Chapter 1 - Panic in the Toilet
Let’s turn back the clock to January 2017 – a time that marked a significant turning point in my life. I had just stepped out of a marriage, switched to part-time work, leapt into pursuing a Master’s degree, and immersed myself in the vibrant local theatre scene. And yes, amidst all this, I got my very first tattoo, which shocked my dad more than anything else I’d done. I was reliving my twenties and loving every minute of it.
I had run full pelt into December 2016, celebrating completing my Masters and producing the epic production that was Dick Barton. I brought in the New Year with a bang surrounded by amazing people. My life was buzzing with energy.
January 2017 delivered two life-changing experiences that would flip my world upside down. The first was meeting Marco, who would become my husband. The second was the beginning of my IBD (inflammatory bowel disease) and fertility journey – an emotional rollercoaster I’m still processing today.
So it begins
It all kicked off with an “uh oh” moment in the bathroom. A bit of blood – nothing major, but with bowel cancer in my family history, I wasn’t taking any chances. I called my doctor immediately.
This was back when I took doctors at their word. I trusted them completely, assuming they’d read through my medical history before reaching any conclusions. Questioning them never crossed my mind. What I was experiencing seemed like just an irritating pimple compared to what lay ahead.
My doctor’s referral landed me on a waiting list for a colonoscopy scheduled for July. So I settled in to wait, blissfully unaware of the journey this would set in motion.
Back then, discussing bowel issues was absolutely not in my comfort zone – except with my mum, obviously. I mean, talking about poo? I used to giggle at the mere mention of the word as a kid. This was strictly whispered-tones-and-blushing-cheeks territory.
Thankfully, I wasn’t yet dealing with bowel control issues. I hadn’t started mentally mapping public toilets or worrying about emergency dashes. The possibility of needing to throw knickers in a bin hadn’t even entered my head. That particular delight came later.
The run-up to the procedure
Meanwhile, I’d just met Marco on Badoo (yes, that dating app). Our first date was at the Black Lion in Brighton, where I listened to him chat enthusiastically about “his city” – Catania, not Palermo. (Mixing them up is apparently like asking a Canadian if they’re American. Noted.)
I didn’t want my shiny new boyfriend knowing about my embarrassing bowel drama. He knew I was going into hospital but got zero details about why. Honestly? I was more worried about accidentally farting in front of him than the actual medical procedure. Growing up, I’d been taught that girls simply don’t fart – it’s not ladylike.
How wrong I was about that concern.
Turns out, my farting now makes Marco laugh hysterically. He actively encourages it and finds it genuinely hilarious. Who knew? Farting is healthy – don’t hold it in. Fart loud, fart proud!
Through this journey, I’ve discovered there’s a farting sweet spot. Like Goldilocks and the three bears – not too little, not too much, but just right. Farting the alphabet in a day? Perfectly acceptable.
The procedure itself
The colonoscopy was exactly as unpleasant as you’d expect. Restrictive diet, foul-tasting drink that sent me running to the bathroom while desperately trying not to wake Marco with my explosive flatulence. Then there’s the dignity-crushing backless gown and bearing your arse to a complete stranger while wide awake under local anaesthetic.
Not fun. But it didn’t take too long, and I celebrated afterwards with a well-deserved pint of cider (shh, don’t tell anyone).
While I was waiting
At my follow-up appointment eight weeks later, my symptoms had mostly disappeared. The whole experience felt like a distant, uncomfortable memory. The specialist nurse diagnosed me with mild proctitis, handed me a hotline number for future flare-ups, and sent me on my way.
No mention of food allergies, no dietician referrals, no discussion of underlying causes. I didn’t have the experience to ask these questions – I was just grateful it was over.
I thought that was the end of that chapter.
Life had other plans.
A year later, it would kick me in the arse again – harder this time, and with friends.