Guest Writer - Lindsay "Let's Talk About Sh--"

Let’s just say it – nobody wants to talk about poo.

I mean, they’ll talk sh*t. They’ll say things like, “I just love lemonade, it’s so refreshing!” and, “I was watching Storage Wars, it was totally inspiring!” and, “Wouldn’t it be great if Kate and William were secretly having TRIPLETS?” But they won’t talk about sh*t.

Nobody’ll say, “I had THE most explosive visit to the loo last night,” or, “My haemorrhoids aren’t half playing up,” or, “I’m prepping for a ‘scope this weekend! Wish me luck with the Moviprep!” Well, you might if you’re in an old folks home where everyone’s losing control of their nethers, but as a YOUNG PERSON? It’s social suicide.

And I hate that it is. I’m not saying I WANT to share the intimate details of every ‘motion’ as the IBD team at my local hospital like to call it (first visit, I asked, “Do you mean my poo?”), but it’d be nice if people didn’t recoil in horror when you admit that, actually, your IBD is playing up, you’re in total aggers and you’d quite like to go chill out in the bathroom for a bit, if that’s ok.

It’s a very British thing, I think. This aversion to talking about what goes on in the toilet. Sometimes, though, I like to challenge that, just to make people feel uncomfortable – if I have to be in pain, why not everyone else? I remember saying, quite loudly, at my gran’s once that prepping for a colonoscopy was, without a doubt, hands down, the worst experience of my life. I followed this statement up with: “I swear to GOD, I’ve never pooed like that in my life. I mean, it was everywhere. It was like, ‘Where is this coming from? How is this possible?’” And in that moment, I think my gran might have thrown up in her mouth.

I know it’s unpleasant. But it’s something that I, and thousands of other people, have to deal with. And it can be really awful if you don’t have anyone to share it with. I feel really sorry for my mum – I’ll share a full report with her when I come out of the loo when my Crohn’s is flaring up. Amount of blood, colour, consistency – the works. When I was in hospital once, I had to fill in a ‘stool chart’, a duty I embraced. I eventually had the chart taken away from me because my descriptions were getting a bit out of hand. I might have employed the odd simile to help paint a clearer picture.

I’m not saying that everyone should take a leaf out of my book and make their colleagues listen to a blow by blow account of their recent colonoscopy (I was awake for it, though, and there was NO WAY that experience was going by undocumented) but I do think that being open about the fact that, OK, sometimes something simple like going to the loo isn’t easy might make a difference. Because that’s the worst bit about IBD – you feel like you can’t talk about it.

Britain needs to set its blushes to one side for a minute and realise that maybe it is OK to talk about what goes on behind closed bathroom doors, because for some people? It’s really awful. It’s embarrassing and it’s painful and it’s horrible to deal with. So talk about it. You don’t need to go into colour and consistency, but don’t shy away from it. Don’t pretend you don’t poo. Talking helps. It helps you deal with it, and it helps other people understand.

Maybe if I could set my watch by my toilet trips, if I didn’t have to think about going to the loo or keep markers in my diary when I experience bleeding, I’d be a bit more conservative about bathroom activities too. But, really, we all have to go. Whether it’s normal pooing or not. And a little bit of sympathy, a, ‘God, that sounds awful!’ is a LOT more welcome for us poor IBD afflicted lot than a look of disgust, a curled lip or a full on recoil of horror. You don’t have to understand – just listening helps.

And if you’re the one that’s spent an evening with extra strength painkillers, anti nausea tablets and diarrhoea, having that person there who doesn’t look at you like you have three heads? It makes life a little bit easier. It makes you feel a little less alone.