Opening Old Wounds

Opening Old Wounds

I'm 4 years old. My sister will be born today and my dad has taken my brother and I to a park nearby the hospital where my mum is being prepared to be cut open. My sister will be born today. It is also the day I graze my stomach flying off the end of a slide in the park and landing on the inconsiderate gravel . It is the first time my belly is damaged.

I'm 11 years old. I feel tired all the time. The school dinner ladies say I look like a ghost. Every day they say this. I can't eat. I can't eat. It hurts. I eat a bag of Thunder-cats from the tuck shop, minutes later I have to run to the toilet and spray the watery contents of my guts in to the bowl. I am bent double. The pain cuts me in two. It hurts so much I am salivating and the spit pools in front of my feet on the floor. Mixing with the tears. I go home and fall asleep within minutes of walking in the door. My school uniform on. In a foetal position. If I sleep I can't feel the ache and its the ache thats sucking the life from me. I stop growing.

I'm 12 years old. I weigh 24 kilograms. I am in a wheelchair transferred to a new specialist hospital withered from the extended period of testing and testing and tubes, vomiting, transfusions and x-rays that the local hospital put me through to come to a diagnosis. Hospital had become my new home but I don't accept get well cards. They don't know what's wrong with me. My mum and dad cry. its not cancer. They thought it might be. Its not cancer. Its Crohns. Now I accept the cards. They know I'm ill. Its official. I have a diagnosis. For what its worth I have Crohns Disease. Or rather Crohns disease has me. I don't care any more. I am skin and bones. I try to run and fall over. The sound of my dads keys jangling let me know he's on the ward. He can't sit on the bed. It makes me ache. More scopes.

I get stronger. They know what there doing at this hospital and there are other children there. I have more tests. More scopes, in my mouth and up my bum. They hurt but I am not scared any more. They know what's wrong with me so I may as well make the most of not having to go to school. Sometimes they give me injections for the pain which make me feel floaty. They pain is still there but I can't be bothered to complain about it. i go in to myself and breath.

I make friends with children from the cancer ward. They all die. I stop going to the cancer ward to borrow films. I stay on my bed and sleep when the ward teachers want me to join them in class. I draw pictures of food. I can't eat food but I draw everything I can think of that I will eat when I can. I make shopping lists. A nurse makes me watch a group of children eating McDonald's Happy Meals. I need to get used to it, she says. I feel sad. Then I realise its up to me if I want to be happy or sad and I go and find some picture books to read.

I'm 13 years old. I am fat. I am home and I am fat. I sit in a corner of the sofa in my lounge and I can't eat. I have a tube going in to my nose and down in to my stomach. I put it there. i have do that every day. I haven't eaten food for a year. This yellow sick smelling juice goes through my nose and in to my gut. Its having a rest. I still ache but not so bad. Soon I start eating so I go back to school for a few half-days a week.
The pain comes back. The steroid doses increase. I get fatter in the face. The other boys take the piss. My stomach hurts and spit is pouring from my mouth again.

I'm 14 years old and the drugs are going to make me blind. 'Its all part of the package' I console my crying mother with. I have had enough of being sick. I can't jump. My legs won't let me. My specialist hands me over to surgeon on a platter. Its time. My specialist gives up and I give in. I'm fourteen years old and my colon is being extracted from my belly. The incision is 8 inches long. The day after the operation I am taken off all medication. I feel better. The pain is different. It hurts like hell but this pain will heal. I go home and stand in front of the bathroom mirror and cry for my loss. My new scars and my new challenges.

I'm 17 years old. My parents throw my bags out in to the street. I follow and don't look back. My bag leaks most nights, the nurses give up on me. Its my fault they say. I need to see a psychiatrist they say. i see one. He says I'm fine. He wants to see my parents regularly. The nurses cannot find a solution to the leaking bags so they give up. I manage. Damage limitation. I become acutely aware of the location of toilets. I live with mildly controlled incontinence. Most nights I wake in a pool of shit. its not my fault. I wake myself every 4 hours and I carry spare clothing everywhere. Things improve but its barely tolerable. I don't want to go under the knife again. I'm too scared. This will do for now.

I'm 19 years old. My parents divorce. I finally have a girlfriend. My stoma is the magic compass on my journey for love. I go to Greece for 2 weeks. I go to Greece for 6 weeks. The cataracts have disappeared.

I'm 20 years old. I graduate from University. I see a surgeon and he sends me for tests. They put a purple balloon up my arse and inflate it with water. Fun. It hurts with 15ml. The surgeon says no-way. The first surgeon said this would be temporary. This guy pisses me off but I accept this is how things will be and just carry on living.

I'm 21. I'm scuba diving in Thailand.

I'm 24 years old. We are married and our first baby is born.

I'm 25. I'm tired. I am tired with the lack of sleep, but worse - the blood I pass from my rear end is increasing in frequency. I eventually go to see a Gastro doctor who says I will need to get rid of my rectum they left me otherwise it could become cancerous. I need to face my surgical fears but I'm not ready. The prospect of surgery is too terrifying so I ignore the problem and hope it will go away. Denial.

I'm 26. The surgeon says that a risk is that I could lose erectile function. I miss the next appointment.

I'm 27. Our second child is born at the most inconvenient time. Or rather my business is taking off and about to go bust. I can't see the wood for the trees. Workaholism is almost vanquished but I need to go bust first.

I'm 28. I stand when he walks in to the room. The surgeon says he can put me back together. I can read his face. It says: You shouldn't have had to endure what you have done.

I'm 29. Waiting for a convenient time to undertake the most selfish act of risking my life. It doesn't arrive.

I'm 30. I realise there is never a convenient time. I sign a piece of paper that lists everything that can go wrong. Its a two step procedure. It says I could die. I could die. My heart is pounding. I press ahead. I'm not going to die. Not yet. This is just a test. I train. I get fitter than ever. My diet is the best its ever been. I start to glow.

I am scared. I am sitting on the grass, breathing deeply. Tomorrow is the day. Today is the day. I kiss my children good bye. I kiss my wife. I touch the walls of my house. I'm ready.

4 weeks ago I am laying in a hospital bed. All the expected tubes are there with me. 32 staples keep me sealed. It hurts. Like hell. I am crying in pain.

But I am smiling.