26. The Worst Thing To Wake Up To

Now, I'm gonna talk candidly about bedpans and incontinence. I didn't really know what either was until I experienced them. I honestly had bedpans and Victorian bedwarmers confused. A modern day bedpan is like a plastic spade or dustpan, or large ping pong bat, which disposable cardboard liners are fitted into. It's put under you by you rolling onto one side, or even by you bridging your back. I thought being incontinent was peeing all over the place, cackling, completely off your rocker. Whilst technically this can be true, it simply means you can't tell when you need to pee and poo, and so go without warning. You can be stone-cold sober. I didn't even realise what I experienced was completely normal for a brain injury, and that there was a name for it.

In the following paragraphs I'll share honestly the most disgusting experiences of my life, as people deserve to know the truth about brain injuries. I also find them quite amusing stories. Forgive me if I slightly relish in the telling. Please, stop reading now if this is too distasteful a topic, if you have too vivid an imagination, or if this triggers something. It's almost triggering for me, and I can't quite believe I'm telling the internet this, but my half-a-year-ago self would have wanted it. I remember her bemoaning how everyone wanted to know how she was doing, but her reality wasn't really the kind of thing you can just drop into conversation. "Oh yes, she's had terrible trouble pooing!" No. She joked she was going to start the 'Poo and Pee Blog', or the 'Bog Blog'. I know this sounds a little obsessive, but it was really the most notable thing happening to me at the time. I lay in bed. I couldn't walk. I couldn't eat. But I could poo, and I could wee. Humour at my own expense was utilised, as it always is, to brush over my complete mortification.

The first time I weeed in a bedpan, I was very chuffed, and vocal about it. My dad said I was the same when I first used a potty. I just couldn't take it seriously. In daytime, I could always tell when I needed to go, and was having immense trouble actually doing it. I wouldn't wet myself randomly. Only whilst I slept. Or when someone made me laugh and I would over-shoot the bedpan and wee all over the bed. (Men can use cardboard bottles; women aren't so lucky.) Bedpans aren't the comfiest of things, and always left a red mark around my bottom, but I did get used to them. It was always a relief to see one, as then I could actually relieve myself. Better than the alternative of wetting the bed.

In intensive care, the toileting problem was solved by a cathata, and putting a square napkin-like absorbent pad under you, which can be whipped away when soiled. When I realised what 'opening your bowels' meant, I found it very funny. In brain injury, they used incontinence pads (like big sanitary towels) and ultra stretchy, ultra thin disposable hospital pants a.k.a granny pants. I had to get used to these as my first days in them were intolerably itchy. On one occasion, I was put in an adult diaper, which was the height of shame, but also gave me peace of mind. Even though mum had bought me cheap pyjamas that could be easily washed or replaced, I hated the idea of ruining trousers. I found wetting the bed more embarrassing than wearing a nappy.

I remember being tenderly woken up to "Liz, the bed is wet, we're gonna change it." Then finding out I had pooed as well. It was completely run-of-the-mill for the staff, but not for me. This happened quite a few times. I would always be very theatrical in my cries of, "Oh no!", but I was dying inside. And these were such weird relationships. Chatting away to the person cleaning your bum. Having a nice conversation, then mooning the person as they ease away a large pan of pee. One of the health care assistants had been in the year above me at school. We would laugh about the old times and then I would ask her to leave me to wee.

The worst time, (are you ready for this), was once I woke up in the night and I wasn't sure why. My hand travelled between my legs and felt something soft and slushy. I drew my hand up through the sheets, and sleepily sniffed it. Some crazy intuition saved me from taking a little lick, which I can just picture myself doing. It was poo. I have never hit the buzzer so hard in my life. It was like that meme. Some staff came and turned on the light. I had streaked poo all up my front, all over the bedrail, and the buzzer. It was a miracle I hadn't got it on my face. They completely washed me right then at 4:30am. This happened to me the next night too, then never again. Scarred for life.

The next week, I swung the other way and ended up not pooing for 9 days. By this point I had been given loads of laxatives, but wasn't in any physical discomfort. I was terrified I was gonna blow in a public place, or in front of a visitor. When it finally came, my family were there in the evening. I had been fretting a lot about my bowels in front of them, so they knew what was going down. This was extreme constipation, and painful. I was being very overdramatic, like I was giving birth. It was just as my family were just to go home for the night, and my mum didn't want to leave when I was gasping like a fish. "Leave me," I croaked, "It's only pooing. I won't die." This labour, happened for 20 minutes, no joke, and was basically really small, compact poos that had formed a blockage. Then came the result of laxatives; a stream of slush. 9 days worth emptied me out. I felt like a volcano. Amazingly, this was all caught in my incontinence pad. The nurse who saved me from this eternal embarrassement congratulated me on the birth. She said it was twins. Maybe triplets. I promptly gave them names I didn't really like. It was a wee bit shit really.

"Hello, welcome to my blog. The poo and pee blog."