Diagnosis: UC, Poor Me

I was 34 years old when I began to feel the symptoms. I had three young boys who I was running after all the time and a husband who worked over 40 hours a week. I was the last person that ever got the chance to visit a doctor. The kids were always first and then my husband.

So after a week and a half of having loose bowels I decided to tell my sister. It was only after I admitted to myself that the red I was seeing really was blood that I ended up at my GP’s office. So three kids in tow on Martin Luther King Jr. Day I was sitting in the waiting room nervous as all hell.

I was called in and with three very lively boys following me, I was told that a rectal exam was necessary. (You’re joking?!) I was losing all control. At that very moment I saw my mother walk into the office. Angels were behind her illuminating her as she was rushing to my aid. (I swear I heard Handel’s Messiah). She took the boys back into the waiting room and I, less than eager, waited for my exam.

I let go of all modesty and removed my pants, laid on my side and unsuccessfully tried to relax the muscles around my rectum. (Nope, this was not happening to me.) The actual exam was maybe three seconds but the worst part of it was seeing the blood soaked tissues being thrown in the trash. I began feeling faint. The doctor confirmed that yes, I was definitely bleeding (no kidding) and it was not from the generous hemorrhoid gifts that I received from childbirth. I was to immediately see a gastroenterologist.

After three hours of waiting with mom, boys and one sister who arrived with her two children to witness this spectacle, I finally got called in. Again through some divine intervention, my husband had just arrived from his office. Once in the exam room I was hit with a ton of questions, “Have you eaten at Taco Bell lately? Have you had any infections recently? Are you taking any antibiotics? Any sores in your mouth? Any muscle pains?” Finally I came out of my deer in headlights trance and asked what exactly was he getting at.

Three situations was the response. E coli, Crohn’s/colitis, or cancer. None of them seemed safe to me but I still couldn’t help thinking to myself if I could choose which one I wanted. He gave me a prescription for some heavy duty antibiotics, a date for a colonoscopy and instructions on how to give a successful stool sample. ( I would hate to see what an unsuccessful stool sample looks like) With that I was sent home.

Not until an hour after we all got home did I realize that I was still having bloody diarrhea. And so I called them back and literally asked when should I take myself to the ER and when is enough bleeding to occur when it requires immediate attention? That’s when I got the lovely four level rule. Is there blood on the toilet? In the toilet? On the toilet paper? Or is it soaking through your clothes? My situation was in the toilet, literally.

Three weeks and several tests later my diagnosis came back as ulcerative colitis. Not the one I was leaning towards but better than the dreaded C word I suppose. Ok, so gone are the Tabasco sauces, spicy salsa, Cajun fries and blackened treats. But also gone are those dreadful stomach cramps and the frequent “number two” bathroom visits. I take four prescription pills three times a day. It’s a big adjustment I’ll admit. But in the long run, at least I have a long run which doesn’t include much of the runs anymore.

Thanks to 12 pills a day, two colonoscopys a year and once a month doctor’s appointments I’m surviving. And just between you and me, there’s a lot of butt wiping in my house – you moms know what I mean!