Skip to content

I had this life once

Back together

This winter, when my entire city struggled under walls of ice and snow, I found myself dreaming about the beach. In my mind, I stood by the water’s edge, air warm, breeze strong off the ocean, sun warming my skin. I imagined myself looking and seeing the scar where they closed my ostomy site.

It was such an impractical dream that I didn’t really hope for fruition. I am essentially allergic to the beach – sunblock, sunlight, cold water, heat. And of course my ostomy site would never be closed. It was not even an option then. I never thought it was possible.

Three months later, I arrived at the hospital to have surgery that would reverse my ostomy and reconnect the two segments of my GI tract so that stool would pass through the rectum. It felt surreal, like at any time I would find a man behind a curtain, pulling strings.

They took me right in and every person who spoke to me knew that I had mastocytosis and that I needed premeds one hour before the procedure. They went over everything with me again to make sure it was mast cell safe. “You are the boss,” one nurse told me. “You live with this all the time, just tell us what you need.” I have waited years to hear these words, for providers to believe that.

They administered my premeds and the anesthesiologist came to give me an epidural. It was painless. They taped the line with my safe tape and lay me down. They pushed some midazolam and fentanyl and wheeled me into the operating room.

“I need to tell you something about my skin,” I said suddenly, jerking awake from my semi-unconsciousness. “My skin is really reactive and hives easily, so don’t think that it’s a sign of anaphylaxis.”

“We know,” the nurse said, nodding reassuringly. “It’s in the note you gave us for your chart. We know about your disease and we will be careful.”

And the first time in a long time, I believed it. Everyone in that room understood at least the basics of mast cell disease and our special operative concerns.

I lay back and they put a mask on my face. I breathed deeply and woke up a few hours later in the PACU.

I had an epidural with a bupivacaine PCA pump that I could push as needed to numb my abdomen. I had a hydromorphone PCA pump that I could as needed for additional pain management. I couldn’t feel any pain. It was amazing. I still reacted to the anesthesia with my typical nausea/vomiting but they were prepared for it. Frankly, it was so pleasantly different from my last major surgery that it seemed like a small price to pay.

About twelve hours after surgery, my GI tract started moving. Last time, it didn’t move for five days. This time it was moving and pushing things in the right direction. It was the best possible indication that this had worked. I couldn’t believe it.

The following day I was up walking around. (If you are having abdominal surgery and have mast cell disease, ask about an epidural. It honestly was the lynchpin here and made the pain so manageable so my mast cell reactions to pain were really minor.) I was eating the day after that. I had a couple of reactions but they were easy to control because there were orders to administer Benadryl and Pepcid IV as needed, as well as steroids if the reaction was severe.

I felt so safe. The nursing care was so good I wrote a letter detailing how amazing they were. They all asked me about my disease and diluted my Benadryl and they were just generally fantastic. Instead of spending seven days fighting for things I needed, I spent seven days managing my pain and reactions in an environment with many professionals who cared and understood that I was not just a crazy person asking for crazy things.

I came home a few days ago to my kitchen table covered in presents and cards from the mast cell community. It was so humbling. It was like Masto Christmas. There were books and movies, a huge piece of amethyst, stuffed animals, cute like knick knacks, funny cards, touching cards and pictures drawn by the masto kids. It was the perfect punctuation for this experience. I try to hold things together and to be strong at the broken places, and you guys just pulled everything together for me. I will never forget this kindness as long as I live.

One of the very difficult things about mast cell disease is that we so often have to fight for things we need to be safe. We are always ready for a fight, always on edge. We wonder if it we can keep this up. We are so tired. We just want to be safe. We want others to help us be safe.

This experience was the culmination of years of educating medical professionals and of them receiving education on mast cell disease elsewhere. This time when I said I needed Benadryl, they just got it for me. No fighting. I am the boss of my body.

I write a lot about how I see the world and how I interact with it as a mast cell patient. But in my private writings, I write about how I want the world to be, how it should be. Two weeks ago, I went to the hospital for surgery and during my stay, I realized I was living in that world. Maybe it was just for a little while, but I was there. I could hear the universe whispering to me, “You can do this. Look how far you have come.” So I’m ready to fight again if I have to, because I saw this other reality, and it was real and safe and we can make it like that everywhere if we try.

So when time goes by and it gets hard again, and I’m exhausted from advocating, I’m going to remember this. I’m going to remember this win. I’m going to remember that this safe place made it easy for me to heal and rest. I’m going to remember that this fight is how we make the rest of the world safe for all of us, not just for me, at one hospital, one time.

I’m going to remember that this tired, sick body made this incredible thing possible, and when it seems like I can’t do any more incredible things, I’ll remember that I achieved this, and that I can achieve so much more.

And when you guys are tired and sick of fighting, promise me that you’ll remember that this is possible, and that we’re all in this together. When you think you can’t do it anymore, just extend a hand to the void. We will be there to hold it and put you back together.



The opposite of being alone

Last Thursday morning, I flew to Los Angeles for the long awaited meeting with my mastsister Addie and her family. I arrived at Logan Airport two hours before my flight. I have flown seven times in the last year so I am overly familiar with the routine. I carry on one suitcase with medical supplies and clothes, a laptop bag with my computer and my backpack that holds my IV supplies and infusion pump. I carry a letter from my doctor stating I need these things when I travel; aside from the fact that the large fluid bags are always swabbed for explosives, it is never a problem.

I was deposited at the gate almost an hour before my flight. Anytime I book a flight, I call the airline to reiterate that I need to infuse while I fly. They always seat me in the first row so there is more room for people to navigate past me when leaving the row. I have been advised that since the IV line is attached to my body, the FAA views it the same way as an insulin pump, and that I just have to hold it in my lap while we take off and land.

The gate agent came over and began asking questions about my backpack and IV fluids. I told him that it is attached to me, showed him the bag and pump, provided my letter. He and his supervisor made several phone calls and peered at me from behind the counter while talking about me in hushed voices.

The man came back over and asked if I had a fit to fly form. Most of the flights I have taken this year were with this same airline; I took two flights with them just over a month ago. I have never been asked to provide this form and would have gotten one had I been told to.

They continued calling people. I was now the only person not boarded and getting pretty irritated. I walked over to the counter and asked them what was going on.

“If you need IV fluids, then our medical team says you can’t fly,” he told me.

I explained that I had done this several times in the last year and had a note from my doctor that says “Lisa needs the following medications on her person when flying” which would obviously not have been proffered if I couldn’t fly. I explained about my disease and that I have lived with it for a long time and was fully capable of handling any symptoms. They decided I could board the plane but stopped me feet from the plane. The pilot came out and asked further invasive questions about my health and about my IV fluids, which had already cleared security. (In case you’re all wondering, the answer is that no, my IV fluids are not explosive.)

They let me board and the entire population of the plane stared at me while the crew discussed whether or not I was, in their estimation, healthy enough to fly. With their exchanged looks, I felt my personhood being stripped away. All that was left was a complication.

I keep thinking about that other life, before I looked sick enough that a gate agent felt entitled to ask me deeply personal questions about the state of my health. I did so many things. I went to a lot of places. I was able, physically and mentally. And now I’m… not able? Unable? I don’t know what I am, but whatever it is, I’m not the same.

It’s hard to live in the present sometimes. It’s hard not to compare everything I do to a previous iteration that came before I got sick. I can feel myself walking backwards, covering every step I took to get here, trying to find the moment when my fate was sealed. I wonder if I had known back then what was wrong if it would have made a difference. I wonder if I would still be this way, if I would still be unable.

I landed in Los Angeles six hours later without so much as a mast cell hiccup, my infusion pump clicking along happily. Addie and I compared ports and medicines and discussed Frozen at length.  We camped at Newport Beach this weekend and met up with some other masto friends. Ten people with mast cell disease on a beach by the bay, looking for dolphins in the evening light. Ten people with mast cell disease swimming and accessing ports and taking Benadryl and listening to coughs and eating smores. It was calm and breezy and safe. It was the opposite of being alone.

Me and Addie


The comedown

Last fall, I talked with my doctors about removing my rectum. I have had colitis for years.  It hurts and bleeds all the time.

In January, my surgeon scheduled surgery to remove it. This would eliminate all possibility of reversing my ostomy. I was fine with that.

In February, my GI specialist told me I could get a subtotal colectomy and reverse the ostomy.

A week later, my surgeon told me he thought it might be better to just remove the entire colon.

Last Thursday was the two year anniversary of placing my colostomy. My surgeon called me that night to tell me that he had run into my GI specialist and they had together decided to reverse the ostomy and not remove all of the colon because if they are wrong “they can’t put it back”. This removes some colon but for complicated reasons I’m too frustrated to explain right now, there is a rock solid chance that I will end up exactly where I was two years ago before I got my ostomy. A place I swore I would never be again. He offered that if it didn’t work, then we would remove the rest in another surgery.

My hospital time after placing my colostomy is pretty hazy. I remember waking up in the recovery room and pulling the blanket, straining my neck to see the stoma. A nurse ran over and pulled the blanket up; she didn’t want me to see it until my surgeon was there. I watched her walk away before I looked again. It protruded about an inch, was pink and puckered, easily visible through the clear ostomy bag. “Like a rosebud,” my surgeon said. Yes, exactly like that.

The first time I stooled with it was a wonder, this painless relief. It didn’t last, but it was wonderful while it lasted. It hurt, but not as bad as my rectum had hurt before. Not as bad as the agony of not being to go to the bathroom, of constant distension, of your insides wrenching to no effect. No, not that bad, not like that.

I chose to get a colostomy. It’s not a choice that all colostomates get; some people suffer a terrible injury and wake up to a bag around a surgical opening into their intestines. I chose to get a colostomy, and I live with that choice every day, and every day I would say to myself, having this is a good thing. I believed it most days, if only to avoid arguing with myself. It is an act of self preservation, this sort of aggressive acceptance of your body.

Right up until the second my doctor told me he felt I could reverse the ostomy, I had never even considered it. How could I have, when before was so bad? No, I never did. This was part of my choice; I understood when I got it that it would be forever.

Right up until the second my doctor told me he felt I could reverse the ostomy, I never wanted to reverse it. But as soon as he said it, I did. I wanted it more than anything I’ve wanted in a long time.

Now I am looking at the very real possibility of ending up in the position of eventually not being able to stool again without serious intervention. At the very least, not without another surgery in the future. And that’s really stupid, it’s really stupid to decide to do this, because I’m so literally tired of surgery and procedures and shots and IV meds and this fucking port and its stupid dressing and I’m so literally tired of being sick right now that all I want is to not do this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore. Because I have four feet of trigger living inside of my body and now I’ll never be able to stop cleaning up puke from my toilet every day and reacting to the smell of alcohol when I hook up IV fluids every night and taking the mountains of pills I push around every morning in the pillbox with a resigned finger. I am allergic to my own body and how can I ever get better when I’m literally allergic to myself?

I just want to get better and I’m never going to. But I still want it, I want it more than anything and knowing that I’m never going to doesn’t make me want it any less.

Two years ago, I woke up and saw my stoma, and for many days after that, I told myself it was a good thing, if only to avoid arguing with myself.

Four months ago, I was fine with having an ostomy forever and now I’m getting rid of it and I wish they had never told me I could.

All these plans I have made seem farcical now because they depend on me not reacting to being in pain all the time and that is only possible if I’m not in pain all the time.

Dreams are great and all, but the comedown when they are smashed is fucking hell.

Loose tooth

In the fall of my 16th year, a girl walked up behind me as I was getting off the red line at JFK/UMass. She grabbed my shoulder from behind and punched me in the mouth. I hit her back and she got back on the train as the doors closed. It happened in a matter of seconds.

A few minutes later, I realized my mouth was bleeding. I ran a finger along my bottom teeth and one in the front wiggled. I was so mad. It bloomed white hot inside of me, this rage. I balled my hands into fists, my fingernails digging into my palms. I called my mother from a payphone and went to the dentist.

It doesn’t bleed anymore, but it has been loose ever since. Not very loose, but loose. I pushed it back and forth with my tongue as I rode the train home today, on a different red line train, thinking about anger.

I was always very independent. It wasn’t a lifestyle or a decision; I just am that way. I started making my own money in my early teen years and was working fulltime by 16. I moved out at 17 and that was that. It had nothing to do with my family – we are close, and I wasn’t leaving to get away from them – but I like to be myself, making my own decisions. I like being responsible for myself.

And also, if I’m being honest – I like it that way because I am weird and kind of unpredictable. I like things a certain way. I either care a lot about something or I don’t care at all. I am a very extreme person. I like to interact with people on my own terms. And yes, because I’m sure someone is thinking it – I have some mad scientist behaviors, where I like jump out of bed in the middle of the night and realize what we should be measuring to really figure out if some cellular process is happening, and that is weird and disruptive to people who aren’t me. I have flow charts and index cards taped up next to my bed and I recently drew out the Krebs Cycle at 2am, tracking carbons to see if I could still do it. My wackness is useful, but it’s big and hard to miss.

Since we’re talking broadly about the ways in which I am weird, I recently found out that it’s not unusual for people to feel like they are underqualified for their positions even when they are.  This is called Imposter Syndrome.  I feel like this pretty much all the time.  I logically understand that I know a lot about mast cell disease, but I still feel like the universe has made some cosmic mistake in handing me this huge audience of cool people.  When I say that I really thought five people would read this blog, I am not being self depricating.  I really can’t believe how big this has become and it makes me feel like I walked out onto a stage with no pants on.  So there’s that.

Independence gives me freedom to deal with my emotions, which can be very volatile, and sometimes for reasons I don’t understand. Being able to retreat to a safe environment alone is how I cope with things that stress me out. When I don’t have that option, it is much harder for me to function effectively.

At the beginning of 2014, I was physically such a mess that I was incapable of doing basic things on my own. I was living alone. I couldn’t make my bed. I couldn’t stand up long enough to do the dishes. My blood pressure was really unstable and I was trying not to pass out all the time. And the pain was bad, too.

I am extremely fortunate to live close to friends and family that I have good relationships with. And because I am a phenomenally lucky individual, these people help me even though I am sick in a way that is sometimes visceral and gross and cranky in a way that is unbecoming of an adult. I have made some big gains in the last year, and these have been won in large part because of the things these people do for me.

I almost never drive anymore and I don’t always feel well enough to take public transportation, so people have to drive me to work/the hospital/to get groceries/insert necessary life activity here. My father comes over every morning to feed Astoria and bring her down to his yard so she can run around. My parents have to wake me up every day because alarms don’t usually work. Every single time someone wakes me up, I am enraged. It’s not logical and I wish so badly that I didn’t react that way, but I do. It scares me and so I wake up every day in a state of panic. And that means I am immediately in a bad mood.

I don’t know how obvious this is to people who know me online, but my interpersonal skills are not always great. I do not understand a lot of social subtext. I am socially awkward by nature. About ten years ago, I picked someone I thought was graceful and kind and modeled my behavior in certain situations after them. I do a good job of anticipating situations before they happen so I practice what I will say and do ahead of time. But I am not good at social interactions naturally. It is a learned skill. And when I am very frustrated, it becomes more of a struggle.

My normal course of action when I am upset would be to just shut off my phone and retreat to my apartment for a few days of being alone. Except I can’t do that because people will think I’m dead and unfortunately, they could be right. I don’t have the luxury of being by myself for days because if something bad happens to me, I need someone to find me. How shitty of a realization is that.

And I depend on people to help me with basic life things, and they deserve for me to be nice and not be an asshole. Also I deserve room to have feelings and deal with them in a way that is helpful for me, except I can’t do that right now. Hopefully not forever, but maybe. I dream of going away somewhere by myself for three days.

And it is embarrassing and it makes me so mad but if my poor parents don’t wake me up in the morning and I miss my pills, I’ll be calling the good folks at 911 to take me to the Brigham before nightfall. So I can’t just go be mad for a few days and get over it because it is not safe for me. It makes everything much more stressful than it needs to be, for me, and for all the people involved in my care.

I feel like if I could ragequit one thing in my life, I would feel better. I realize that sounds dumb, but if I could just like change ANYTHING or get rid of SOMETHING, I think I would feel less frustrated. But there’s literally nothing I can change and still be safe. I can’t change anything or do anything different than I am right now and still function.

I miss independence. I might miss it more than anything else. I might miss it more than not pooping into a bag.

So for now I’m just trying to get through every day without being an asshole to everyone I care about. In the meantime when I get angry, I wiggle my tooth and hope it doesn’t fall out.




I still live here

I flew home from Florida today. I am feeling pretty beat up. I had an amazing time and regret nothing, but I need to recover in a serious way. I need rest and IV fluids and soft, safe foods. Probably for several days.

My immediate reaction to this thought to be repulsed. I don’t like the idea of spending days in bed, even if I need it. I make so many judgments about my body and what I think it should do. I sleep too much. I don’t sleep enough. I need to exercise more. I need to do yoga every day. Every day, all day, I judge my body and its abilities, a ceaseless undercurrent to my more complicated feelings about being sick.

Why do I do that? Why do I compare every day to the day before? Why does every aspect of my life have to be measured against its previous self?

I judge my body so harshly sometimes. It is too weak. It is too fat. It is incapable of adapting to change. But sometimes I am struck by how utterly amazing my body is in the larger context of my life. It may react while flying through the air at hundreds of miles an hour but it let me ride roller coasters a few days ago. And really, that is amazing.

It is astounding to think how much I could achieve if I just stopped comparing my body to what I think it should be. Because the fact is that every time my body overcomes a reaction or a trigger, it is the result of the convergence of thousands of complex reactions executed in the name of self preservation. It is a miracle it can still recover after all this time.

I am alive. I live in this body. It might fight me, but I still live here. For the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like my body is filled up with nausea and bleeding and pain. It feels like it’s filled up with me.


The last couple of months have been really stressful. Several of my work projects are all requiring a lot of attention right now. I am trying to iron out some details around MastAttack and make plans for the future. I live in the grey bleakness of New England in the midst of a record breaking winter. I am having some setbacks regarding GI function and pain.

And of course, I am having surgery soon. The amount of feelings I have about this surgery is surprising given the fact that I have always expected to have it. I don’t know. I guess it just seemed further off. The horizon seems so far away until you’re standing on the edge of the world, about to fall off.

Bowel surgery when you have mast cell disease is a complicated affair. I have to get buy in from all the relevant specialists and they all have to agree on a plan. I have to schedule surgery when everyone is in town and not taking vacation in the near future. I have to arrange care (nursing and otherwise) for weeks after I leave the hospital. I have to finish up several work things before they operate. I want to get some things lined up for MastAttack before I go.

My surgery was scheduled for April 28. I saw my surgeon this week to go over everything. He is not convinced that removing all of my colon is the best move. I am going to repeat some motility testing. Specialized testing generally takes weeks to get scheduled. Which would literally give us the results days before my scheduled surgery date, and that’s cutting it a little close for me.

I scheduled all my testing, then called my surgeon’s secretary. I rescheduled my surgery for mid-May. I am frustrated that there is still disagreement so close to my surgery date, but I understand why. We can’t just look and see what happened to the last twenty people like me who had their colons removed. There just isn’t anyone like me.

Part of why this whole production has been stressful is because I saw this coming a mile away. Needing my colon removed is not a surprise. We discussed removing more of my colon when I had my surgery in 2013 (I still have about 70% of my colon).   We weighed the pros and cons then, so I feel like having a similar conversation two years later shouldn’t generate so many questions. But things change, and my body has changed, and I have changed, as a person. What I want now is not the same as two years ago.

I thought pushing back the surgery would make me mad, but it really didn’t. It was a relief. I immediately felt calmer. It gives me time to make decisions without pressure. It gives me time to take some time for myself and focus on the things I care about.

If the amount of messages I have received are any indication, the weight of my life in recent months has been apparent to my readers. You guys are fantastic. You are so sweet and kind and respectful of my time and my feelings. I really feel so privileged to be part of this thing we are all doing together.

It has not escaped notice that MastAttack is turning into a much larger undertaking than I could ever have anticipated. I think some people are worried that I write these posts and answer questions out of a sense of obligation. A few weeks ago, I took a week off from the blog. I didn’t research or write anything about mast cell disease.

But at the end of the week, all I wanted to do was write posts about mast cells and diabetes. Not because I felt like people would be upset if I didn’t. Because I wanted to write it in case it was helpful. And because I like doing this.

In the last few months, this amazing thing has been happening. I am getting questions from people that are very nuanced, that show a really good understanding of the biology involved. Some of these questions are coming from people who have progressed a long way in their understanding of this disease. They are questioning me and bringing up findings from papers I haven’t read or correcting me when I get sloppy with the details. It is so cool. We are getting somewhere. This is getting to be bigger than me. And that was always the point.

I’m going to tell you guys a secret. I don’t want to be doing this in ten years. I don’t want to be writing articles or posts or reading literature constantly. In ten years, I want all this information to be available in a concise, easy to digest form for anyone to use. I want so many people to know everything that I know that I become obsolete. It’s starting, and you’re all part of that.

Along those lines, it’s time for me to get some help with all of this. I’m taking some people up on offers to help out, and will be asking for help with specific tasks in the upcoming months. If you think you might want to help, feel free to message me on FB or send me an email. There will be more details in future posts.

As for me, I’m feeling decidedly less stressed than I have in a while. All of my work stuff will either get done or it won’t, and all of my blog stuff will either get done or it won’t.   I’ll have surgery and I think it will help. And if it doesn’t, it doesn’t. The risk of ending up with a permanent ileostomy is scary, but not trying to remove a huge source of inflammation and live without an ostomy is scarier. You can’t be afraid to try.

In the meantime, I’m taking some time to relax before this next stage of my life begins. I’m going to Florida to visit a dear friend (and Disney!) later this week. The week I was supposed to have surgery, I will be going to California to visit Team Addie, my mastsister Addison and her family. And deciding to do those things felt warm and peaceful. It is exactly the right medicine for this weariness.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I appreciate all of your support. And I appreciate all of you individually more than you know. Every time I see someone jump in with the right answer or a message of support, I am honored to be part of this. And I’m so thankful and touched by your messages of concern and support. It’s nice to have people to catch you once in a while.

Sometimes things are hard, but everything’s gonna be okay. Okay, or better. It’s like my guarantee.



The end of February was one of those spectacularly awful periods where it seems like the entire world is conspiring against me. I woke up with sudden, severe back pain so bad that I literally got stranded in the middle of my bed for twenty minutes until the spasms stopped. My dog got into some not safe for dog food and got sick. It was bitterly cold. I felt like I was generally fucking up the lives of those around me just by existing. Not my best work.

In the middle of this, I told everyone about my decision on surgery. A few days later, I realized I could not say colectomy out loud with feeling this profound emptiness. I got the letter confirming my surgery date and pre-op/post-op appointments. I couldn’t even open it. I threw it into my filing cabinet and slid the drawer closed.

I am very strong willed. It’s not always a good thing. I can talk myself into doing anything if I feel strongly enough that it’s the right thing. I can talk myself into ignoring my fear, but sometimes fear serves a purpose. It protects us. It shows us where the line is, and what side we’re supposed to be on.

So I decided to take a little time and explore my fear and figure out its purpose. I didn’t talk about my health in depth or do any research or write about being sick. I focused on all the other parts of my life. I cleaned my apartment and cooked and worked and took care of Astoria. And I thought. I thought a lot about my life and my disease and this surgery and my fear.

When you are chronically ill, you are in a constant struggle to not have less. Less time. Less money. Less health. Less hope. You work so hard to make your life workable and any setback chisels away this richness of your life, takes pieces that you may never get back. That is what I am afraid of. I am afraid of less. I’m afraid that this will all backfire. I’m afraid that I should live with this pain and poor function. Because I know the space I have with this life, and if I make the wrong choice, I could end up with less. And sometimes this life feels so small, and how could I live with any less?

I am brewing an obstruction right now. I felt it on the train ride home, the pain spiderwebbing out from about an inch behind my stoma. Tonight, I ran a very hot bath to try and move things along in my bowel. I deaccessed my port and took off the ostomy bag and appliance and stepped into the water. I felt myself turning red as I lowered myself down.  I leaned back, resting my hands on my hard, distended abdomen.

I looked at my body, really looked at it for the first time in a long time. I saw the way my skin flushed and mottled. I saw the hives around my stoma where I react to the adhesive from the ostomy appliance. I saw my body struggling to digest. Is this more? Is this the best it will ever be?

I think it’s a blessing that you’re not forced to ever know the exact magnitude of the wrongness of any one decision. I’ll never really know if I made the right choice. I could choose to change nothing and in six months, something completely unforeseen could happen. There’s no way of knowing. I’m grateful for that.

My decision is already made. This sense of loss is normal. This fear of less is normal. And at the end of the day, I am not built for caution. I’m just not. I can’t live with less because I’m scared when there is a chance for more.

I walked around for several minutes after I got out of the tub, just me and no devices. No dangling port access. No occlusive dressing.  No ostomy bag.

It felt alien. And maybe a little bit like hope.

The fullness of time

It is so easy to lose yourself when you are sick. In the beginning, you are two beings, you and your illness. Together but separate. Independent.   Slowly, you bleed together. And then one day you are contained in this diseased vessel and everything is harder and you can’t get out. Every choice you make, every tiny decision, matters. Everything has consequences.

I have been mulling my GI surgery for several weeks. This is such a nuanced situation. Each solution has its own consequences. None of the options are benign. I always made my health decisions right away. Whatever my gut feeling is, that is my decision. Then I spend a few weeks justifying it to myself and making myself feel better about it. It’s sort of a weird quirk of mine.

That didn’t happen this time. I think about it all day, every day. It makes everything else seem more difficult, this looming decision and impending consequences of my choice.

I am terrified that I will choose wrong and the consequences will harm me. I’m also terrified that what I didn’t choose could have helped a lot. It is hard to know, especially for someone like me, with multiple unusual conditions, and big dreams. I count my big dreams as one of my conditions, something that must be accounted for. I have to be able to live with my choice.

After much research and discussion with my relevant specialists, I have decided on a surgical option. I am having some tests repeated in a couple of weeks, but they are merely to confirm what I already know. Almost exactly two years after I had my colostomy placed, I will be having the entirety of my colon removed save for a little bit of salvageable rectum. My small intestine will be connected directly to the rectal tissue and my ostomy will be reversed. If this fails, I will have a permanent ileostomy and accompanying nutrition problems for life, made worse by the fact that I can’t eat many of the foods used to mitigate this issue.

In the fullness of time, all your choices either fade into the ether or are absorbed into your being.   If I choose wrong, it will become a part of me or become insignificant. Nothing is absolute. These choices become part of the constellation of our lives and you can follow the stars all the way through the story.

I wish everything wasn’t so hard right now. I feel like I am in the middle of a raging storm, the kind you get in New England summers, when the humidity is too much and the sky unleashes it. I’m standing in the downpour, lightning whipping and thunder crashing around me. It is awesome and terrifying. It feels like change.

And I’m scared. But I’m still here.

The impossible things

I don’t remember the first time I was amazed at what my body could do, but a few episodes come immediately to mind. In 2007, my friend and I got lost while hiking in Norway near Bergen. We lost the moderate grade trail and instead found ourselves very carefully descending rock faces and hiking for several hours longer than expected. We had adequate food and water, decent weather and the benefit of a very late sunset, but almost twelve hours of physical exertion made for a long day.

When we got back to the hostel, it took almost an hour in a hot shower to get all the dirt off. We were exhausted. I crawled into bed and slept deeply, a narcotic, dreamless rest. Just before I fell asleep, I thought to myself that I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t injured myself.

In 2009, I fell through the floor of my attic, which was the ceiling of my front porch. I grabbed a beam as I fell and pulled myself up without hesitation. As I sat on the beam, remembering the image of my legs in the hole with my porch below, I was pretty impressed that I had managed to catch myself. I hit a different beam as I fell and had lots of bumps and bruises, including a huge one right at the top of my leg. In the bathroom mirror, it looked like a black smile.  I was otherwise fine.

There are other moments. The first time I did crow pose. The day I ran a 5K. The several 3-day walks in which I walked sixty miles in three days. Actual feats of physical prowess.

I can no longer do things like that. Maybe I will again someday, but right now, it would be impossible. Still, there are moments when my body amazes me.

I walked down to the harbor yesterday. After weeks of suffocating greyness, 35°F felt like spring. The world outside was thawing, liquid, burning bright with reflected light. I didn’t care how much pain I would be in tomorrow. I just wanted to be alive in a world that was finally thawing, even for a short time.

Boston Harbor was frozen. There were no waves. The water was motionless. Large white globes of ice hung suspended, a crystalline sheen atop the surface. It was otherworldly, and really very beautiful. By the time I got home, I was in a massive amount of pain from the muscular strain of staying stable on ice and snow. I spent last night in bed on muscle relaxers with my heated blanket gathered against the small of my back.

Today the pain is worse and the world is once again encased in ice. But I am renewed in the knowledge that sometimes, my body is still capable of impossible things. I may never climb a mountain again, but in the brief reprieve from a legendary winter, my body walked to the ocean and saw the world doing impossible things, too.


Boston Harbor


Go big or go home

In December of 2012, my surgeon told me I probably needed a colostomy. I wasn’t really ready to hear that. It didn’t seem like it should be so complicated. I just wanted to be able to go to the bathroom. But my lower GI tract was fundamentally broken. There would be no easy fix.

When I had my surgery in 2013, my rectum was not removed. I think they were worried I would have buyer’s remorse and want to go back to bowel prepping myself twice a week. I remember thinking that leaving the rectum in was a bad idea, but there wasn’t any obvious reason to remove it, and it wasn’t clear if it was a problem by itself or because I couldn’t go to the bathroom. So it stayed. And became a problem.

It was always very clear to me that if I got an ostomy, I would have it forever. I had seen several people about this, gotten several opinions. I did not think I could heal enough to ever not have the ostomy. A fair amount of ostomates get their ostomy reversed only to need a second one placed within a couple of years due to major issues. If I always assumed that if I got the ostomy, that that would be it. I would live with it forever.

I got some news on Tuesday that I wasn’t expecting. My mast cell specialist told me that he felt there was a second surgical option for me. This other option would be more complicated up front and less of a sure thing. But if it worked, I would no longer have an ostomy.

I was stunned. I am stunned. We had mulled this option over for my 2013 surgery and decided it wasn’t a good idea. But now, he thinks, it’s worth discussing. I fired off an email to my surgeon and sat down to stew about it. I’ve been stewing ever since.

I feel like this should be good news but I’m not sure that it is. It’s complicated. It would require removing a lot more tissue. It would be more invasive, with a harder recovery. I think it is less likely to work. I think it will work for a while and then I’ll need more surgery and a second ostomy in a few years. It’s not the safe decision, for sure. It could be a huge failure. In several ways.

I don’t really know how I should feel about this, or how I want to feel about this. I prefer not to think about the possibility of not having an ostomy. I had to write it off to survive. I couldn’t focus on an idea that would probably never be real. So I didn’t.

I’m super casual now about my ostomy. I make jokes about poop and colostomy bags and farting in meetings. I don’t care if people see the bag or the lump under my clothes. I incorporated this reality into my identity two years ago and I never looked back.

I don’t regret getting the ostomy, but this is making me realize that I might be happier if I didn’t have it. It’s a lot of work. It’s a lot of work anyway, but it is especially a lot when you have both an ostomy and a central line. I am sterilizing things constantly. And the ostomy works better than my rectum did before, but I wouldn’t say it works well. It works okay. Maybe less well than what they could whip up surgically. Maybe.

I don’t know how I got here, to this place in my life where it’s no big deal to talk about constipation or my rectum on the internet. It was less of a transition and more like diving into the ocean: sudden, jarring, but not bad.  And this is hard for me to say, but I think I am a better person for doing it and I feel like reversing the ostomy would change me. I think when you live with a bag adhered to your body that it makes you less self conscious and less concerned about things you can’t control. I really don’t care about how people perceive me because of it and it factors very little into my self image. And I think that’s a good thing.

And what if they reverse it and it works for a while and then they have to reverse the reversal and I’m in the same position as I am now? Can I live with that? Can I live with the disappointment of regaining normalcy in this one very crucial way only to lose it, again?

When I was young, I had this very clear idea of how my life would go.  It did not include getting sick or having an ostomy. It did not include these things being so mundane that I can discuss them anywhere, with anyone, without getting upset. But they are. This is my reality and I don’t know that I can take having to get okay with this reality a second time.  I don’t know that I can take even the fear of it.

And the very hardest part: that I don’t want to be responsible for my own suffering.  I don’t want to be the one who decides not to take the chance at reversing the ostomy when doctors are telling me it could work.

I’ve always been the kind of girl who goes big or goes home. But it’s getting harder to take risks. And I don’t know whether or not it’s time to just go home.