These are stories of happenings and feelings about the Jpouch surgery, preliminary surgeries, and life without a colon.
About a month after the surgery, I went back to Cleveland Clinic for a barium enema study to be sure the pouch didn”t have any leaks.
I flopped my ass on the chilly exam table, sandwiched between X-ray equipment and a medical baby pool to catch the runoff, and presented tush for the invasion with full confidence.
After all I”ve been through, surely this test would reveal an immaculate pouch. He talked me through it, pointing to the tunnel just off my J-pouch heading into lady land.
Perfect, nay, reborn from the ashes of the former and we would all revel in its glory, right? My Brian Cranston-esq radiologist [insert ] he is the one who tests, redid the enema himself when an anomaly popped up on study done by his minion. He even took me back into the secret bunker-style room full of humming monitors and miscellaneous medical equipment to show me a comparative study of prior non-fistulized images to the current.
No doubt about it, there was a fistula, specifically, a sinus cavity in the anterior of the pouch (that”s towards my lady parts for all you layfolk). I”ve had too much gnarly shit happen for surprise at this point. That”s the safety valve in my psyche opening up so I don”t go running head-first into ongoing traffic.
I get quiet because the processor is trying to wake up and do its job, but really, what is there to do other than head up to my next appointment with the bad news and put the burden on the doctor”s plate, not mine?
Oh right, I have to tell my amazing, supportive, been through hell-and-back mother that once again, something is wrong with her baby.
When I got cleaned up and passed the waiting room on my way into the changing room, I was starting to feel again.
The lump in my throat was becoming more obvious to me, but I wasn”t ready to spew forth this truly shitty news just yet, so I just told mom I had to change first and I”d tell her what happened.
Something about seeing my poor, young face in that changing room mirror brought me down from the clouds of denial.
I looked myself in the eye and I felt sorry for the girl I was communing with.