Day 21 -‘Free to good home’

Yesterday my blog post was conspicuous by its absence, this was for two reasons. I had the pleasure of my family descending on us ‘en mass’ which was great, and subsequent to the batteries were depleted from the Duracel bunny meaning I could no long beat the drum.

This was the first time I had seen some members of the family since prior to surgery, there was a lot of ground to catch up on with varying degrees of medical detail and graphicness tailored to specific ears.

Naturally there were a lot of questions relating to the stoma, nothing to taxing but the usual stuff most people want to know or are Inquisitive about. Amongst the innocuous questions was the inevitable “does it leak?” Without hesitation I responded straight away in a heartbeat,

“No, they are really good, amazing how they make these things”…….oh you fool Simon, how those words would come back to haunt you .

After sitting down as a family in front of a log fire watching ‘Jaws’ (of course, what else) the family eventually left and MrsC and I were once again on our own.

As a reminder that my digestive system is still very much ‘out of kilter’ I was plagued throughout the day and the evening by crippling pain following ingestion of any form of food or drink. As before without wishing to set the hares racing I cryptically asked MrsC various questions about pain in certain parts of my abdomen.

Having ruled out a heart attack or pulmonary embolism we decided that we would wait until the morning, if I didn’t wake up the next morning then this would turn out to be a bad decision, thankfully I did.

After a long but enjoyable day we retired to bed, having settled little Simon stoma and attended to the various ‘in’s and outs’.

All was good.

At 6 I was awoken, not due to my body clock, not due to the sound of songbirds welcoming in the morning, no, I couldn’t be that lucky.

No, I was awoken by this strange feeling of well, ‘feeling wet’. In a state of sleepy confusion I pushed up on my elbows and stared down with one eye. ‘What was it?’, ‘what is this puddle?’ Still in a state of bewildered confusion I stared naively at the ceiling. ‘Is the roof leaking?’ , alas it was not.

By now MrsC was awake and turned to face me. Initially looking down at the puddle and then at her I said “Is that me?”

“Well it isn’t me!” Oh god what was I thinking, I mean what was the best outcome that I was going to get from this scenario.

Almost in unison, and with a choreographed move that Torvil & Dean would be proud of we both leapt from the bed, stripping the duvet and folding the bedding into a ‘contained ball’ in one synchronised movement.

Like a mongrel that’s just poo’d on the lounge carpet I scuttled into the bathroom, tail between my legs expecting to be scolded at my minute.

I was bloody mortified, beyond mortified, this was the ultimate, I mean it’s bad enough having the bag in first place, but leaking, in bed, noooooooo.

The investigation as to ‘why’ was almost as immediate as the cleanup campaign. The cause of the leak was quickly identified, ‘ah ha’ I thought, a simple case of ‘pull off tab caught in boxer shorts, peeling back seal….. QED, she leakey in bed’

Following a good wash down in the shower and ‘deloucing’ I passed myself clean with re-admission to the marital bed. Amazingly in my bathroom interlude MrsC had changed the bedding (even managing the shake the filling up the correct ends).

Overcompensating for the olfactory sences with a liberal spraying of Hugo Boss Orange I crept back in the bedroom past an unceremonious pile of soiled bedding and stoma waste bags.

“I’m so so sorry ”

“Don’t be silly, it doesn’t matter”

Without moving a muscle, and laying like a rigamortis corpse I drifted asleep like nothing had happened.

The end

….. Well not quite, within 20 minutes lightening was metaphorically going to strike twice. Once again laying in a puddle of my own excrement a since of deja vu overcame us both. C’mon give us a bloody break.

Over breakfast this morning we talked about ‘re-homing’, it was for the best. We tried, but a non house trained MrC just isn’t going to work.

Il draft the advert for the free ads, it’s the least I can do.