Playing The Cards You’re Dealt

Life does not hand you breaks. Life does not give you what you think you are owed. It will get better is something I get told a lot. Often it either doesn’t, or it does but not to the extent you need it to. I always have had the outlook that you shouldn’t worry because there is always someone worse off than you, 99% of the time that is true. The problem is everyone’s problems are relative to them. You could be a homeless man with a booze problem, could be worse, you could be an ISIS captive in Syria. Millionaire on a yacht has just lost five hundred thousand pounds in a casino, could be worse, you could be normal and not have a yacht or have five hundred thousand pounds to blow on roulette. Your problems are relative to you and your life, and they will always seem shit to you.

Now a lot of the time these problems can be solved, sometimes they can’t and you have to deal with it. The worst ones are the things that really shouldn’t be a problem, and should get solved, but for one reason or another they don’t. I’m 28 still living at home, not earning anywhere near as much as I would like, can’t afford to move out, live month to month, can’t afford to save, will probably never ever be able to afford to actually buy a house, stressed out at work, I shit in a bag for the rest of my life, just been told 2 chambers in my heart are only working at anywhere between fifty-five and sixty-five percent and will need meds for the rest of my life. You think life would cut you a break at some point. It doesn’t. You have to make your own breaks. However, this seems harder than trying to crack a safe, in the dark with a rubber hammer.

I don’t want things handed on a plate to me but I wouldn’t mind being able to get a foot in the door at least. At 28 I’m watching my friends get married, buy property, start families, getting ahead in careers and generally making lives for themselves. I’m still lagging behind living like a 19-year-old in their first job. I got accepted into a job I would have love to have made a career out of in the ambulance service. The week before I was due to start I ended up in A&E in the Royal London Hospital and ended up staying there for 2 months, so that knocked that on the head for the time being. There was no real job security as well because due to the amount of time I had off in the past 2 years before that meant that if I had 1 day off in my first year with them they could have taken the job off me. I’m now in a job that I enjoy with fantastic people, but at times like any other line of work it gets stressful and sometimes demoralising. To compound matters, we have just have had the awful premature loss of an integral, well loved, hilarious member of staff who passed away. She was remembered in an amazing and individual fashion whereby, as per her wishes, we all turned up to her funeral in our pyjamas. Jesus Christ did we get some funny looks. She wouldn’t have had it any other way. In the short time I knew this lady you could see that she had an infectious wicked sense of humour and always had a smile on her face regardless of the intense battles she was fighting every day. She put up a fight to the end, a fight she ultimately lost but none the less a fight any battle hardened soldier would have won medals for.

Recently we also found out we are now due to lose another key member of our team due to changing circumstances in her personal life, our mother hen, the lady that manages to control 3 feral undomesticated men on a daily basis whilst managing a branch, the lady that is always there to talk to when we would rather take to an elevated position with a high powered rifle, our branch manager Tracy. It will be with a heavy heart that we see her go but now that she’s going to be a lady of leisure enjoying the sun and her grandchildren, we can’t argue with that. I’d probably leave as well. I’m debating a sex change just for the lady of leisure title.

Life has its ups and down but it’s how you deal with them and what you make of it. Sure some days you can’t face getting out of bed and you’re strongly debating on whether it’s worth wrapping your car around a lamppost on the way into work just enough for a couple off weeks of work rather than actually turn up. Then you have great days where you feel really productive, get loads done, have a laugh and can’t wait for tomorrow. You have to take the rough with the smooth. This is the same with any job, and life in general. To quote Alexandra Dumas,

“Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes.”

Most people you encounter on a daily basis are fighting battles. Big or small, long term or short term, everyone is fighting. I want to do everything I can to move myself as far forward with my life in the time I have. At the moment I’m fighting to better my life but limited by my dysfunctional and constantly misbehaving body in the form of a pair of angry siblings. Senior Dickhead le Digestive system, which to be fair seems to be behaving for once and of course how could we forget my crappy cardiac friend, my heart, being too hyperactive and then being rubbish and only working at half pace. Still you have to crack on and make the best of things, it’s not the end of the world.

We had the Olympics recently, two of the swimmers had Crohn’s. Now a lot of articles read “Olympic athletes overcome/beat their Crohn’s disease” ( https://themighty.com/2016/08/why-i-wont-apologize-for-having-fun-while-sick/ ) which is fantastic but slightly misleading. It gives the impression this illness can be beaten, which sadly is not the case. It can’t always be beaten. Yeah some people will suffer with next to no symptoms, or only mild ones. However, there are people that can’t beat this illness no matter how hard they try, no matter how hard they fight. There have been a couple of articles recently about people that fell like they take flak for allegedly faking or exaggerating their illness because they also go out and have fun and live their lives. I do it. There used to be a few years of my life where I couldn’t leave the house, then when I got to a certain level I could go on a night out, as long as I didn’t eat for 24 hours before hand and even then on the night out I’d have to go and use dodgy bogs a few times a night and often ran the risk of an unauthorised bombing run for want of a better word. Then the day after I would spend firmly attached to the bog with my laptop and a packet of wet wipes from the freezer but it was a price I was happy to pay so that I didn’t miss out on the last year of university.Photogrid hidden battle.jpg

We might not look like it, but we are all fighting battles. Don’t always be quick to judge if you see someone who looks perfectly abled walking out of a disabled toilet or if you see someone you know with a chronic condition or illness out having fun. You don’t always know the outer half of the coin. Untill next time I will continue to crack on with my plans of world domination. I’m just taking the scenic route.

Just remember, you’re never out of the fight.

Till the next instalment of hate, stay safe.

 

 

I got my life back

So first things first. I didn’t die. Large point of winning there. I am now sat at home I my own bed finally, surrounded by mountains of medical supplies and medication.

I spent 13 days on ward 13D in the Royal London Hospital. It was an interesting if slightly longer stay than I anticipated.

I arrived at 0700 on the 31st to be admitted to the ward. After being told I was about to be dragged downstairs for surgery that was it I cracked up and could not stop crying. I was beyond shitting myself. I got taken down to the anaesthetic room pretty quickly where I was cannulated and given a first drug to make me a bit woozy. “I don’t think it’s working I feel……oh wait, ‘fuck that’s working” I dribbled as time slowed down. I was then told the next one would put me out. “PLEASE JUST DONT LET ME DIE!” I desperately asked before I blacked out. “Don’t worry you’ll be fine the anaesthetist replied. Then it all went dark.

Woke up about 5 hours later, with 1 drain in my stomach, a bag for life, an NG tube, 2 drips, a catheter and 1 drain where the sun will never ever shine again. Oh and bout 20 staples up my stomach. To say I was a little bit fragile is being generous. I don’t remember much of the first 2 days other than trying to reply to text messages and only being able to type absolute drivel, that and the fact that my morphine button appeared to be doing fuck all for my pain relief. Cue the anaesthetist. “Hrmmm ok” says he “we shall try you on fentanyl see it that makes a difference”. It didn’t. So I was switched back to morphine at which point they say “hrmmm, maybe you are just very tolerant to it” so the anaesthetist stood there and continually upped the dose until I could feel it starting to work at which point I take over with my magic button. He informed me that although fairly normal to be tolerant to it, I did have a higher than normal tolerance, one that you would usually see in drug addicts. I guess there goes my career as a drug addict, I couldn’t afford the amount I would need.

The next couple of days passed in a relative haze. I was obviously a lot more drugged up than I initially thought, I could have given Amy Winehouse a run for her money. On day 4 I think, the morphine pump came out and I was on oral morphine if I requested it, tramadol and paracetamol. Now as good as morphine and tramadol are as pain killers they also slow down your digestive system. Unbeknownst to me, I had a nice case of ileus which is basically where your digestive system is still asleep from the operation and general anaesthetic. However the doctors hadn’t discovered this yet and I was feeling good so out came the NG tube and down went water and soft food to test out my ability to keep stuff down. A litre of bile later and we work out I failed. I can confirm vomiting after major abdominal surgery is one of the most painful things I have ever done. So back down goes the NG tube. Now this NG tube was quite thick and during the process of putting it up my nose and down my throat into my stomach I threw up pretty much the entire contents of my stomach so I couldn’t help but think it was a bit of a redundant exercise as there was now nothing to aspirate out to stop me from being sick.

So due to the fact I for want of a better expression, had not had a shit, my guts were still declared asleep. I honestly thought they were going to have to call in some form of rectal exorcist. “I COMMAND THEE SHIT TO BE EXPELLED FROM THIS VESSEL OF THE LORD!” and then projectile shit everywhere as I climbed the walls of the ward and made my head turn 360 degrees. So I was back on fluids in the form of an IV and back off soft food and only sips of water. I was formally told that they suspected I had a case of ileus and I would just have to wait about for my guts to perk up and they would encourage them along with some laxatives and other bits and bobs.

I found where I had written in my diary on the 6th day.

“I am 6 days post op. I have just had one drain removed, need one more removed, which will hopefully be tomorrow. As soon as my stoma starts working and I can hold my food down then my NG tube should come out hopefully along with the catheter. I was in a lot of pain last night but slept from about 10 till 4am the I passed a bit of gas which instantly felt better, but it feels like there are pockets of trapped gas in other places which are agony. Now we have catch 22. To get your insides started you need to be up and moving, however doing that feels like you have been hit with a mid size car, possibly a small mini bus. I’m going to get up and wander around in a bit with my visitors later as I would love to start eating and drinking again.

The view out of the window is amazing here. Just a shame it’s so bloody hot. I want to be out in the sun relaxing. I’ve changed my bag on my own twice already. It’s easy and quick enough. Part of me can’t help but wince when I look at it and think it’s disgusting, but fuck it. It’s really not that bad and its kept me alive which generally is a plus point unless I’m due to be the next Hitler. There’s a couple of nice older blokes on my ward who have also had quite serious ops. There is a guy called Peter who is somewhat less sociable and I have come to know him as chunder man. As that is all he seems to fucking do, and I had a feeling it was self inflicted (I found out later, it was, he’d nearly killed himself with booze, even though he was apparently a qualified nurse). I’m sure he had some very genuine problems and serious things wrong with him but he was such a fucking moaner and so fucking rude. I could count the no of times I heard him say please and thank you on one hand. He had such a dull monotone voice, so I suppose it was a good thing he decided not to speak to the rest of us really.”

They removed my catheter later on that day and I went for a stroll and even made it outside however the river del urine, failed to flow. Hour after hour passed by which point I am absolutely busting for a piss. Nurses are starting to give me worryingly sorrowful looks like, “I know what’s coming next!” and of course they did, and what was worse that was so did I. If I didn’t have a slash in the near future one of two things would happen. I would damage my bladder, possibly tearing it and causing the need for further surgery, or I was going to get re catheterised. You’ll never guess what ended up happening. The calming convincing words of the nurse were “don’t worry, I’ve got lubricating anaesthetic gel” Fantastic me thinks. Not so much. I can promise you that it felt like a combination of deep heat and chilli powder being projected up my japs eye by a pressure washer. To be totally honest its wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be but it still wasn’t nice. That catheter stayed out till 2 days before I had to go home and I slowly regained the ability to urinate under my own power without the need for flowing water audio CD’s.

After a few days my guts perked up after a long walk and a couple of cigarettes (they always make my guts go like clockwork, ironic cigarettes contributed to me getting out of hospital) my guts finally kicked in, but obviously we had to make sure it wasn’t a one off. So I had to remain in for a few more days. Now came learning to change my bag, I swear to god the first few times I did it I thought it was the most disgusting thing I had ever done in my life and I was like fuckkk. This is for the rest of your days. But I thought to myself “have a can of man the fuck up and get on with it you pussy! this shit is keeping you alive” no pun intended. So I volunteered to do my first one and it was pretty easy to be honest, just needed getting used to what looks like an angry dogs penis covered in poo sticking out of your stomach (on a bad day). However my favourite day was when my stoma nurse came to watch me do a bag change my stoma decided this would be the best opportunity to kick off and projectile shit all over me, her and the bed. Half a degrading hour later and its all relatively clean and new bag on, so the stoma nurse leaves. Alas I notice a leak, so I inform the nurse who insists on helping which was lovely of her however when she cut my bag to size she unknowingly clipped the inside of it, thus creating a hole. So we carry on unawares and finish off with no dramas. 10 minutes later “My god what smells like decaying corpses being cooked in a vat of tramp sweat?” says I. Ah that would be you , you dickhead. I notice the leak so time for bag change no 3 within 20 minutes. I decided to fly solo on this one and managed to do it with no problems. That was my baptism of fire for bag changes and touch wood I haven’t had anything as bad since. I mean I even managed to change a bag recently in underworld in Camden with no lock on the door, piss and sick everywhere, no toilet seat. So with shirt over head, foot on the toilet and back on the door I proceed to have the worlds quickest bag change whilst using everything out of my man bag as there was no where to put it. So I’ve come on some way from 30 minute bag changes in the hospital bog.

2 days later and I was declared fit enough to release, beating my projected discharge date by about 3 days. My god I cannot tell you how good it felt to be home. Since then, I feel like I’ve gotten my old life back and I am some semblance of the person I was before all this utter bullshit walked through the front door of my life, bent me over and repeatedly arse raped me. I got on the tube and buses for the first time in 7 years. My god I have missed that. Did remind me how wanky and rude 90% of the British public is though. Anyways that’s enough for now. Much love I’m off to do a bit more living and what not.

[I have had this blog post open on my laptop since I left hospital but I literally have been too busy actually having my life back and being able to do things that I haven’t been able to concentrate and sit down and finish it. I also blame my blatantly undiagnosed ADD problem. But this is where I am going to leave this for now and will whack another post on later in the week as I have been concentrating on other writing stuff at the moment and now I managed to get this one up it like and can now go back to random smaller bloggages. Apologies for the absence, I’m not used to having a life you see.]

Stalag 13D

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(in a suitable norther accent) day 8 in the big brother hospital and hastie is again trying to work out was of escape from this secure prison for sick people. Yes people I’ve been in day 8 and I am now only finiding the energy/possibility to write a quick cheeky blog post just so you know how I’m doing. I intend to do much more detailed daiky ones with hindsight when I get out of here and have my laptop so any rediculous spellings and errors on here you can out down to auto correct. I’ve lost a fee kg, I weigh 78 kg today which is still alrite but I wanna bulk back up. Managed to stomach some corn flakes for the first time today for brekkie and am now vegging out on my bed watching this wonder of a weekend sail by. I’m so gutted I’m not in a sunny beer garden surrounded by friends, but soon :).

I’m currently waiting to have my wounds dressed as they are a bit weepy, need a clean and that’s it. My stoma has kicked into over drive after not working for 4 days. I had major fucking dramas with all sorts of leaks yesterday. Went through 4 bags.

I have a little build up of fluid in my pelvis which should either just be dealt with by my body or may need aspiriating if its causing a problem. Other than that just gotta est sleep and drink over the weekend back up to a normal level.and could be looking at escaping.

I’m so gratefully for all the people who have expressed their support for me and been there for me through this little bit of my roller coaster life.  I’ve got such good friends and I realise that so much now. I hope that I can only repay them with deeds of the same value one day.

“once more into the fray my friend;
To live and die today,
To live and die today.”

“Death smiles at us all. All a man can do is smile back.”

Tomorrow, “This is where we hold them! This is where we fight! This is where they die!”

Tomorrow my large intestines will pay for nearly five years of hell they have caused me. I will arrive at the Royal London Hospital for surgery at 7am. I could be in theatre as early as 8am. I will either be having part of or all of my large intestine removed and ending up with some form of ostomy, which will with 99% certainty be for life. It all depends on what the surgeons find when they open me up. Initially they are going to start the operation laparoscopically (aka keyhole) however they may have to open me up depending on what they find.

On one hand I can’t wait. It will be the beginning of the rest of my life. I should be able to do things again that I haven’t done in years that I used to take for granted like getting on a tube and going out with mates without constantly worrying where the nearest toilet is. However I have inane ridiculous fears that I know the chances of bad things happening are minimal, but my brain has decided to push them front and centre and concrete, weld and superglue into place. Of course the biggest fear is dying, however that’s probably the least likely to happen. More likely risks are post op infections, having a car crash on the way there or choking on lucozade in the next 20 minutes. I suppose what scares me the most is the total lack of control I have over the whole thing. I cannot do anything other than turn up on time, and hope for the best. I have to put my life in the hands of total strangers, and trust them to get me through it. As long as it’s not like Holby city where they are having a domestic over my open abdomen then I’m happy. I think this quite from gladiator shows why I’m frustrated ” Ultimately, we’re all dead men. Sadly, we cannot choose how but, what we can decide is how we meet that end, in order that we are remembered, as men.” I cannot do anything about this. As soon as that anaesthetic goes in, I’m relying solely on machines and strangers to keep me alive.

Sorry but I’m going get morbid, sometimes it helps me to rationalise it all. I can only hope that the majority of the time I have had a positive impact on people’s’ lives and that’s how I would want to be remembered. More gladiator, ” What we do in life echoes in eternity.” I can only hope I have had a positive impact and if I hadn’t, well fuck you because you probably pissed me off 😛 Thing is though, in the grand scheme of society I don’t feel like I have given much back because I haven’t had the opportunity because of this fucking illness. So hopefully as of tomorrow I can start.

I’m on a serious Gladiator thing tonight, watched it last night and I love that film. “Three weeks from now……..Imagine where you will be, and it will be so. Hold the line! Stay with me! If you find yourself alone, riding in the green fields with the sun on your face, do not be troubled. For you are in Elysium, and you’re already dead!” Amen to that.

It did freak me out earlier when I got out of the shower and looked in a full length mirror. I’m not a particularly vain person at all. I will leave the house looking like a tramp regularly if I feel like it. However, I realised I am never going to look like that again in less than 12 hours time. In fact, it reduced me to hysterical tears for about 20 minutes. I know that it’s a new beginning for me though. I’l get over it.

Last time i will ever look like that.

If people are looking to visit check my facebook, I’m going to put a large status up with all the details you need to come see me. I’m not gonna have any visitors till Monday unless I am very well and on my feet etc. I’ll put my old dears phone number up so just ring her for any information you want.

“Ready your breakfast and eat hearty… For tonight, we dine in hell!” aka the royal London. (alrite the last and first were 300)

“Man Down!” The call to man up.

I only managed to catch the last twenty minutes of the new series of “Our War” on BBC3, but that twenty minutes was packed with more emotion than most feature length films. To watch the extraordinary lengths soldiers will go to, to save the life of another soldier. I recommend anyone watch it on BBC iplayer or the next episode is next week. Luckily I caught it replayed later on and it was gripping viewing. You see how soldiers will go above and beyond the call of duty for their mates and not hesitate to put themselves in harm’s way.

For example, flying a Chinook helicopter in zero visibility, following an apache using Infra-red cameras to guide the way, in a sandstorm to pick up a wounded soldier who had stepped on an IED. Where most pilots would have refused to fly, these pilots didn’t because they knew that they were his only hope of survival. They managed to evacuate Captain Griffiths back to Camp Bastion and then back to Birmingham where he was with his family and they could speak to him. Unfortunately Captain Griffiths died twelve days later from his wounds, but his parents couldn’t express their gratitude enough to the men and women who helped to evacuate him so they could have those twelve days with him.

Amazing program, kind of puts my problems in perspective. I’ve got a new date for my operation, the 31st of August. It’s starting to all get very real and soon again. Although I do have to go in 2 days before and have an echocardiogram, which is basically and ultrasound of my heart due to the fact my resting heart rate is 110. Now I assume they would only cancel my op if there was something like a massive gaping hole in my heart, which let’s face it, I probably wouldn’t be sitting here now if that was the case. So yes life changing operation soon, scary times. I’m sure they won’t cancel it again, if they do I will kick off majorly and I’m normally very laid back when it comes to fuck ups, especially in the NHS but to cancel it twice would take the piss a little.

All I am doing at the moment is concentrating on what I am going to be able to do after this op and just ignoring all the shit bits I’m going have to deal with on the way i.e. a tube up the cock, (can you tell that one realllly bothers me?) because when I come out the other side life is going to be fucking mint. I am going to do loads of shit I haven’t been able to do for years like get a proper fucking job, get on a tube, go camping, all sorts. Simple things I used to take for granted. A good friend of mine has decided that he’s going to sign me up for a tough mudder in janurary, have a google, it’s like a 10km obstacle course on steroids with horrendous obstacles ranging from underwater tunnels to running through some form of electrified corridor. So I have an actual target to aim at being fit for. Well we shall see how it goes, let’s get the op out the way first eh.

One of those days.

I am now so fed up with sitting at home doing nothing. It is fucking depressing. I feel like such a fucking waster. My life is on hold till this fucking operation happens and I still haven’t heard anything. On the other hand, deep inside, I don’t even want this fucking operation, but I would rather just get it done with and out the way so I can get on with my fucking life. I am sick of this fucking illness and everything that goes with it. Sorry I’m just having one of those days. I’ve been on the verge of tears most of today for no apparent reason. It doels not help I’ve run out of drugs again, but that’s my own fault. To be honest I couldn’t really give a fuck about them. Sick of having to take tablets everyday and inject every week. Doing all of that and more for 4 years or so and I’m still going to have to have surgery. Excellent. Might just go and drink myself into oblivion. Meh.

Low blow from the NHS

As you may or may not be aware, to an extent I seem to have dropped off the face of the earth in regards to writing my blog. I have had this page open for days trying to write it but for some reason I cant.

So basically, after totally mentally preparing myself for this impending quite serious op I get a phone call no less than 48 hours before I am due to go in, informing me not to attend on Saturday and my operation is cancelled. EXCELLENT………do you detect a mint fresh hint of sarcasm? Basically I was put on a day surgery list not an inpatient list, the hospital realized this, and said that someone had made an error and put me on the incorrect list. When I asked if they had any idea of when I would now be looking at for surgery, they replied that basically they didn’t have a clue as I would have to be put on the correct list, and in effect start from scratch. Excellent.

I was so ready for that operation, for any outcome good or bad and then at the last second to have the rug pulled from under your feet and plunged back into uncertainty is pretty disheartening and shit quite frankly.

So shit in fact that I have had this document open for nearly a 2 weeks, unable to finish it because I am doing everything I can including drinking copious amounts of alcohol to ignore the fact that this has happened and I guess when I look at this I have no choice but to deal with that fact. On one hand, I’m so relieved that I haven’t had to have this operation. It’s a serious game changer, hopefully for the positive but I won’t be the same person I used to be and the big bit I worry about is how I’m going to see myself every day in a mirror, dealing with my self-image, and having scars, a bag, being comfortable around other people with it. To say I am shitting bricks is putting it mildly, I am terrified, honestly sometimes I think about it and the fear is so great that my stomach goes, like the split second after the rollercoaster takes that first massive drop. I also feel bad writing this, like I will offend people who have already had the op and are on the other side of the hill. I suppose really what it comes down to, is I’m scared how people will react, especially in different situations. I am sure that 99% of people will always react positively but there is always that cuntish 1% that will deal with it poorly. I mean don’t get me wrong, everyone is entitled to their own opinions but sometimes maybe just dealing with something sensitively would make a whole world of difference.

Yyou know what, there will be people that can’t deal with it and find it disgusting or whatever but at least most people will be fucking polite about it. At the end of the day I’m having this operation to save my fucking life! If I don’t have it, then at some point I WILL DIE. You know what, fuck it, I don’t care. I have bigger fucking problems than worrying about what other people’s opinions are.

On the other hand, I just want it over and done with so I can go back to work and have an income again, and go out without constantly worrying where the fucking nearest toilets are. I mean at one point I was practically looking forward to it! So we are now knocking on for 2 weeks since I was meant to have it done and I have heard absolutely fuck all from the hospital. The biggest thing I hate is just this constant uncertainty and sitting in limbo waiting for a phone call that doesn’t appear to be coming any time soon . Now that I’ve been placed back into limbo I am nowhere near as mentally ready for it as I was and I’m going to have to go through the whole fucking process of psyching myself up again.

I’ve got a few scalpel blades, needles and thread, etc lying about from my design work, surely I could give it a crack, love a bit of home surgery 😛

Battle in the mind: Fear. Very fitting for me this week.

D-DAY T-Minus 10 Days

Well I am now officially, well and truly shitting my pants. The hospital have just called me and given me a date for my pre-op assessment on the 16th July and the date for the actual procedure on the 21st of July at the royal London. I am more nervous than a sex offender at a nudist beach. On the one hand its good because it gets it over and done with and I can get back on track to having some kind of normal life. On the other hand, I just really am not looking forward to the whole series of events, being cut open, catheters etc. I’m not particularly vain at all but I keep looking at myself in a mirror and realise that, well in 10 days time, I won’t look like that ever again. Not that it’s a bad thing, just different. I don’t know, maybe on some level I am resentful, why me? etc. but you can’t sit around and bitch and moan otherwise that’s all we would spend our lives doing. Time to get my head down and crack on.

“Courage is not the absence of fear but the judgment that something else is more important than fear. The brave may not live forever but the cautious do not live at all. For now you are traveling the road between who you think you are and who you can be.”

It’s always darkest before the dawn.

Do you find some days everything just gets to you? You just are having “one of those days”? I’ve been sat for the last 2 hours researching every possible way I could try and blag my way into the army. It’s not going to happen, unless I can somehow blag to be the first test case for someone with an ostomy and crohn’s to try and join. What do you do when your told the one job you have wanted to do all your life is now off the table? Ever since I was a kid all I wanted to do was join up, the only reason I went to uni was to join as an officer. I don’t know. Guess it just wasn’t meant to be.

Some days it just really gets to me. I fucking hate this disease with every fibre of my being, I resent the fact I’m being forced to have surgery at 24 fucking years old! I know that it’s not the end of the world and that it could be a shit lot worse but some days I get fed up with smiling, joking and accepting it. I fucking hate this illness, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, not even my worst enemy. Sat on my bed at 24 years old, not able to work, get out of breath walking 2 minutes round the corner, waiting for an operation that might be in 6 weeks if I’m lucky. I did not picture my life turning out like this. All it has done is cripple me. I’m not the same person I was 7 years ago. I look at these people that hammer on with their illnesses and do amazing things and get on with life, but I physically cannot do that. THAT is what I hate more than anything!

On the one had I want this surgery over and done with because hopefully it should give me some semblance of a normal life back, however at the same time, I’m still furious I even have to have it in the first place. So fucked off with life. To top it all off I have run out some medication, my own fault not being organised. It’s not going to be ready till Saturday so I have another 2 days on top of the last 2 of withdrawal, meaning the most horrendous nightmares every night waking up caked in sweat. My own fault though. You would think I’d learn but this is about the 4th or 5th time I’ve done it.

Tomorrow I should be back to my perky cheerful self, but every now and then you have days like these. Got to keep soldiering on.

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