“Chips and boiled potato?” – why can hospitals not feed people with intolerances and special diets

In case you’re wondering I’m still in hospital.

Frustrated is the only word for it. I genuinely have no idea what’s going on, what caused these problems and why I’m still in this bloody place.

People keep telling me to relax, take my mind off it, use it as a chance for a break. Why not write your novel or sort out some of the trips you always talk about – yeh, because penning a best seller surrounded by people vomiting, pooing and machines going off 24/7 on two hours sleep is totally achievable, right?

As you can tell I’m beyond fed up, which means I am getting better.

Yes I’ve still got pain (I would no discribe it as discomfort) and I feel like crap, but I’m not ill enough to be taking up a precious hospital bed.

As far as I can see the reason I’m in here still is my ostomy output is liquid as soup. But that’s mainly because, as per usual, the NHS simply cannot understand my intolerance enough to feed me.

I’m in a total catch 22 dilemma. My output won’t go back to normal until I eat normally, but I can’t do that while I’m in here, which is something I can’t seem to get into anyone’s head – it is genuinely like I’m speaking in Chinese.

The fact is that despite being diagnosed lactose intolerant in a hospital they have never ever coped with it – something about having an allergy makes no sense to the health service.

 

the normal option for me – eventually found me some sunflower spread

  

just sausages love?

  

you can have the fish but no sauce – yucky

  

first proper meal since ive been in – but i struggled

  

ensure drinks

 
To make it worse as my Stoma has been playing up I’ve gone back to my low res diet to help it, something they simply don’t understand.

 Many of the sandwiches are brown bread and have sweetcorn in them, and curry is usually on the menu – despite the fact this is a surgical ward and many people have just had Stoma surgery!

Seriously the mum opposite me was handed her first meal after having her Stoma and it was lentil soup – I told her not to bother.

While resturants have adapted to intolerances and allergies over the years hospitals have thrown their hands up and said, “well, their relatives will have to feed them”!

But what if you’re on your own (like me)….well you simply starve.

Starving might be a little bit over the top, but after 52 hours of being nil by mouth my choices in the Cardiff hospital have been quite frankly ludicrous.

In the past few days while everyone else has had the choices of sandwiches and three hot dishes and a pudding, the poor catering staff has approached my bed like a sniper picking out his target, saying:

Him: “Cauliflower?” 
Me: (trying not to laugh) is that all I can have?

Him: “cauliflower with gravy?”

Me: (giving up and taking pity on him) ok!

Another:

Him: “sausages?”

Me: can I have something with that?

Him: “gravy?”

Yesterday tea time:

Him: “boiled potato?”

Me: no, can I have some Rice Krispies and soya milk?

Basically since I’ve been able to eat in here I’ve survived off Rice Krispies, the dry insides of tiny jacket potatoes, boiled potatoes and gravy – oh and on one occasion some very dry fish which made me sick. 

I’ve even been offered in a moment that made me laugh so hard it brought me to tears (tears of total frustration) “boiled potatoes and chips” – I reached cracking point then.

It’s not just in Wales, England too stares opened mouthed at me in horror at my intolerance – I’ve been fed dry tuna for days on end – but they did have menus for you to choose and plaster LACTOSE FREE across it so the kitchen at least knew. Here it’s cooked on every ward and you have to eat what you get.

It simply makes no sense. To me a key part of being well is my diet, in fact it is what makes me well and is often the element of my life which is keeps my bowel working and makes me happy.

I can get better without the right food, I can’t heal, and I can’t put on weight. I’m forcing down ensure drinks to keep myself in shape, and I’ve already lost all my hard work from the last six months of gym work and training and I’m back to 7.6 – down from 8st 1 a weight I’d never achieved before.

I’m angry, it upsets me, it drives me around the bend. I simply don’t understand how they get nutrition so damn wrong and find it so hard.

Yes we are not expecting caviar and champagne, but simply a bowl of pasta would suffice. Hospital food is never going to be Michelin star but it should be edible and nutritional and not be an eat this or starve situation.

Today’s lunch was the first proper meal I got, yes I hardly managed any and the chicken was tough. But it was welcome, even if it was too little too damn late.
I think that the NHS needs to seriously look at the problem of hospital food. If they got it right they would save a fortune – after all people would be stronger and getting out quicker not lie wasting away in beds.

Draft in Jamie Oliver I beg of you – but please not that Heston bloke I don’t want to be eating food that covers me in smoke or spits at me.

From NHS England to Wales = daleks and doctors wearing odd shoes

I can’t seem to get enough of the Heath, for the second time in three weeks I’m back in what can only be described as a monstrosity of a hospital.

Before you all ask who knows what’s gone wrong this time but I’ve obviously got an infection and my Stoma is going hell for leather due to the amount of fluid they’re trying to pump into me.

Moving from NHS England to Wales has not been without its complications. 

For a start my medical history has somehow got stuck in the system somewhere between Chester and Cardiff – no doubt because my file is so heavy you could kill a grown man with it. 

My surgeon, family and friends are hours away, so much so it can sometimes feel like I’m abroad, I’m lucky to have a boyfriend who tries to keep me positive even when it hurts to make me laugh.

People who swan along into hospitals thinking they are going into a five star hotel are always going to have a punch in the face when they get there – and being admitted into the Heath would knock them out cold.

Note to everyone hopsitals are not a spa or a holiday – they are never nice.

The Heath is the big ugly sister of them. It is so large it feels like it’s got it’s own microclimate, stretching as far as the eye can see. The walls are splattered and peeling and in desperate need of a paint, the shower tiny and cramped and the windows are so filthy you can hardly see out of them.

Going for a scan here is an eye opening experience, you’re whisked into an industrial style metal lift, with bits of graffiti scribbled in the exposed beams inside the door, down into the bowels of the hospital.

Being zipped along the dark tunnels in your nightgown is like something out of a horror movie. You half expect to see a cloaked figure lurking in the gunnels, and it would be terrifying to be down there alone. 

To put it into context this part of the hospital – where doped up patients are wheeled through on a daily basis – is deemed so scary that it has been used for scenes involving daleks in Dr Who.

Obviously seeing a sink plunger monster  would be the thing to tip me over the edge if I was on morphine.

As with all hospitals they have done up the parts most people can see, with a shiny Starbucks in the concourse and painted corridors, but you have to be an inpatient to see this place needs a desperate lick of paint.

The problem is when, surely they would have to close wards to renovate them.

But is this any different to England; is this the nightmarish descent into dispair that the Daily Mail seem fixated on; and is there a line between life and death as David Cameron has repeatedly said.

I’m really not sure, but that description does seem extreme to say the least.

But for all my years of long serving experience in the English NHS with treatment in Salford, Manchester, Chester and Newcastle, I cannot hand on heart say the Welsh NHS is any worse from what I’ve seen so far.

I’ve had some terrible and incredible experiences as an inpatient in English hospitals (and they have on many occasions pretty much saved my life) and now I’m having experiences in Wales. Both are understaffed, downtrodden, suffer stretched resources, and struggle like hell with my lactose intolerance.

But at the end of the day, for all my moaning as all the patients wait around all day for a scan or to see a doctor who always comes when we are in the loo, they are working damn hard to try and find out what is wrong with me.

They are even now on the phone to England to find out my history and to see what they think. Which tickles me, and reminds me of a song but in my drugged up state in can’t recall which one.

Yes I’ve probably not been treated in enough Welsh hospitals to really compare, and hope never to be, but at the end of the day a hospital is not a holiday, I don’t even think it’s really about getting well (that’s for when you get home) it’s about finding out what’s wrong and being in the right place if the worse happens.

For now I just want to get home, rest and more than anything in the world eat some toast.

Nursing is still a caring profession why else would you do it?

“Nursing used to be such a caring profession” – if I had a pound for every time I heard that this past week I’d have been discharged rich.

It’s a fact that no one likes being in hospital, you have to be a right weirdo if you do.

It’s also a fact that with the sleepless nights, lack of air, flourescent lighting, stuffiness and people pooping and throwing up all around you, you’re not going to feel well, and probably won’t get better until you are discharged and back in your own home.

Hospitals after all are weird places.

They are places where the sick are sent to be cured, or have their pain eased; places where relatives wait for bad and good news; places of joy and sorrow; places of hope and loss; and places of birth and death.

I have, in my main years as an on-off inmate, waited in hospital beds and seen all of these things (apart from birth). I have spent endless sleepless nights thinking – that’s really all you can do when you are in, wait and think – about what everything is about, what you still want to achieve, and what life is for.

I know, all very deep stuff for me.

On Monday I left hospital.

The night before I left there was a quiet chaos on the ward. Nurses running backwards and forwards, a family who had been quietly waiting for days racing towards a side room, the rush of feet hurrying to get there in time. A lady, someone’s mother, wife, loved one, died.

I hadn’t met this lady, I don’t know anything about her, who she was, what she had done, anything, but her death affected me.

More than that the reaction of the staff affected me.

During my five-day stay in the Heath Hospital the woman in the bed opposite me must have moaned on about the nursing staff so often their ears must have been bleeding.

She banged on and on about how bad they were at their jobs, how uncaring they were, and how it was better in the old days.

Now, I’ve moaned about nurses in the past, I’ve got pissed off and angry (especially when one threw my teddy away). I’ve got frustrated about being told what to do, and for all I know I also moaned out of frustration at the lack of action during my stay this past week.

I mostly moaned about the food, as i pretty much wasted away in the five days i was in. It might sound like a silly thing to grumble about not being fed (the NHS always struggles with my lactose intolerance, I may as well walk in and say I only eat caviar and sushi – I will probably do a blog on this at a later date as it is beyond my comprehension)

If I took my hunger out on the staff I apologise – I was wrong, as was the lady in the bed opposite.

The night the lady in the bed down the hall died, a nurse came to take the needle out of my arm, her eyes were red and she looked as if she had been crying.

Some might call that unprofessional, I call that being human and being caring.

The next day a student nurse, who told me he was a music journalist who realised he wanted to do something that made a difference to people’s lives, personally took me to the consultant and thrust me under their noses to make sure I was seen.

He went the extra mile to make sure I could be discharged after days of waiting around.

In every profession there are coasters, grumpy people, lazy bums and bad eggs. They exist in nursing, teaching, politics, finance, marketing, journalism, anything you can think of really – apart from perhaps lion keeping.

I’ve run into my fair share in the medical profession, but mostly what I’ve seen in my 15 years in and out of hospitals are caring, hardworking staff battling to do the best they can under immense pressure and with limited resources.

The problem is working in a hospital is like working in a goldfish bowl. As a patient we are fed up, ill, ratty, and bored, and so we are demanding and critical. When you are ill you don’t care that someone is stressed or stretched you just want them to take care of you (which is understandable), you can be quick to judge, and say horrible things induced by pain, frustration and exhaustion.

At the end of the day everyone has their off days, it’s just in most professions it doesn’t mean life and death.

I will be the first to hold my hand up and say I’ve said some things which no doubt a poor nurse has heard – all I can say is they are made of sterner stuff than me.

But at the end of the day nursing is an incredible profession. I take my hat off to the men and women who cope with us all, and put up with people screaming, scratching, hitting, crying, and being down right obnoxious when mostly they are good people simply trying to help.

So that lady (and me on occasions) is wrong – nursing is still for caring people, why would you put yourself through that if not?

From half marathon to hospital

Today I joined the not so merry crew of ill people and worried relatives crowded around a TV screen to watch the rugby.

We sat huddled in our PJs with drips, the nurses bobbing in and out to find patients missing from their beds – and all sorts of jobs to see the score.

I can safely say that I’d rather have been watching it somewhere else – and not feeling like I wanted to have my head in a toilet.

To say the last few days have been an emotional and physical roller coaster would be an understatement. I’ve gone from one of the biggest physical achievements of my life, feeling incredibly happy, to having a drip in my arm, sobbing in a ball and a confused mess.

In just 48 hours I went from half marathon to feeling like a half baked cookie – doughy and underdone and well totally unpleasant!

Something is wrong with me, know one really knows what, but that’s nothing unusual.

It’s something to do with my ovaries and fluid (that’s what they’re seeing on all the scans) and it left me in so much agony on Tuesday and Wednesday that I was whimpering like a wounded dog every time I tried to walk.

Like an idiot I left it until that stage before I went to the GP – she sent me to what is the most ridiculously large hospital in Wales.

Three days later I’m still here. There’s been laughter, dizziness, joking, crying and well confusion and nothing has come out of it but to reconfirm that I’m in shock.

The weirdest thing is how much people are obsessed with Winnie, they are so fixated on the fact that I once had an operation they can’t get past it. I mean dear god that could mean something else is wrong with me!

I thought the days of this were behind me – I’d served my time and all that and this has been an unexpected curve ball when I was feeling fit and well.

I’m sat here worrying while nothing goes on, as per usual of a weekend, listening to everyone moaning around me and finding myself joining in.

They can never ever feed me in these places and Winnie has gone mental – I know weight will start falling off me and my legs already feel weak.

But the plus side is in the moments of positiveness I hear the funny hospital banter and laugh. 

So far we’ve laughed at the nurse who somehow drenched herself head toe in the shower and came out looking like a drown rat, the consultant who purposely buys two of the exact same but different coloured shoes to make a talking point, and a lot of normal crude hospital poo and fart jokes.

Having visitors is lovely, but when they leave is hard. It does make you want to cry (ashamed to say I do) that they’ve seen you that way, that you can’t leave with them, and that they’ve gone and you are alone with the machines and the lack of sleep again.

I know I’ve been through so much worse, but all I know is that if I don’t get out of  here in a few days I’m going to loose my mind.

But for now I’ll just sit and wait and think – at least they can’t stick a camera up my arse! 

    
   

Little me, my ostomy, and Ulcerative Colitis versus the Cardiff Half Marathon – I came out on top!

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I can’t walk down stairs without wanting to scream out in pain right now.

Weirdly after running a half marathon at the weekend on Monday I felt surprisingly ok – but I was a little bit distracted.

Apparently the not being able to sit down comes in after two days and for the first time ever I can’t stop eating everything in sight.

Anyway, even though the pain is getting just a little bit on my nerves now, I am I beyond proud with what I achieved on Sunday.

I ran a whole half marathon without stopping, walking or really slowing down – yes me!

I finished the race in 2hr 14min and 11 seconds (those seconds make all the difference) which is awesome compared to the 3hrs it took all those years ago when I did the Great North Run at the height of an Ulcerative Colitis flare.

Funnily enough about half way through the Cardiff race on Sunday I started to really need a wee (well I thought I did). It got to the stage where I thought I might burst, but there was not a chance in hell I was going to stop and queue for a loo if it wasn’t my ostomy that was the problem.

I stubbornly carried on determined not to let needing the loo ruin my time – I mean after a life totally ruled by toilets I was not going to give a queue for the lavatory the satisfaction of ruining my pace.

Somehow despite a few hills (which I ashamedly and rather vocally swore at) and this desperation I ran the whole thing and even sprinted at the end, crossing the finish with a few fist pumps as I couldn’t believe I had done it.

What amazed me the most is how well behaved Winnie was. She didn’t start kicking off until about three hours later, when I was obviously ridiculously dehydrated and starving – it is often easy to forget I should drink more than the average person (and that doesn’t include wine).

Thank you to everyone who sponsored me, encouraged me on the way, and tried to make me see the challenge was possible – it was all so worth it and Crohn’s and Colitis have bit more cash from my pain.

Anyway, I appear to have caught the running bug. My mirror is slowly getting decorated with medals and I’m collecting running t-shirts at a bit of an alarming speed.

I might not look pretty when I run but I am starting to love it. I get time to think, get fit and often see stunning sunrises and sunsets. I also like the respect runners have for each other – a little bit like the hello walkers in the country feel obliged to give each other, like it’s part of the highway code or something.

So I’ve decided this time next year I’m going to do that marathon I’ve always talked about. I’m thinking the Chester marathon so I can see friends and family and have a bit of a celebration after.

I am the fittest and healthiest I have ever been in my life. To be honest I need to grab this chance while I can, as I’ve learnt how my life can flip when I put things off, and where better place to train than Cardiff Bay.

I know I need to work up to it, so my plan is to do two or three more 10k races and another half to prepare and then go for the big one. Don’t worry I won’t ask for sponsorship for them all, but the plan is by the end to have raised £1,000 for Crohn’s and to raise awareness of Ostomy Aid on the way.

People think I’m crazy, but you only live once – and I want to be able to say I ran a marathon!

So do you have a valve to poop? The weird and wonderful misconceptions of having an ostomy #worldostomyday

Over the years I’ve had some very blank and puzzled looks when I’ve told people I have a stoma.

I’ve been asked bizarre questions, got quizzical stares and had the weird head tilt I always accustom with pity.

While I can’t fart on demand my stoma has a mind of her own and I often find myself apologising for her always ill-timed and very vocal fanfare – always an embarrassing situation during interviews, meetings and press conferences.

The standard response to my explanation that I’m not a disgusting and suffering from a flatulence problem, is a short smile and, well, a little bit of seat shifting, while I press my hand desperately against Winnie who continues farting away merrily in the knowledge that her musical abilities are making me and others squirm.

Ever since me and Winnie first became attached and then became permanent partners in crime I’ve faced some weird and wonderful questions as to what exactly she is and what exactly she does.

While I’m open and honest about my ostomy – I think of our relationship like a marriage, all be it a very rocky one – some of the questions leave me speechless and well, a well more than a little bit tickled.

Once a mate seemed to explode from having a question inside him for so long, “so do you just open a valve and go to the toilet when you want?” just bubbled out in a very public arena.

So as it’s World Ostomy Day today, a day to spread awareness about our wonderful and life saving alternatives to having a colon, I thought I would clear up some of these bizarre misconceptions I have faced since my first operation.

“What is that noise?” – oh yes that’s me!

If Winnie starts to fart, gurgle and be an absolute nightmare, there isn’t really anything I can do apart from laugh.

Unlike people with a colon I can’t fart on demand – honestly if you paid me £1,000 right now I couldn’t do it.

So if you’re going to fart and then blame someone else, if there is only me and you in the room there is going to be no way you can deny it, so don’t point that finger at me.

I can however slightly control Winnie’s output through being well hydrated and eating the right things, just like anyone else some things cause gas and so farting is more likely, but even if I do everything right there is no knowing how she will react.

Having her can be like living with a small child, she is totally unpredictable and is prone to strop and throw her toys out of the pram at any time, mostly during romantic or very important moments.

No doubt if I ever get married the “I do” moment will be when she chooses to disagree!

The BBC Breakfast studio toilet

“Are you pooing right now, or do you turn a valve when you go to the toilet?”

Erm no and well kind of no – I mean how do you answer that without someone backing away from you.

Let’s clear this up once and for all.

I don’t have a large intestine, instead part of my small colon has been brought out through my abdomen….hours and hours of painstaking surgery created this worm like pink thing sticking just above my jeans, and that’s Winnie.

So instead of a large intestine I have a bag.

A very strong and resilient bag, which hardly ever malfunctions (I know when it does). Just like everyone else my digestive system doesn’t work on command, it is working all the time, pushing and trying to cope with all the rubbish we put in our mouths every day – it’s just mine works more quickly and much more visibly (for me anyway),

If I had a valve that would be very dangerous as it would all build up inside and make me very ill, which is what happens when I have a blockage.

In other words, yes I am pooing right now. But there again so are you, it’s just you’re doing it into your large intestine and I’m doing it into a bag.

“Does it smell, is it clean?” And all those other questions about if I’m more dirty than anyone else.

No having an ostomy doesn’t make me any dirtier than anyone else – in fact I’m probably more hygienic than you.

The fact is if I wanted to I would no longer need to sit down to have a number two  – I guess It’s a habit as a woman I still sit down to use the toilet to empty my bag.

I don’t have to wipe my bum, read the paper on the toilet, push and strain and all those horrible things I remember having to do all to well after years of ulcerative colitis. I simply empty a bag, give it a good clean and magically it’s like it never happened.

I also change the bag every one or two days, which people can’t do with their bums, so I guess that makes me really very hygienic indeed.

Does it smell – well it depends what I’ve eaten.But if you’re talking about when I’m sat next to you, absolutely not. There is charcoal in the bag which stops that happening – so if you can smell anything suspicious it really isn’t me.

 “What does your bum do then – erm, look pretty?”

A bit like a Barbie doll I don’t have a bum hole – my arse is simply for sitting and well-looking human.

For the first year of living with Winnie we had a temporary relationship, which i like to think of the dating period. The surgeon left in my rectum in case they decided to reverse my operation. Unfortunately that redundant part of my colon was full of colitis and made me very ill, so a year later it was pulled out and me and Winnie got, well, married for life.

This means my arse hole was sewn-up (I think this is one of the hardest things for people to get their heads around).

Yes my bum does nothing apart from allow me to sit down, and perform squats and lunges at the gym.

The pros of not having this are ridiculous.

I don’t get piles and can never ever again have an endoscopy (of which I have had millions), and (one for the adults) I can never have anal sex which can only be a result!

“Do you regret it, does it bother you?”

Absolutely not and if it bothers you than that’s your problem!

While me and Winnie have our ups and downs, I wouldn’t get rid of her for the world.

That might shock people, but if tomorrow they told me I could be some miracle reverse her I don’t think i would do it.

I’ve never been more well in my life, fitter healthier, and I’ve never felt so free.

If I got rid of her (which I literally can’t) I would stand the chance of going back to the way I was, living in constant fear of illness, crippling pain and having my life ruled by an incurable medical condition.

I wouldn’t change her or apologise for having an ostomy (unless she is making farting noises), and why should I?

Don’t eat coconut when tipsy – the nastiest wake up call I’ve ever had #ostomy

It’s six o’clock on a Monday night and I’m in bed with a penguin hot water bottle.

Usually I’m still in work trying to finish something at the last minute or better still running around Cardiff Bay.

But tonight I’m more poorly than I’ve been in a long time – I know it’s bad when the festive hot water bottle comes out.

The worse thing is that all this pain could have been totally avoided and is entirely self inflicted.

On Saturday I went a bit mad you see and in my fairly tipsy post rugby watching state I decided to gorge on dairy free chocolate macaroons.

Pre drinking madness

At the time it seemed like a decent idea, I wasn’t bothered about calories or fat content, I just wanted something sweet and there they were – they should never have been in the house.

The worse thing about it is that I know my stoma doesn’t like Mrs Crimble, in fact while my lips love a bit of her tasty biscuits Winnie is repulsed by them, and tries to get rid of them as soon as possible. But while they have caused me a bit of pain in the past it’s never been enough to make me 100% avoid them.

But I’d never eaten a whole packet!

Yes you are hearing me right – the whole damn lot of them, I have no idea what came over me or how I even managed that amount of macaroons (I can imagine it was like the cream cracker challenge getting drier and more chalk like by the second). It was what some might call a moment of madness!

Anyway, I was shockingly ok on Sunday (a bit of a sore head) but at around 6pm the pain began while I was walking around Cardiff Bay enjoying the sunset and it got worse and worse while Winnie tried to push through mountains of undigested coconut – which i seemed to have inhaled and not chewed!

I can only imagine that for her it is like trying to push a boulder through a button hole.

Anyway it’s shockingly awful, and the last time I was in this much pain was sprout gate at Christmas and the time I realised I could no longer eat quorn a few weeks after my first operation.

To be honest I’ve had this wake up call coming for a very long time. I eat the worse things possible for Winnie, i stuff my face with spinach, lettuce, rocket, all manner of green high fibre indigestible stuff every single day, all of which is healthy but hardly any of which she can actually digest – I mean goodness I even went through a chocolate Weetabix phase.

But today the thing that’s weirding me out more than anything is that everything is still working fine, overly working you could say, but that she has grown, all be it doubled in size and swollen, no doubt through the intense pressure.

This hasn’t happened before, and after two years of mishaps that makes me very anxious.

I didn’t mean to look this pathetic

I’ve taken some tips off you all on my Facebook (thanks guys) and despite my fizzy pop ban which has been going incredibly well, i had a can of coke to try and flush out all the badness – so far that hasn’t worked but I am willing to try anything.

For now this has floored me. I’m exhausted and really disappointed that this idiotic mistake could mess up my half marathon on Sunday, but I’ve decided to just try and ride it out (keeping eating as much and as kindly as I can) and hope I haven’t done myself any long term damage.

I desperately don’t want to be the ill girl again, and no doubt will soldier on after an evening of feeling very sorry for myself and crying a bit.

There are lessons to be learnt here, the main one, don’t get drunk and eat a bucket load of macaroons.

Ok, there might be better things to take away from it than that, like don’t get drunk, know your limits, respect your body – a wealth of serious moral-ridden lessons.

But who knows my new coconut motto might well end up being the thing that saves my life – I should have a bumper sticker printed!

Training for Cardiff Half and the falling of the first leaves of Autumn

It’s my favourite season at last.

There’s nothing I like more than Autumn, although like many things in my life I have a love hate relationship with it.

The falling of the leaves and stunning colours mean the return of snuggly jumpers, thick duvets and cuddling under thick blankets, but it also means the end of summer – meaning no more coral nail vanish, flip-flops and beer gardens.

I love Autumn fashion. I find it easier to dress myself with the layers, colourful prints and return of the little black dress making dressing effortless with an ostomy. It’s not that I feel that uncomfortable in the summer, Autumn just suits me better.

But while the first fall of the leaves welcomes in my favourite and most breathtaking time of year, it also means dragging myself out of bed to run in the cold, wind and dark….which is not very fun at all.

I realise I haven’t blogged since I ran the Cardiff 10k.

It might have only been a few weeks ago but it was so hot it felt like I was running in the height of summer, despite the heat and a few training hiccups and injuries on the way I did pretty damn well.

I finished the race with a sprint – looking far from pretty – in under 59 minutes. Not my best ever 10k but pretty good for how nervous, hot and bothered and confused I was.

Next week is the Cardiff Half and my training has been rocky to say the least.

The start of Autumn, with some confusing hot days, has led to a weird cold and stuffy feeling. I also had some sort of virus which made me dizzy – and a brace fitted making me feel like crap and behave like a total cow in heat for a few days.

But after a few very disappointing runs, on Tuesday I dragged myself out in the dark and plodded around 15K in 1hr 30min, my furthest run to date – very proud indeed.

I just hope that I stay well for the next few days, avoid the heavy drinking which seems to come hand in hand with the stresses of work, watching the rugby of a weekend, and well everything at the moment, and perhaps get some sleep.

I have started to fall in love with running.

Next year I’d like to do a marathon – perhaps then I won’t be so enamoured.

If you’d like to sponsor me for my running challenge for Crohn’s and Colitis UK please click here 

Ostomy on the run – and a wealth of injuries on the way #cardiff10k

 

In just a few hours I will be running the Cardiff 10k.

While my fitness has shot through the roof since I moved to Wales, having become obsessed with weights at the gym, I’m getting the feeling I’m going to be hobbling over the finish line.

Over the past three weeks I’ve been blighted with twinges in my abdomen, and earlier last week (horrifyingly) I had a few hours where I couldn’t seem to sit down without feeling stabs of pain.

Ironically for all the ridiculous weighted sit ups I’ve been putting my body through it was a run that caused it (well I think it was).

It all started after a 14k run – the longest on my own – where I felt 100% fine and got an amazing time (well for me anyway) making me feel all so proud.

Well, until I was suddenly in agony!

Shortly after I arrived home I started getting stabbing pains in my pelvis or lower abdomen, for days after it felt like pressure was building up in my abdomen and pelvis….all very uncomfortable and very, very odd.

So I signed up for the Cardiff Half Marathon – and then thought that wasn’t enough let’s do the Cardiff 10K too.

Horrific mistake.

My body has tried everything to collapse under me since I took up this new challenge, it seems to want to try and throw my training out of the window.

But right now I seem to be ok (famous last words)….

Thankfully, following some antibiotics, the pains seem to have subsided and I am back in action.

This week I managed to knock 25 seconds off my best 10k, and I’m on track to do the 10k tomorrow in under 59 minutes – if nothing goes wrong of course.

https://connect.garmin.com/activity/embed/887013082

I’ve always had a love hate relationship with running.

I have days where I’m in the zone, motivated and nothing can stop me on my mission towards my half marathon goal, on other days my legs feel like jelly, my stomach twinges around my stoma, and everything from ducklings, my mobile phone, hair, and the thought of a glass of wine tempts me to stop sooner than I should.

I often think I look pretty hot while running, with my bright pink kit, but I think the couples dining in the Bay would say I look frankly gross (I often do my sprint finish right in front of people enjoying romantic meals, sorry!)

To say I’m not a sexy runner would be an understatement. I often totally forget people can see me: I mouth random words to songs, sweat profusely, get hair in my mouth, and well seem to always get a fly in my eye.

But there again if you look good you can’t be doing it property, right?

Anyway tomorrow will be my second ‘race’ since my ileostomy operation. A few months ago I did the back to the stadium 10k which finished in the Olympic Stadium.

It was an unbelieveable experience, but backbreakingly hot. I finished the race in 1hr 1min and something, which was gutting as I had been doing 10k in under an hour.

Anyway tomorrow’s race – which I’ve combined with the half to raise cash for Crohn’s and Colitis UK – will kick start my real training in the run up to the half.

I’m determined to get a good time next month, the last time I ran a half marathon was the Great North Run at the height of a Colitis flare. I was so tiny, exhausted, and my training had been sporadic due to illness and hospitalisation.

I only managed to stumble round due to the support of kind strangers who were also running for Crohn’s and Colitis and ran alongside me, pushing me on, encouraging me and sharing their loved ones’ stories.

This time I am the fittest I’ve ever been, happy and motivated, and I’m getting a little bit addicted to smashing personal bests.

I want (have) to prove what I can do without this illness. I want to show my own body that anything is possible and that with my ostomy I can make it all the way round the course without going to the loo – a miracle.

Meanwhile my sister (who is a self confessed non runner) will be taking on the GNR to raise money for Crohn’s and Colitis UK. I’m beyond proud of her, and hope she gets round in one piece and with a big smile on her face.

Anyway, good luck to everyone running the GNR or Cardiff 10k, especially if you’re doing it for Crohn’s or any Ostomy charities….I’ll be rooting for you!

If you want to follow my training I will be putting a new section on my blog for you to follow my progress, and as per usual if anyone has any tips on exercising/ running with an ostomy please share.

And, just in case you are feeling generous, here is my Justgiving page.

https://www.justgiving.com/Rachel-Flint

 

 

 

A new chapter of my life with an ostomy

A lot has happened since I last sat down and wrote this blog.

I have no idea how I have managed to leave it so long between posting. Every day I have thought about writing, but somehow I just haven’t found the time, or even the words.

In the past six months I have uprooted my life and moved to my first capital city, dragging my stuff all the way to sunny Cardiff to become a political reporter.

It’s been really hard. Taking this job meant leaving behind my best friends, long term boyfriend, moving hours away from my family, selling my lovely flat, oh and pretty much physically removing myself from my reliance on my surgeon.

Six months later I still feel a little bit out on a limb…my doctor knows nothing about me, and my English NHS GP seems to like re-reading my endless notes that he is simply clinging on to them for dear life! I’m that interesting!

Because you will not be seeing pictures of our adventures across the globe and UK anymore I probably need to admit that me and Andy broke up. While I like to keep this blog as honest as possible I would rather not dwell on the reasons too much – needless to say though that a five hour train journey didn’t help.

It’s weird not being with him anymore, not just because he put up with all the illness drama and helped me through two operations, but because he was one of my best friends.

But while it might sound harsh to put just a few lines for three and a half years I’m trying to keep positive and healthy, so I need to keep looking forward.

The reality is I’m now (for the first time in forever) totally self reliant, healthy, and in a brand new city – it’s taking most of my energy just to keep my head above water.

I’m exercising a lot, and I mean a lot, I’m taking on my first half marathon since my surgery, and I’m excited to see what I can do now I’m well.

I’m working as many hours as possible without going insane, and I’m throwing myself off cliffs with the Tourism Minister…I’m also possibly drinking a little bit too much and watching a lot of crap USA girly tv shows on Netflix.

But for the first time since my operation I’m having to put myself out there into the scary single world, and you know what it’s not that frightening – that might be because I’m drinking a fair amount of gin.

In my time writing this blog I’ve had a few emails about love and well, sex, with an ostomy. I’ve only ever done one blog on it, because frankly there are a lot of people who read this that I couldn’t look in the eye ever again.

While many of you (knowing my blatant honesty on this blog) might think this blog will suddenly become a ‘no holds barred’ single girl’s account of living with an ostomy, I’m sorry to disappoint but some things are better kept private.

All I will say is there is no way i’m ‘Too Ugly for Love’ and that I’m happy.

I’m more confident than I thought I would be, I like myself more than I thought I would, and I’m reinventing myself into someone I feel comfortable living with one step at a time.

I’ve never really had a problem with my stoma, apart from when it does weird and wonderful things at the most embarrassing of times (interviewing the Prime Minister for example). But I have to say I have always wondered what I would say if I was ever single, is it better to tell someone or simply let them find out for themselves.

But I’ve learnt that at the end of the day if I am comfortable about my bag, no one else is really bothered, and well if they were they frankly wouldn’t be worth the effort.

Anyhow, enough said. I know my parents, colleagues and well others read this blog, so I won’t go into any more detail.

I hope you are all well, and if you are single or if you are in love I hope you feel comfortable in your own skin, because if you’ve had permanent surgery like me then we don’t have any other option…my ostomy saved my life and if someone can’t cope with it, well then they are not good enough for me.