World IBD Day!

Today is world IBD day! The aim is to spread awareness about Inflammatory Bowel Diseases. Now one of the reason I guess that maybe this isn’t one of the most publicised conditions is because nobody likes talking about poo. Shit, crap, shite, dung, fecal matter, chocolate export, bum nuggets, logs, big jobbies.

Anyone can develop IBD – and at least 261,000* people are affected by Ulcerative Colitis (146,000*) and Crohn’s Disease (115,000*) in the UK – Although recently published data suggest that this could be as many as 620,000.

The illnesses can occur at any age, but often begin in younger people aged 10-40. There are up to 18,000* new cases a year. Both conditions are found worldwide, but are more common in developed countries.” *Figures published by NICE Guidelines (2013)               – Website for National Association for Crohn’s and Colitis

As many as 5 million people around the world suffer with IBD. It can cause a variety of symptoms from fatigue, weight loss, anaemia, abdominal pain, generally feeling unwell and of course the big one, the shits. Now that last one was something I got bad. I was going 50+ times a day when I was at my worst. I lived in that fucking toilet, watching whole bloody series of 24, and full feature length films in there.

Today is about trying to make people aware of this illness and its symptoms. In hindsight, I should have gone to the doctor about 6 months before I started to have problems but of course, your bowel habits change when you first get to uni and you instantly put it down to a bad diet, drinking too much and generally a poor lifestyle and you can even convince yourself that for six months because you don’t want to go and talk to a man in a white coat about your poo, how often you do it and of course its colour and consistency.

If I hadn’t hung around and maybe actually gone to see a doctor, who knows if it would have got as bad and as advanced as it did. You can’t live in the past and i now have to crack on with my current situation. What I would urge other people to do is not sit on their hands out of embarrassment. I mean come on we have all watched embarrassing bodies and jesus christ GP’s must drink a lot to un-see some of the stuff they have seen, so by that standard talking about your poo for 10 minutes pales into comparison. What if I had gone 6 months earlier and they put me on 1 tablet and that sorted everything out and I never had another problem, now I will never know. I don’t want you to put yourself in that position where your left wondering like I am.

Luckily now with all the advances in modern medicine we can fight this horrendous illness with various tools from drugs to surgery. Medical research is so important I have essentially scraped the barrel in terms of drug based treatment. I was on infliximab and then humira, both biologic TNF inhibitors, trust me wikipedia can explain what they are better than me. Now they are essentially the last line of defence in the war against crohn’s because once they become ineffective there is only surgery. Saying that, I think one more has just been developed but I need to do more research into it. So research as ever is still so important to winning this battle. So if you can spare it, donate a couple of quid by text. Just think of it as me saving you from having a couple of drinks and that hangover not being so bad. You can find the details below. Oh and a picture of me swagging out with my bag out #getyourbellyout

Get your belly out

Me 1 year and 9 months after surgery looking a darn sight healthier!

You can now donate to Crohn’s and Colitis UK by sending a text message from your mobile phone.

 Just send a text saying CCUK14 and your donation amount to 70070

e.g. If you wanted to donate £5 you would text: CCUK14 £5 and send it to 70070.

The full amount of your text donation will go to the charity.

text donate to Crohn's and Colitis UK

 

“The strongest of steels are forged in the strongest of fires”

Return Of The Mack

So I have been absent from my blog for a little while now. I intend to turn that around. My life has changed so much since August the 31st 2013. That was the date I had my life changing surgery. I am now sat  here thinking about how I don’t want to have to go to work tomorrow whereas I used to sit at home utterly depressed about how I spent every day staring at the same four walls interspersed with episodes of Jeremy Kyle, wanking and of course shitting. That was pretty much my life for nearly 3/4 years. I can’t even accurately keep track in my mind because it just seemed to blur into one big haze of shite.

 

Now I have spent a year working for a large corporate estate agents in north London. It’s not something that I intended to get into but they were the first people to say yes. I had a couple of friends that were in the industry and I figured, hey people are always going to need to buy houses! The one thing I have realised is that I am never ever ever going to have a fucking snowballs chance in hell of being able to afford a mortgage or save up a deposit. Going to work every day with a colostomy is now totally natural to me. At first it was so alien, it scared the life out of me. What if my bag leaks? What if someone notices it? What if, what if, what if? Of course there have been a couple of “close calls” for want of a better word. The worst was when I had a gentleman sitting at my desk giving me the details of his property so we could arrange a valuation, which takes about 5 minutes, and I notice the foulest smell that I recognise unfortunately to be me. It was like a mixture of decaying donner kebab mixed with a tanker of crack head arse sweat. Now I instantly noticed the smell, then I watched the poor gentleman’s face change as he has started to chew on my floating arse biscuit. I watched the colour drain from his face as he thought about smashing his face into the desk to end his pain.

 

Shits gonna happen, excuse the pun. However, luckily so far these events have been few and far between and generally I’m pretty confident about my situation. Yeah I have to remember to carry bits and bobs round with me and I’m a bit more self conscious with my clothes and what you can see. For example I have just booked my first holiday in seven years and my first post-op holiday. I am bricking it a bit, leaving the safety of home, the UK, the NHS, my family and all sorts. Having to get my pale and now slightly chubby body out on the beach or at the side of the pool. Now that I find more than a bit nerve wracking. I used to, and like to think part of me is still doesn’t care about what people think of me, within reason. I mean of course, I worry about what my friends and family think but not total strangers. Sadly I now have to admit that there is a part of me that does worry what people think of me, how they will react if they know I have a colostomy. I got told by someone that had already had the operation that ninety-five percent of people that you tell or find out will deal with it well, there will always be that 5 percent that are total wankers. I have heard horrible stories about other peoples reactions from other people with the same condition that have made me want to take a chainsaw to the offending numpty’s skulls. You know what though, I cannot wait to spend seven days in the sun with my missus and a couple of really good mates. 

 

I’ve managed to work for a year a year now with minimal problems from my illness, the only bad thing at work is when I go in with a raging hangover. Yes I am still drinking unfortunately and am, of course, continually promising to stop drinking but I have cut it back. I am also still smoking, again I have cut that back and I do intend to pack it in. Half of me has the attitude that I’ve been through hell and I have the right to let my hair down and do what I want. However, the sensible side of me is in a headlock from the rebellious side as its trying to mumble “Oi Hastie! You peenarse!” You were convinced you were going to die and you didn’t, and you’ve been given a fresh start minus the active Crohn’s. Why are you acting like such an unhealthy dick?” 

 

Honestly, I don’t know why. Like I said I feel like part of me has earn’t the right to live how I want to even though I know it might not be that good for me in the long run but I do need to change it. I’m going to join the gym at the end of the month. The aim is to go religiously 3-4 times a week eventually, for at least six months. I used to be so motivated to get fit as it was working towards a goal of joining the military but because now there is no goal like that I have totally lost all the motivation to do any exercise, well other than this new fangled spare tyre looking thing I’ve got affixed around my waist.

 

I’ve managed to start doing a few things that I wanted to pick up when I was healthy again. I’ve been going clay pigeon shooting more and more regularly and now am looking to get my own licence and gun as its so much cheaper if you shoot regularly. I also sailed with a crew of 5 (including me), from Ipswich to Vlissingen in the Netherlands. We then spent a week going round the various lakes and canals, drinking lots of dutch beer, which by the way is fantastic. Unfortunately we couldn’t head to Amsterdam due to weather and time constraints. I had such an awesome time, even though I found out when I got home that I had broken my foot on the second day and continued to hobble around all week being called a pussy and being told I had only banged it. Thanks guys. Nearly as good as the time on that holiday when I dropped my freshly purchased large donner kebab in front of a group of about 50 people coming out of a club. Mildly embarrassing.  I couldn’t have done any of this 2 years ago due to what I was going through at the time and it’s made me so glad that I had the operation done because it really has given me my life back.

 

Ok there are some things that I really will never be able to do again, well it would be sensible to never do them again such as contact sports like rugby, boxing, martial arts. All things, that in an ideal world, I would like to have given a good go at. I mean I guess I could do these things but I can’t imagine going into a ruck in rugby with a full bag would be the smartest Idea. Although potentially it means people wouldn’t tackle me due to the fear of ending up coated in fragrant material. 

 

At the end of the day these are small losses in my eyes. I still can go and enjoy watching England play at twickenham one day, because lets face it I was never going to be that good, walk of hours in the woods, get on the tube, go to work and generally live my life.

 

Small prices to pay for the ultimate prize.

 

Me and Emma

Me and the missus after a day of shooting

“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.

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.”

A trip to St. Bart’s

Even though the title of my blog is quite pessimistic and negative I assure you I am not that bad, actually I just like the word “ballbag”. Yes sports fans, I am that immature sometimes. In fact any euphemism for a man or woman’s nether regions and I will usually be found stifling a giggle somewhere. The cruder the better as far as I’m concerned. To be honest in many respects I am very lucky, for example having such a good network of support behind me in the forms of friends, family and even near enough strangers who have been through the same shite I am due to go through. To top it off, I also have a fantastic gastroenterologist and his team that I trust with my life and they have worked wonders for me.

I have had an interesting day today, some aspects good, some crap. I had to be at St Bart’s hospital at 11am today for an appointment with my consultant. I arrived fashionably late as it was and went direct from the car park to the public toilets next to it, leaving my poor mate Jamie, a fucking diamond after putting up with me today, who had come with me for giggles to fend for himself outside. So twenty minutes later, I emerge what felt like a stone lighter. Still I feel the need to apologise to friends and family, even though they know the score, for delaying things, getting stuck in the loo, dropping arrangements at the last minute. I still feel like a twat though even though I can help it.

So onward to outpatients! WAIT wait wait, no I’m going to the nearest toilet instead. It was around now I realised I was going to have a hefty job ahead of me so once I hunkered down in my chosen grotty cubicle I text Jamie and told him to make himself comfortable and pointed him in the direction of the cafe and shop. Ok, so by this point I’m now half an hour late, there I now way of ringing as I’ve tried that before and I don’t think the message gets through to the intended parties, as they give you half an hour’s grace as it is. So now cracking on for an hour late, I had a brainwave, using my newfangled smart phone I emailed my consultant and apologised profusely and informed him I was stuck about 40m from him in a toilet because of my misbehaving insides. He said “Not to worry, I’m still here so come up if you want.” I cracked open a can of man up, clenched tightly and waddled up a floor to outpatients.

Jamie by now must have been on the 803,434th level of angry birds the amount of time I had spent in the shitter, and now he had to wait more bless him (note to self: I owe Jamie a few beers). So first I got weighed, can’t quite remember the exact number but around the 68kg mark. Result, the heaviest I have ever been in my life, and means I’ve put on nearly under 2 stone since being told I had to put weight on for the op. I then went in to see my consultant, who remarked how good I was looking now I had put a bit of weight on and he was happy with how prepared I seemed to be for the impending op. I did bring up the fact I have a resting heart rate of around 110 and I never used to have a problem in getting it to reach 210 in a gym a few years back. So off for an ECG and some bloods to check for an overactive thyroid. Somehow during all this time I managed to fight the urge to run to the nearest toilet even though walking usually speeds up my digestive system. ECG done, and of course slightly tachycardic with a heart rate of around 111. Now of for the bloods.

Now for the graphic detail, due to earlier events I was feeling pretty shit as it was, well I say shit. I felt like I had been raped with a cactus. I had also lost what looked like enough blood to perform a small batch of transfusions in 3rd world countries or actually if I had been raped with a cactus, possibly laced with razors. So now for removal of more blood, good times, at least this method was a little more clinical. So I’m necking a bottle of lucozade when the nurse comments “ooh you’re thirsty!” no I’m actually just chugging this so I don’t black out in your chair. Her face immediately changes to “oh fucks sake not one of you” however I fill up 3 vials of treacly blood with nothing more eventful than a fuzzy head.

Kudos to poor Jamie who has done nothing but sit in waiting rooms for an hour and 45 minutes. He has probably completed every game on his iPhone, possibly the whole app store? I’m so fucking lucky to have such a good circle of supportive mates. Luckily the 45 minute drive home was uneventful other than every dickhead driving slowly when you’re dying to get home quickly.

Anyway, head down and crack on!

Better a bag than a box

So I’ve just been to St Bart’s Hospital to see the surgical team for what should be the last time before I actually go in for surgery. To be honest it actually went a lot better than expected other than the fact I was categorically told I am having a catheter whether I like it or not. So much for not adamantly demanding not having one. However, other than the fact they’re going to ram a tube up my cock the prognosis isn’t actually as bad as I thought it was going to be. Looking at the last full colonoscopy, active disease is limited only to the last part of my descending colon near my ever temperamental arsehole. So initially they are going to remove the affected section of colon and leave me with a colostomy preserving as much health large intestine as possible. However this may change should they open me up and find that more of my intestines were affected than first thought. So I have to hope for the best and prepare for the worst. Generally though the outlook is much better than I first thought, they didn’t want to get my hopes up, but depending on if there is healthy tissue near the rectum they may be able to construct and internal pouch later on, however that’s a big “if” and I am to work on the assumption that that isn’t happening and I am going to end up with a permanent colostomy.

So hopefully I won’t be losing all of my large intestine which would be a right result. But I’m not going to know what has happened till I come round for the surgery. The surgery itself should only take 3 or so hours and they are going to attempt to do it laparoscopically which should be fine as I am relatively young and fit so I’m told. This also means the recovery process should be quicker than if they have to cut me open properly. Basically, there are a lot of ifs and buts and I am just going to have to wait and see what happens.

I’m still metaphorically shitting myself at the whole prospect of this and I had to stifle a giggle when the registrar today remarked on how calm, and accepting I seemed of everything. Well, I don’t really have a choice but to be calm and accepting. “It is foolish to fear what you cannot avoid.” (Stultum est timere quod vitare non potes) Publius Syrus. I’ve done the whole getting angry and then getting upset and no good comes of it, although I believe it is a process I had to go through to get to where I am now. I know that pending I don’t die on the table, I should come out the other side of this just fine and my whole quality of life should sky rocket. So now I have to wait 6-8 weeks before I even get called in for my pre-op assessment so more time to ponder exactly how much I don’t want and angry nurse ramming a plastic tube up my cock hole. I mean I’m quite happy for them to slice me open from sternum to groin but come near my bell end with a pointy bit of plastic while I’m awake and I won’t be the only one who will be needing surgery that day! Fucks sake. It’s got to be done though. At least I’m not on the Jeremy Kyle show.

I HATE the dentist

How very strange, a good day for once (bodily function wise). Although I’m pretty sure it’s because I was hung-over all day the day before and ate jack all alas there is nothing that needs to leave my body today. Hence a good day be default. I actually don’t even remember going to the loo once today, very rare for a day like this. I struggle to remember when everyday was like this, normality. It seems so long ago and I suppose at the time I took it for granted. I seem to be spiralling into deep and morbid thought this evening after watching part of a documentary about a man who had and died from motor neurone disease. You can find his story here http://oftenawesome.org/

Stuff like that always makes me think about my own mortality and how you really can’t sit on your arse and let life pass you by. You could wake up tomorrow with a terminal illness or who knows. There is no guarantee that you are going to live to be an old man. Saying that, at the moment I am still quite happy to lie in my bed till ridiculous hours of the day and sleep like some kind of long term coma patient, only because even if I do get up or plan to do something my arse dictates what I can and can’t do so I rarely ever bother to plan anything and when I do, I have to starve myself for at least a day and a half before and live off of lucozade and redbull. Saying that I went to the dentist today for the first time in two and a half years, because honestly, my teeth have not been high on my list of priorities the last few years. I had my check up expecting to be told I need all sorts of horrendous treatments but all I need is one filling and have to stop drinking fizzy drinks. Hrmmmm I’m not going to make unrealistic goals so I’ll try and cut down instead of outright give up.

Did I mention that as a child I feared the dentist more than the blood sucking, animal murdering, hell spawn paedophile demon that I thought lived under my bed? I mean the most embarrassing time was when I must have been about 11 and I decided I am not going to my next dentist appointment with the dentist from hell whose sole purpose in life was, I thought, to inflict pain and suffering on me like some kind of Nazi POW camp guard. I worked out when our next appointment was and came up with a plan. I would hide in my garden until well after the set appointment time, that way there was no way we could go even if we were late. Now problem number one, my garden is not that large, maybe 15-20 meters long and about 3m wide at its widest. Problem number two was that I didn’t have the balls to actually “run away”. So instead I would put on every single piece of camouflage clothing I owned, face paint, scarves and all (remember, I loved the army) and hide in the small number of bushes we had in our garden at the time.

So the day of the appointment came. The appointment was arranged for around 9.30 let’s say. So I was up at 5am, the crack of dawn because I knew my dad got up early for work and I had to beat him out the door. So I got up, camouflage gear on, face paint on, ready to roll. I could have put a royal marines sniper to shame. I crept downstairs, which in my house is no mean feat due to the lack of carpets and ancient floorboards. I used a spare key to open and lock the back door behind me so as not to raise suspicion through missing back door keys. Now where to hide? I picked the bush that was actually closest to the house as it had the best and thickest cover. It was only about a meter tall, wide and deep. The bush was only about 4 meters from the back door. So I got as deep into the bush as I could, got comfortable and settled in for a long wait evading “the enemy”. About 2 hours passed before the first inkling of enemy activity appeared, my dad opened the back door, looked outside and went back in. I then knew then enemy were on alert and I had raised their suspicions. Half an hour or so later, reinforcements arrive, my mum comes out the back door and actively searches around the garden. I held my breath as she rustled the bush I was in but she missed me and returned to the enemy barracks. During the next hour both brothers came out to look for me and they also didn’t see me despite actually looking in the bush I was in. I was a fucking shit hot commando in my eyes, they had been less than a meter from me and none of them had seen me.

The ultimate test was when my dad, the camp komandant, came out to have one last proper root around the garden. I started to shit myself because he was being fucking thorough. Getting properly into bushes and shouting my name. I thought this was it, I’m fucked and going to be in soooo much trouble. He arrived at my hiding spot and leaned into the bush moved the branches about. My bum hole was now making noises that only dogs and certain varieties of bats could hear. and he looked me dead in my face. That’s it. I’m fucked. But he stood up and walked off, apparently not seeing me. SAS? they didn’t have shit on me! I should have been training THEM for escape and evasion. I exhaled after I realised I was still holding my breath for what was a ridiculous amount of time. I left it another 45 minutes as then it would be midday and well past the appointment and we couldn’t go.

I finally emerged from my hide and now in true commando style walked hysterically crying to the back door realising I was in the shit and this tactic would lull the enemy into a false sense of security and gain their sympathy. I entered the kitchen and into my mum’s arms who was moments away from calling the police apparently. She demanded to know why the fuck I had been hiding in the garden. Through my blubbering tears I told her I didn’t want to go to the dentist because I hated it that much.

“Hold on Hastie, what dentists appointment?”

“The one today at 9.30 that we’ve missed”

“No?! That’s Tomorrow…………”

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Future Prospects

One thing I’m looking forward to, other than not living inside a toilet cubicle anymore, is going out and applying for jobs I want to do. However, this is still quite bitter sweet for me as all I ever wanted to do since a young kid was join the army and be a soldier. I wanted to be in the infantry, at the sharp end of the sword so to speak. At the time of my diagnosis I was in the process of starting to apply for the Royal Marines Reserves (RMR) whilst at uni. I had been training hard physically in the gym, funnily enough not putting on a lot of muscle mass (all clear in hindsight though). Now I was noticing I was having a harder and harder time in the gym, I was running out of steam quicker than an asthmatic paedophile in a playground, and in hindsight, I was going to the loo a lot more than normal so in the course of things I’ve seen my consultant and eventually a conclusion was reached that I was suffering from Crohn’s disease. I was literally about to send off the application paperwork before I got diagnosed (oh did I mention, I only went to university to get a degree so I could join as an officer). So I get home and think “hrmmm better have a quick check on the interwebs and see what the army has to say about this crohn’s disease malarkey” Low and behold it is on their list of “not allowed” medical conditions. After having a good root around and researching it I found that trying to get into the army with crohn’s is like trying to stop the priests from molesting choir boys, it’s just not going to happen.

So as you can see this threw a large fucking spanner in my works as it totally took the rug from under my feet and whatever direction and motivation I had in my life away from me. All I had ever want to do was join the army, I fucking lived and breathed it. Now the closest I’m going to get is sitting on my xbox playing Battlefield 3 spending most of my time being slaughtered by 12 year old American kids who have probably already been accepted into the US army and this is their basic training. Either that or paintballing. Either way, it’s not exactly the real deal. The remaining problems are that any jobs I have any interest in doing either may not let me in because of my condition and future surgery or if they do, I may only be able to do restricted duties, saying that I don’t know, I haven’t properly researched it yet so I may eat my words at a later date. One other job I have an interest in doing is maybe the police, however, after an initial bit of conversation with one of their medical officers at the very least, I’m going to have to jump some hurdles, and as for having an ileostomy, it will be a whole new ball game I need to ask them about also.

In life though, one door closes and another one opens, so I am now having to look at doing other jobs. There are still a couple I may be able to do that interest me, I still love design and working in jewellery. I may just get back into that with a vengance, saying that who knows, I could decide to become a magician and become world famous and get a job doing shows in Vegas, mutilating unsuspecting audience members when I fail to cut them in half properly. It’s all about looking at the positive sides of it all and staying focused on that. All I try and think about is all the things I can’t do now, but WILL be able to do after. I mean I am DYING to get fit again. I mean disgustingly fit. I want to be SAS (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special_Air_Service) selection fit. Just because I can’t join, doesn’t mean I can’t be as fit as I should be to do so. I want to take up numerous martial arts from kendo (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kendo) to krav maga (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Krav_Maga).

All in good time though, I need to learn to walk again before I can run.

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