, I struggle to my car. I slide into the driver’s seat and gently lift my cardigan - a lump in my throat. To my horror, my t-shirt is ab-sol-ute-ly soaked. The white cotton heavily stained with what I’m guessing, was my lunch.
I take a deep breath and contemplate my options. One clear image pierces my thoughts; my bathroom! I must make it to the safety of my bathroom. It seems entirely illogical to strap on my seatbelt, so I begin to drive. The irritating cry of the seatbelt alarm a constant reminder that I was in trouble.
I remembered the chux wipes in the glove compartment and laid two carefully across my tummy. These little absorbent pieces of cloth should stop the excess overflow - as I pressed down harder on the accelerator, driving largely to save my car interior. Fortunately it’s a short drive and within minutes I make the garage. I stumble towards the elevator and pray that nobody has to share the ride. What on earth would I say? I smell like a soiled baby’s nappy but without any visual clue to what has befallen me. Luck is with me and I make it to the safe haven of my bathroom. Needless to say, it was ugly, my friends. Messy.
Only 21 days of bag-wearing remain as I prepare for my ‘reversal operation.’
The bag will be gone and once more I will be able to poo and fart with the best of ‘em! Hark the herald angels sing!
