Auf Wiedersehen Jackie

Andy Rivers

You probably don't know this (why would you) but generally everyone with a stoma gives it a nickname. For instance the most famous person I can think of with one is Radio 1 DJ Adele Roberts and she's nicknamed hers Audrey - I think it helps with the mental aspects of the upheaval you're going to experience if you can humanise and relate to the little bastard that's going to rule your life from here on in. Anyway, in the eighties there was a little vagrant type fella that hung around Newcastle Quayside that everyone called 'Jackie Shiter' 'cos he was a bit smelly...see where this is going? 😁

I went into Scarborough Hospital for my long-awaited Stoma reversal operation on Thursday 18th Jan and unlike nineteen months previously at York Hospital I was in my own private waiting room this time. I'd said goodbye to Jackie that morning and was checked in at 10:30 and told I'd be first or second on the list so I changed into the 'hey everybody look at my arse' gown and waited. If you know me then you'll know I'm a very confident person, the type that doesn't succumb to fear or panic 'cos I'm nails and that, however I still regularly shudder about what happened last time (see Too Good For Giving Up ) and as the clock ticked round slowly my anxiety grew like one of those massive hedges that warring neighbours plant to piss each other off.

By 14:00 when they came in to tell me I was 'definitely next' I'd pretty much blanked out the humiliations of the last year and a half and convinced myself that living with a stoma wouldn't be that bad, when the anaesthetist came in to tell me about all the things that would happen to me when I was out cold I started reaching for my clothes. Then my consultant Mr Lim came in, this is the man who diagnosed my cancer all those months ago and then sorted it out so I felt very safe knowing he was doing the surgery. This lasted about thirty seconds before he listed all the things that could go wrong, especially the likelihood of me getting a bowel blockage (gulp!) and how difficult it was. He then told me I'd put on weight (aye cheers then!) and finished with the immortal line 'last time we had nothing to lose, this time we've got everything to lose...'

Luckily they came to get me straight after that otherwise I'd have been off to the nearest Wetherspoons!

In the anasthetic bit before the operating theatre I was introduced to the trainee anaesthetist who commented on my Newcastle united dressing gown, Newcastle tattoo and obviously gorgeous Geordie accent (like honey drizzled over gravel...) before telling me he was a Chelsea fan and we were a dirty team. I had drugs in me at this point so answered back with some of my trademark repartee and witty one-liners before waking up some hours later in a recovery room in loads of pain feeling like I'd been stabbed.

Why have you mentioned the glory hunting, plastic, Sky generation, Chelsea trainee I hear you ask? Well, whilst I was in pain from the surgery I noticed that my mouth also hurt and I couldn't work out why so with a great effort I managed to take a pic of my face to check it out and found out the reason. I'd gone into the theatre looking like a top model (as usual) and had come out of there with a massive hole in my stomach (expected) and two black eyes and a fat lip! I'm convinced the fucker digged me when I was out cold so have added him to my hit list...mind you I'm running out of paper on this list so I might not get round to him...hey ho. 😁

Even though I was full of morphine the pain was mental. It was like I imagine how it feels if you've been stabbed, I couldn't move as it was basically my core muscles that had been cut and if I had to sneeze...fucking hell...I would rather have been punched in the face by an overweight, pretend Chelsea fan!

They told me that basically I couldn't leave the hospital until I'd farted and had bowel movements (that means have a shit - you're welcome) They also told me I'd lose control of my bowels for up to two weeks...if you're of a sickly disposition or, as is more likely, have always known me to be the coolest man in the room and don't want your image of me shattered then you might want to give the next few paragraphs a miss...💩💩💩 )

The next day I managed a bit of toast for breakfast despite not being that hungry, reasoning that the sooner I ate something the sooner it'd (hopefully) come out the other end and just lay about unable to really move for the pain. Whilst on the ward I heard a lot of shouting from somewhere else and nurses trying to calm people down but didn't take a lot of notice. I had a bit of tea but still nothing was happening. My stoma nurse popped by to see how I was getting on which was nice 'cos she's been brilliant and then around 21:00 another nurse said they'd have to move me 'cos A&E was mobbed and they needed to create another bed. You can probably guess where I was going - I was put in the corner of the shouty ward where one old fella was being restrained and another kept whispering about how no-one knew what he'd done and how he could easily sort out the bloke who was shouting and anyone else. Because my stomach hurt so much (and 'cos I was scared to rip any internal stitches) I couldn't sleep or even change my position on the bed so was in shouty, madman limbo and questioning a lot of my life choices as the clock headed towards midnight. I was starting to think my bowel might be blocked at the new join and could see a very near and horrible future where my kidneys started to fail (again!) and shit was coming out of my mouth as it had nowhere else to go...

Then I farted and everything was alright. 😁

I gave the nurse who stationed on the ward fair warning about what was coming and sat back ready to unload...😂

It started at around 2am and pretty much didn't stop! I tried to make it to the toilet a few times but it hurt too much so I gave up. They changed my bed three times before realising it was pointless and started giving me nappy type pants to wear. By the way if you think taking the piss out of me for this is going to bother me then save yourself the breath - I've already had it all from family and friends and I couldn't give a fuck. I lost all embarrassment two years ago during my 'knob out' radiotherapy treatments and my bowel habits are discussed daily at work in the all-female office so believe me, talking about this is fuck all to me. 😉😁

At around 10am the next day I was casually knocking back the toast (Low-Fibre diet so white bread only - bit shit but there you go) when the doctors came round.

'How are you Mr Rivers.'

'Brilliant Doc - been farting and shitting all night.'

'Excellent. You'll be getting discharged today then.'

And that was that.

Discharging takes a while (fucking hours in fact) so it was around teatime when Lisa came to get me and we had the quandary of me facing extreme diaorrhea for possibly the next two weeks and us living a half-hour drive away...

This was exacerbated by the nurse taking my cannula out just before we left and just as my bowels moved again. As I got to the toilet my hand was pissing blood and my arse was evacuating everything rapidly - it was like a Quentin tarantino movie. The cleaner took one look after I had finuished and refused to touch it! 😂

The drive home saw me wearing two nappies, sat on an incontinence pad and wincing at every pothole but we managed to make it home without incident. Ironically the only half-hour in the next thirty-six I didn't shit myself!

The next two days were hard work. Very hard work. I basically had to stay upstairs, wearing nappies and near the toilet at all times. It was fucking exhausting for both of us and many times in the small, dark hours I wondered what I'd done to deserve this but, as they say, it's always darkest before the dawn and come Monday night it had slowed down. I was going a few hours in between and getting some sleep and I started to cheer up again.

When the district nurse came round to change the dressing I had a look at my sore belly and it just looked like I had a massive bullet hole in my gut. Over the next six weeks I got to know the nurses at my GP's very well as they changed the dressing every day (been invited to their Christmas party and everything 😁) and one of them even told me she was gutted I was being discharged from their care as I was a right laugh - honest! I spent a lot of time on the settee watching Auf Wiedersehn Pet during this time so my wound healed properly and then, momentous day, I went back to work at the end of Feb. Despite some morale-sapping setbacks, I know I've healed quickly (told you I was fucking nails didn't I 😉 ) and knew I was really on the mend when I sneezed one day and it didn't feel like I'd been shanked with a rusty blade.

And now here I am two and half years on from my initial stage three cancer diagnosis, right back in the game and as gobby as I ever was. 😁

So I'd like to say a big thank you to you all for reading my self-indulgent bollocks over the last couple of years and for all the messages of support. Writing about it helped me make sense of what was going on at the time and hopefully helped anyone else out there who might have appreciated a Geordies-eye view of the big C.

Stay safe you bunch of radgies and, if you think owt's wrong GET FUCKING CHECKED!

See you later

Rivs

© Andy Rivers 2024