My Bag

My bathroom is well equipped with entertainment. I keep a robins-egg blue magazine rack in front of the toilet paper, a commodity I invested in after one too many hours long "bathroom stays". The magazine rack is stacked atop a pile of hastily stacked puzzle books and beauty magazines, threatening to topple over. To pull a magazine from under the rack is to play Jenga- one must be careful not to topple over a years worth of reading material. But the bag just sits nestled between Marie Claire and Crohn's Advocate inside the blue rack. Its beige tail hangs over the edge, the clip neatly in place.

The bag. My bag.

I am not an ostomate. I almost was. I almost lost my colon. My attitude has changed from "a bag of crap attached to my hip" to "something that will save my life".

Three years ago, I was suffering from my first bad flare, though I did not know I was chronically ill. I was at Barnes and Noble (as usual) browsing through books and ignoring my stomach cramps as best I could. I plucked an especially bawdy book from the shelf, just to laugh at it's ridiculousness. In it, I came across a story of a young man dating a woman who was an ostomate. I thought the young woman was courageous for showing her bag, and applauded her silently, even though I thought I'd rather die than have an ostomy.

Less than a year later, a stoma nurse came to visit me.

My surgery was due in twelve hours. My nurse came into my room. I had hated her visits before. I'd cry. I'd beg. I'd plead with her, the doctors, with anyone- please don't do this to me; I am too young to have a bag! Someone, probably fed up with my moodiness, finally told me that if I did not get the bag, I would die. As sure as I had been not even a year before, I suddenly had a will to live. So, with resignation, when my stoma nurse asked me to lift my shirt, I did. I drifted into my own world as she took a purple pen, asked me how I normally wore my pants, and made a mark where my stoma would be. She taped a clear sticker over the mark, and I was left to try and ignore the itchy adhesive on my skin. I wondered how itchy the bag would be, if i was already sensitive to the sticker. I have never handled bandages well, and the tape to hold my IV in place made me break out in a rash.

The flex sig later that night showed that the Remicade infusion had done a good enough job- I could escape surgery for now, but I was told I'd need it within ten years. Triumphant, I had my father sneak me some french fries from the hospital cafeteria, and didn't care how much it hurt. I had a colon. I took a shower as soon as I had the strength, and scrubbed my belly until the purple mark went away. All that remained was raw, pink skin.

When I got home from the hospital, I cried every time I saw the bag. To me, it was nothing more than a thing of filth. I shuddered at it, disgusted at my own body. As much as I hated it and my diseased, broken body, I realized someday it would be a very real part of my life.

So I forced myself to tolerate my bag. I kept it hidden in my treasure box at first, so that each time I rummaged through my goodies for a memory, I'd see the beige felt side of a plastic bag. Then, I placed it on my bookcase, disguised just enough that I could only see the edge. Finally, six months after my near-surgery, with a deep breath and kick to my rear end, I placed the bag in front of my bathroom reading.

I spent all last summer amazed at all the beautiful, courageous young women who posted photos of themselves in bikinis, bag, puffy tummy, and all. At first, I was flabbergasted. I was no longer disgusted, but was confused. Why would anyone want to show their bag to the world? The world is a cruel place, why would a person expose themselves like that? With time, I began to realize these women (and the occasional man) were not showing their bags just for the fun of it- they were showing their bags because those bags saved them. There is no shame in that. These brave people were raising awareness and showing the world what it means to be an ostomate. That you will be good-looking, fun, and full of life, whether you have a bag or not.

Someday, I'll stand on front of a mirror, and bite my lip anxiously before I  cautiously flash a photo of my bedazzled bag. It will be nerve wracking  but it will also be liberating. I don't think it will be easy to accept my new body part -my stoma- easily, but I know I will do it with gladness. There is nothing wrong with having a bag dangle from my never-perfect, always-scarred belly. As much as I have hated my body in the past, I live to love it now. My body will never be perfect. My body will never look like what society views as beautiful. But my body's stories are so much more interesting than a airbrushed perfection. Each scar, each stretch mark, each bruised and tender spot tells my beautiful story of survival, of not giving up.

Someday, my stoma will, too.