The grass is always greener, or browner in this case, on the other side of the fence.

(Ellen Ripley, oh how I feel your pain.)

Can I have a new bowel please? Pretty please? And a new digestive tract while I'm at it? It's been a long time since, my recalcitrant bowel, first made an appearance both here on the blog and in my life. And since those first heady days of gastric apocalypse, there has been little improvement. There have been changes. But not one of those changes have been for the better.

Where once it was the big D, diarrhoea. All day. Every day, Day after rank, day. It is now the big C, constipation, with the odd burst of D just to mix things up.

When stuck with diarrhoea, you long for constipation.

When stuck with constipation, you long for diarrhoea.

A regular healthy poo is up there with finding proof of Nessie. It's just not going to happen.

The grass is always greener, or browner in this case, on the other side of the fence.

But in truth both pose their own problems. Both now cause me syncope or pre-syncope. The rush of diarrhoea, triggers my Vagus nerve, and that in turn leads to a full body melt down. It is completely disabling. I'm yet to find a trigger for it's arrival. Why my body goes from weeks of besser block to mount Vesuvius is still unclear. I have examined my diet, stress levels, activity levels, medication timing, the works. And still I'll wake up some mornings and it's on, on like Donkey Kong. And for a day I'll be caught trying to balance the competing needs of my bowels, vomiting and passing out. Holding on to consciousness by my fingernails. After which I left more shell, than person. It's an emptiness built of exhaustion and expelling all your organs and squidgy bits out of your confused and overwhelmed body. There's just....nothing.

And then it's back to constipation. Besser block, in need of a jackhammer, constipation. For weeks. Painful, debilitating weeks. I was excited the other day, to discover that I had gained 2kgs. I had been hovering around 50kgs which is way too underweight for my 168cm frame. Then it dawned on me. It was poo weight. And, as someone pointed out over on FB, poo weight doesn't count. A moment's excitement dashed with a dose of reality. The Movicol which was supposed to help me move, ended up causing nausea, vomiting and a bp drop. And so my stomach which already looks pregnant after eating, anything, ends up distended and rock hard from the buildup.

And with both there is the pain. Stabbing pain. Cramping pain. Pain that leaves you doubled up and in tears. It stabs in your abdomen and it stabs in your bowels. It overwhelms and leaves you crying on the tiles in your bathroom, or on your bed, or on the couch, or the carpet. The pain of spasming bowels that still won't pass anything is a pain unto itself and not one I'd ever wish on anyone. And then the meds you give into, because the pain is so incredibly bad, end up exacerbating the problem. Catch-22 eat your heart out.

And just as you finally pass that first bit of besser block and have blessed relief, you are hit with the first stirrings of the dreaded diarrhoea again.

And you know even if you should manage to even have a half-hearted attempt at a real poo, it's never all. You never feel empty. It is half-arsed in every sense of the word. Because your colon is a poo-tease, and it sits back laughing maniacally, stroking a white cat, while you weep at dashed hopes.

You thought you'd have normal poo? Fool! Mwahahahahaha

Dysautonomia can play havoc with your digestive tract. You fill up quick when eating. You vomit up food. It simply sits in your abdomen doing nothing. It moves, or doesn't move. Too quick. Too slow. Too....something. Something, that it's NOT supposed to do. Something that involves pain and communing with the porcelain.

There is no greener side of the fence. We can laugh at it. Poo and all that surrounds it, is rife for humour. My friend Rach's recent post about self-administering enemas is hilarious (head over and check it out), but I also know what living like that can do to your sense of self. As strong as you become dealing with illness year after year, there are certain moments where you want to sob into your pillow.

It is incredibly debilitating. To your body and to your spirit.

And so you change your diet. You scour support groups and Medline and Pubmed. Is there something new? Have you missed an important paper? You meditate. You beg the Universe for an answer. You shell out cash for alternative therapies. Traditional Chinese medicine, naturopathy, reiki, healing ceremonies and crystals. You align your chakras and bark at the moon. Just in case. Because if you never tried and it was the answer....desperation wins and your bank balance loses.

And then you revert to taking a med to make it stop, make it start, to keep down the vomit and stop the pain. Because you have to manage it somehow to survive.

The world doesn't stop for you to do a six month wholistic treatment, where you focus solely on your health. 8 hours each day dedicated to taming your innards is a pipe dream. If you have kids, or a husband, partner, job, dog, desire to concentrate on something other than your health for five minutes a day, you can't just fixate on your defunct digestive tract. In reality, it's just one of a myriad of problems Dysautonomia throws up. When all your systems are dodgy it's hard to pick what to focus upon, except for the most pressing issue in the moment.

And it all leads to added anxiety. To worry about toilet availability. To worry about pooing yourself in public, or vomiting. Or both. Will today be a constipation day, or a diarrhea day? Will today be painful, well, more painful than normal? To knowing that if you don't get the med/food/water/energy mix just right, an outing could end up a complete disaster. Will the nausea impact on your ability to head out of the house, chat to others or simply remain upright? Will the burst of diarrhea end up in yet another ED visit? Will the excruciating stomach pain end in yet another ED visit? Will.........

But I take heart in the fact that I'm not alone. I don't want anyone else to be in this position, but the relief and comfort that comes from having friends going through the same or similar things is beyond words.

Plus, the ability to share a wry poo joke with someone who is also bent over, or stuck on, the porcelain?

Now that is priceless.

Michelle

And it's only 12 more days until I see the autonomic gastro. Please let him have some answers. Feels like I've been waiting forever

Faith No More's, Falling to pieces, just seems so apt today.

Remember to head on over here to donate to my Clicking My Heels For Dysautonomia, raising money for the Greg Page Fund for Orthostatic Intolerance and Dysautonomia research, at The Baker IDI. Thanks to the generosity of many we've already raised over $2,600, keep donating and hopefully we can reach $10,000.

Numero Due.

(This scene from Bridesmaids is not unfamiliar.source)

Once upon a time going to the loo was just another boring part of the day. Like most people I went, did what was necessary, and then headed out to continue my day, with nary a thought for the process. There was even a time long long ago in a galaxy far far away, when I could fart without fear. But not now, not these days. My days of enjoying a nonchalant relationship with my ablutions is long past. Dysautonomia with a side of neuropathy, has turned normally uneventful loo time into a death-defying act.

If you are clueless, be thankful. I am quite jealous of your ignorance in the ways of loo complexity. Long may you live in ignorance of the ways of a busted gastric system and the joys of explaining your poo in detail to every medical professional you meet.

There are two ways to go with this illness: Dysmotility or Gastroparesis where your stomach slows to the point of barely moving and you can end up constipated or even impacted. Or, you can end up like me at the other end of the spectrum. Where your gastric system has seemingly been clubbing and ingesting copious amounts of speed when you weren't looking, and you are blessed with constant diarrhoea and fun things like Dumping Syndrome.

There's also this tricky problem whereby pooing (or even peeing) can trigger your vagus nerve. Or just to mix it up (ie your vagus nerve is a dick), when stimulated, this particular nerve can trigger your need to pee or poo. YAY. Sometimes, I feel oh so lucky. My body was not content with simply having my recalcitrant bowel which has meant that I have lived with the trotts every day for two years. No, that was not enough. To up the ante it decided that every time I need to poo, my vagus nerve must be triggered. This has meant that I have nearly passed out on the loo more times than I can count. This of course brings a whole new level of worry to my life. Lets face it the last thing you want is to wake up on the floor of your bathroom only to find yourself decorated in your body's foul offerings. Or, God forbid, on someone else's tiles, or worse, manky public tiles.

You see, at this point, I pretty much need Bear Grylls to come along and do a Man vs Wild episode in my bathroom. I'm sure he could teach me some handy toileting survival skills, or at least how to start a fire with left over toilet rolls and nail clippings. I draw the line a pee-drinking though, Bear can keep that one all to himself.

It all goes a little like this:

1. Eat or drink, anything.
2. Resign yourself to the fact you'll need to go to the loo within the next half hour (on a good day) or next five minutes (on a bad day).
3. Wait for the first hot flush. Ask surrounding family members if they are hot. Have them look at you with a raised eyebrow. Answer with a short sarcastic, "no" and a clearly implied "Dumbarse!" You'd think I'd have learnt by now. But hey, a girl's gotta live in hope.
4. Feel the first wave of nausea and short stabbing stomach pain.
5. Delude yourself that you can wish away said heat, nausea and pain.
6. Some how forget that each time you try to wait, or will it away, it makes it ten times worse.
7. Start to get greying vision and muffling of sound.
8. Decide this is the perfect time to stumble to loo (rather than two minutes before when you could still coordinate your legs).
9. Lurch to feet, grab at door frames and towel rails in the mad dash to the loo. (Tip for the day: towels move on the towel rack and are not a suitable stability aid and you may end up on your arse or sliding your way to a face plant in the toilet bowel.)
10. Start desperate internal dialogue of "I think I can. I think I can".
11. Get to loo just in time for full pre-syncope, hold onto wall and shower glass, brace, and hope for the best.
12. Invoke names of all know deities, offer up first born son and kidneys, if only they will let you make it through the seemingly never ending hell without passing out/vomiting.
13. Ride the wave of foulness.
14. Suddenly realise it's over and start breathing again.
15. Be left a wrung out, weak mess, slumped on loo, with swollen purple feet thanks to the accompanying sudden surge in pooling.
16. Drag self to bathroom sink. Wash hands. Run cold water over pulse points in wrist and wash face.
17. Celebrate that you made it through once more with dignity mostly intact.
18. Make way slowly out to couch. Suck down some fluids and resume normal functioning/nanna nap.
19. Repeat multiple times throughout day.

This process of course can be complicated by:

A) a particularly unpleasant day where you go through Steps 1 through 18, after which you lie/fall on bathroom tiles/crawl back up onto the loo/grab your puke bag/do your best Mt Vesuvius impersonation both ends/breathe/regain enough presence of mind to fall gracefully back onto tiles/crawl back on loo/....rinse and repeat. This process can go on for hours and may end in multiple bruises, much whimpering, and all round woe-is-me.

B) being out in public. These days I plan my trips by toilet availability, and public toilet cleanliness. For example. I know if I am heading into St Vincent's Hospital, there is a clean pit stop at the 1/2 way point at the Blackburn Nth Maccas (I can also grab a handful of salt sachets on my way out). Or if it's a bad day there are three shopping centres, with okayish/bearable public loos, between home and Blackburn Nth. I also know the independent petrol station near the Chandler Rd turn off is sympathetic to a pasty-faced, slightly incoherent and panicked woman with a cane, and lets them use the staff bathroom no questions asked. I also know the placement of all the public loos at the hospital and where Mr Grumpy can drop me off in a rush. Though I did find out the hard way, and with some pitiful tearing, that the reasonably clean public loos near the florist out the front of the hospital is closed on weekends. I can apply such knowledge to my local cafes, shopping centres and in a pinch sections of road with good tree/bush coverage in case it's a desperate au naturale moment.

It should also be noted that even without food or water this toilet fun time can also be triggered by:

1. Standing.
2. Walking.
3. Sitting in a car.
4. Heat.
5. Lack of water.
6. Exertion.
7. Breathing.
8. Mercury being in retrograde.
9. Spilling some salt, walking under a ladder, kicking a kitten in a former life, or.....
10. .......a day ending in y.

Oh, for those long lost days of toileting freedom. Who knew that something so simple could become so complex or restrictive? Or that I would be buying Imodium in bulk? Or have so many doctors view, explore and probe my nether regions? Or long for solid poo, like others long to win lotto? 'Tis a sexy and dignified life I lead.

But what can you do? As Doris Day would say, "Que Sera Sera".

Michelle :)

Doris Day, Que Sera Sera (1956)

If it's not one end, it's the other.

(photo)

Long time readers will know that my gastric system, decided to give up the ghost last year and I landed in hospital. Since that time I've managed to, if not greatly improve the situation medically, at least improve my acceptance that we may forever be frenemies. However, of late it has been getting worse. Obviously I wasn't paying enough attention to him and he's gotten a bit shitty (pun intended). As such, the frequency of my use of public toilets has increased significantly and my ability to get out is even more limited.

Yesterday I had the joy of sitting in the toilet of the L-plater's dentist, exploding at both ends, whilst grabbing the walls trying not to pass out. He luckily was oblivious and just happy to finally have his braces removed. Though apparently the desk staff did alert him to the fact that I was rather green and stuck in their loo when he did come out. And what caused this delightful hour of my life? Who the hell knows? I haven't changed my diet, lifestyle or meds. I didn't do a heap the day before. I didn't step on a crack or walk under any ladders. For whatever reason it felt a tad fractious and I paid the price yet again. Well so did the L-plater if I'm honest. It's hard to be excited about getting your braced off after 22mths when you're helping your mum to stand and walk in a straight line and then driving her home using all the short cuts whilst she's groaning and holding onto a puke bag for dear life.

Or there's last week where we had to drive the 10 minutes to the next town to pick up the youngest and we stopped not once, but four times on the way there and back. Admittedly, two of those times were aborted because a) the Victorian National Park Service decided to lock the public loos stating they didn't have funding to keep them clean. This was clearly evidenced by the fact that the one unlocked loo in the park was craftily decorated with fragrant nard sculptures by some arsehole. It sure made those treefern covered hills look tempting. And b) we drove another two minutes to the soccer oval on the outskirts of the town to find that they too were locked. At which point a tear may have been shed and the idea of simply dropping my granny undies where I stood was looking pretty darn good. Who the hell locks public loos? You people should be shot, or dosed with laxettes and let loose in an area where every public loo in a 10km vicinity is locked. How'd you like them apples? Eventually, we found unlocked loos in the town centre. As I sat there on that paper coated, bent and broken loo seat doing my best Mt Vesuvius impersonation, I may have said a prayer of thanks to every deity known to man for being open and sans nards. After picking up the youngest from his drama class we headed back to the same loos only to find someone had power spewed over the bowl, floor and walls and I was forced to use the men's silver bowl of foulness. Even with a Brazillian rainforest worth of loo paper covering that icy (it's Winter here in Oz) metal bowl it was only my desperate need that made me sit. And as I sat there abluting with gusto in that breezy, moist and fragrant Petri dish of humanity I thought to myself, "self, you are truly living the dream". 

And such has been my life of late. Admittedly I am well overdue to go back to Gastroman. Last time he told me there was little left for me to try except for one med that was so far out of my price range as to be inaccessible. Add to that I have had so many other specialist appointments, a son with knee surgery and ongoing rehab, and just a general unwillingness to have yet another invasion of my orifices by a complete stranger, and seeing Gastroman has sort of slid down the list. 

Logical me knows I should go back. Today for instance I am plied with meds and yet cannot keep even water in. I feel like I am permanently on the edge of yet another power spew or fire hose trots. It makes functioning rather difficult. Big props to my mum today though. When mid phone call I sort of screamed hysterically "I have to go and thrown up" she didn't bat an eyelid, just a quick, "I'll let you go, so you can throw up in peace" and she hung up. Go mum. It's times like these that you need those around you to not ask questions or get in between you and your porcelain lover so you can just focus on the task at hand, no matter how unpleasant it may be.

It's funny what you take for granted in life. Years ago I never thought much about going to the loo and I'm sure most healthy people don't. Now, it is an ever present thought in my life. If I am to leave the house I have to plan where I'm going by loo availability. I also carry emergency loo paper, towels and underwear. It's hard not to get depressed about it all really. 

I know my parents and in-laws are little horrified with my openness about this issue. But lets face it I'm not alone. I also know it's not an area where you'll find much discussion in the Dysautonomia texts. It might be in the lists of possible symptoms, either constipation or diarrhoea, but there is little about what it means to actually live with the issue. It's not as simple as too much movement or not enough. It's the fact that tonight I can't drive my son to footy practice as the chance of exploding in the car is too high. It's the fact I am forced to use foul public toilets which others treat like an abhorrent ablutory free-for-all. It's the fact I can't leave my house to go shopping yet again because my bowels have other plans. It's the fact that the simple act of standing can be the only thing I need to trigger yet another gastric apocalypse. Buns of steel, and a perky can do attitude just don't cut it when your digestive system is broken.

So there you go. The saga continues and I am stuck in the batcave once more. standing and walking is a bit of a death defying act thanks to shakiness and weakness. Given it all leaves you pretty exhausted I'll no doubt sleep which is always a bonus (though the waking up with a mouthful of vomit is less desirable). No doubt my dreams will feature the things that need to be done to the people who lock toilets or act like foul pigs just because it is a public loo. 

Hmmm given that I'm space-cadeting today I wonder if I should push post, oh well. Sorry if it's a little rambling or incoherent.

Michelle

PS don't forget to leave your questions on Question Time, and I'll endeavour to answer them at the end of the week.

Now because I know there are others in the same boat I thought I'd re-share a little ukelele song that the truly lovely Elly from Bugginword did for me after my hospital stay last year. Every time I listen to it, it makes me smile and I hope it makes you smile to.

All I want for Christmas is to Fart Without Fear.

Well my gastro saga continues. I'm sure my mother is proud that I've been keeping the world updated on my recalcitrant bowel, since August. I wonder if she'll add it into her Christmas letter this year? Tucked away between the updates on her roses and their trip to Apollo Bay. Mind you, you'd think she'd be used to my policy of too much information is never enough. Hell, I take every opportunity to bring up the cousin loving a few generations back, and set out nicely on the family tree, that I blame for the genetic nightmare that is my body. My people are genetically lazy, folks. Apparently it was just too much effort to saddle up the mule, pat the dust off your best burlap shirt, select your best courting turnip, and make your way over to the next, not-genetically related, village.  I can hear the banjos from here.

As I mentioned briefly in the last post my dalliance with H1 and H2 antihistamines was short lived. My gastric system, mounted a very successful campaign, and wore them down until they finally waved the white flag. So now I am back to ops normal. Might as well just put a pillow on the tiles and screw a TV to the bathroom wall. It's not like I'm leaving any time soon. Oh Universe, why must you give with one hand and take with the other.

My green credentials are going down the toilet, literally and figuratively. So sorry rainforests of the world, but my consumption of paper products is back to excessive. And my water consumptive ideal of "if it's yellow let it mellow, if it's brown flush it down" has gone out the consistently umber window.

When last I saw my cardio her only advice to deal with my near-syncope each time I go to the loo (oh yeah I'm living the dream) was to be careful. Yep, that'll do it. Maybe I can put crash mats all around my loo? Or grab out all the bubble wrap Mr Grumpy hoards, and bubble wrap my entire bathroom. At least I can pass all the time I spend in their working out new and creative ways to pop the bubbles.

My trip to Gastro Guy, Wednesday was equally underwhelming. Yet again I was faced with "Oh Shit!" face when describing my symptoms. Looks like the reflex that controls this pesky issue is broken. Even better there is nothing available in modern medicine that can fix that little problem. YAY. Let me party on down with that exciting morsel of information. There may, potentially, be a drug that may help, but is only available in clinical trials here in Australia. Access outside the trial requires a combination of correct planetary alignment, prayer to every deity known to man, and payment by lottery win, kidney and/or first born. He did end our consultation with "I'm going to have to Google this", which has left me so full of confidence.

Oh, and I forgot, I get to take horse tablets for a few weeks to kill off any errant bacteria after he decided that there was something he didn't agree with on my Small Intestine Bacterial Overgrowth (SIBO) test. Doesn't that sound lovely. I keep having images of colonies of bacteria setting up some sort of feudal society in my bowel. Can't quite recall what it was, as this was after the "you will be stuck peeing out your butt for the rest of your natural life" revelation. Kinda hard to concentrate after that. All I could think was the least he could have done is given me the news with a barber shop quartet, in the highly-inappropriate, Family Guy style.

So back to basically homebound now. But what can you do? Someone asked me "how do you keep bouncing back from all the bad news?" Well, there isn't really a choice. I can sit and weep into my cornflakes (which I have done, but it just made my cornflakes taste like saddness, and a little salty). Or, I can suck it up and move on. I can't change it, so I might as well amuse myself with inappropriate jokes about my family tree and messed up digestive system. Besides bathroom humour is funny no matter what your age.

Now if only Santa can grant my one Christmas wish, and let me fart without fear. It's not too much to ask is it? Sheesh, jolly fat man. I've plied you with biscuits and milk for years, and even left out carrots for Rudolf and his hairy brethren, time to pony up.

Cheers
Michelle :)

Given my current health predicament I do think it only fair that Jensen Ackles stop buy and give me a foot rub, or feed me chocolate, or...... I think I need to start a Twitter Campaign.

I leave you with an annoying, yet appropriate song.

Don't forget to enter the draw (click here) for a copy of Animal Planet, the new novel by Charlotte Wood. 

Entries close TONIGHT!! midnight, 25th November 2011.

Leap of faith

(photo)

Long time readers will already have a far too intimate knowledge of my bowel habits.  I don't shy away from the less glamorous side of living with Bob.  And, lets face it, we've all been there at some point. Whether it's related to a chronic illness, a dodgy late night kebab, a stomach flu, or a trip to foreign lands (Bali Belly, Montezuma's Revenge), few are those who have not experienced the joy that is a disgruntled gastrointestinal tract.

I have been living with a permanent burning ring of fire since the beginning of August. And apparently supplying my offspring with endless comedic moments. My youngest will periodically sneak up behind me and play Johnny Cash's famous song on his ipod. Whilst simultaneously peeing himself laughing.  Because mum's chronic gastro issues are simply hilarious (or 'hil.hairy.arse' as we tend to say in our classy household).  Admittedly we, as responsible parents, played this same song for him when he was being 'cleansed' for his gastro scopes earlier in the year. So really I only have myself to blame. And, yes I am up for Parent of the Year.

Last weekend a trip to my GP reached a depressing low.  Bulk prescription for GastroStop.  Fanfrickentastic.  Because that's just what every 38-year-old woman wants to buy at the chemist.  Or even better, send her long suffering husband out to purchase on her behalf. Mind you he has carried a 4litre bottle of my wee to the local pathology lab, so really purchasing bulk stool hardening pills is a cake walk in comparison. I wonder if he thought he'd be undertaking these kind of tasks for me when he agreed to the "for better or worse" line on our wedding day. Love is a beautiful thing, no?

My next appointment to see Gastro Guy is not until the end of November.  (Is it sad that every time I say 'Gastro Guy', I envision him as some sort of comic book hero.  I can see the tagline now, "Villains tremble when Gatsro Guy produces his latex gloves, SCHNAP!".  Dear lord, I really need to get out more). I have not been looking forward to this delay as it means continuing imprisonment in my ever shrinking four walls.

After leaving a comment/whinge/woeisme/sookylalapants rant on a forum, I was contacted by a fellow Bobette in the same rectally-challenged position as myself.  She suggested that I try H1 and H2 antihistamines (often used for those who have Mast Cell Activation Disorder, MCAD, a common comorbidity in Bob) as they had worked well to control her own rear firehose.   Normally I double check this type of information with my GP. But given they are over the counter meds, so no prescription required, and I am over forking out my life savings for the pleasure of waiting an hour in a germ filled waiting room, followed by the usual, trial and error, medical guinea pig answer I normally get, I thought bugger it.  So once Mr Grumpy was sent off to the local chemist to purchase yet more pills.

To say I am surprised by the result would be an understatement.  From the first day of taking the combined H1 and H2s I have gone from double digit, bolting/stumbling/praying, to the loo, to 3-4 times a day.  WHOA! I here you say.  You're talking crazy, Crazy Lady! But it's true. These two little tabs have reduced my vacating substantially, and my butthole is oh so grateful.  Even the rainforests of the world have breathed a collective sigh of relief to know that their brethren will no longer be slaughtered in record numbers to meet my excessive tissue consumption.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I have to say it's not a complete answer.  I am still nauseous, consistency has changed little, and my stomach continues to speak in tongues at 80 decibels.  But frequency has reduced substantially.  And that has given me some of my life back.  Did you know that if you aren't crapping yourself stupid every three seconds you can pot a plant, and wait for it....walk up a flight of stairs.  Whoa, I know I can't believe it either.  As, I said to the lovely Linda, who put me onto this idea, I'm pretty sure I owe her my first born, or at least a kidney.

So the plan is to trial it for two weeks, stop it for a week, and see what happens.  I'll also be double checking with Gastro Guy, when I see him, about the safety of long term use.  As frankly, I hardly need to add another problem to my list, especially one that could be avoided.

So for now I am simply rejoicing in my reduced bathroom time.  Laughing at the irony that my newly reduced frequency, would still be a cause for concern for regular folk. Amazing what you can get used to. I may even get crazy and walk up a flight of stairs again. Or go all out, and walk to the letterbox.  Oh the possibilities.  I may even go all Braveheart, and scream "FREEDOM", from my bedroom window.  Its not like my neighbours think I'm normal anyway.

The world is my oyster dear readers. The world is my oyster.

Michelle :)
I'm back baby.

The Great Escape

Just another quick post to let everyone know I'm out of hospital and back home.  Unfortunately, my plan to have a fully functioning gut and butthole was simply a flight of fancy and I am still sick as a dog.  (My plan to be ANTMs oldest, most wrinkled supermodel, is however going a treat, and I may be just a kilo or two off rocking skeletal chic).

It has really been quite an eventful time in my life, thanks to Bob's fickle nature. Highlights have included:

• I did win a battle of wits with Nurse Ratched (I will have my lemonade biatch!).  
• I've been violated yet again, by a suspiciously cheerful man with a variety of snake like cameras.  
• And have reported on the frequency, shape, size, consistency, colour and odour of my excretions to every person within a five mile radius of my hospital room.  

Ah dignity, I feel I may have misplaced you somewhere between the thumb-sized poo collection jar of stupidity and having to brace for a surprise enema.

"How many times can this woman talk about her busted gut and her need for special ed classes to learn how to poo?", I hear you ask.  Well many many times apparently.  Lucky you, dear reader.

Actually, what's even luckier is that my piss poor excuse for a body continues to fall apart at the seams so I am too exhausted to do much of a post (or breathe, or stand, or shower, or....), so you'll have to wait for the next episode in the exciting adventures of my bowel.

I will leave you with a fabulous post from one truly lovely Elly Lou of BugginWord fame who made my day by dedicating her weekly uke tune to me.  I may have alternately laughed hysterically and sobbed uncontrollably throughout, but mostly it just made me smile.  (PS I am also happy to take that bottle of wine, I'll even wait to share till after Paul's arrival, MFBT baby :))



A huge thank you to everyone who has commented, emailed, tweeted and FBed me over the past few weeks.  It means more than you could know, and has helped to keep me smiling through what I will have to admit has been and continues to be, a rather rough patch on many levels.

Michelle :)

The Machine That Goes Ping

Just a quicky to let you all know I've been admitted to hospital so probably wont be on here for a while.  I have attempted to do a delayed post, actually tried it before admission, so that may or may not come up.  Bob has kicked my butt big time.  At this point not sure when I'll have my freedom again.  At least I'm on day 3 of continuous fluids so I feel a little more alive.  Though having the machine that goes ping go off all through the night if I bend my arm is not conducive to rest.  Fingers crossed I'll be out in a few days, with some answers and solutions.

Till then, take it easy.
Michelle