It was February 2015 and I had grown steadily ill over a couple of weeks. I had been taking the antibiotic Metronidazole for a tooth infection and no sooner had I completed the course the symptoms started. At first I was suffering with acute pain and cramping which coincided with bleeding thought to be associated with the contraceptive implant I had had since December. Believing the pain to be symptomatic of the implant reaction the nurse sent me away with a large box of NSAIDs (Non-steroidal anti-inflammatories). In hindsight this was a terrible decision. The bloating and pain continued to worsen. On my second trip to the docs, this time to see the GP, it was suggested that I may have burnt my stomach with the number of antibiotics and anti-inflammatories I had been taking. I was prescribed Lansoprazole to help calm the pain. The diarrhea kicked in soon after along with a stench that seemed to seep through my very pores and can only be described as akin to rotting flesh. It was seriously unnatural. If the symptoms weren’t bad enough for me personally, this particular effect was rough on anyone around me. Over the next couple of weeks things just got worse until I was no longer in a position to leave the house and I was crippled in pain. Another visit to the GP left me void of answers but with a large prescription for Dioralyte. I was told to keep drinking to prevent dehydration but the locum was sure that the symptoms would soon pass. This was a Friday. By the Monday I had a horrific temperature and once again found myself in the doctors surgery. This time my fever was bad enough to warrant hospital attention.

Looking back, the thing that astounds me is how long I managed to cope in the uncomfortable agony I was suffering. At its worst, the pain was like fire. It didn’t just hurt my lower abdomen but more surprisingly sent sharp pain up my back, particularly on the right side. Paracetamol barely touched it and I resulted in using a hot water bottle to burn my skin in an attempt to ease or perhaps distract from the internal pain I was feeling. Nighttime was the most challenging. I would wake up every 4 hours as the paracetamol wore off and the hot water bottle cooled. I would run downstairs to get the painkillers inside me and the water boiling as quickly as I could. Thinking about it now it seems ridiculous but it really is amazing what your body and mind can take in its stride when it has to.

I arrived at A&E with a letter from the GP stating that I had suspected IBD. This was completely ignored by the triage nurse. It was noted, however, that my temperature was dangerously high and the first course of action was to attach me to a drip (I was severely dehydrated) and administer paracetamol through my cannula.  These glass bottles of hell I will never forget. Every time one was administered I lost my mind for a good few hours. No idea where I was or who was around me, I would quietly hallucinate. When I finally came round the bed would be soaking wet and I would feel horrendous. A couple of hours later and the process would start again.

The first thought was that I was suffering with a urine infection. With this in mind I spent the first 3 days of my hospital stay on the Acute Medical Ward being fed either saline, paracetamol or antibiotics via IV. Had I not have been seriously ill these would have been really horrific days. I remember the fact I was forced to use a commode as there was a chance I may have posed a threat to others had I proven to be infectious. Between that and shitting myself almost constantly in a bed I struggled to get out of, I quickly lost all dignity I ever walked in with. Thankfully for me, the mixture of drugs in my system and life threateningly high fever left me pretty careless about an otherwise distressing and frankly embarrassing situation.

3 days in and what felt like a number of different consultants later I was moved to a new ward where I was given my own room and my own toilet. Never had I been so pleased to see a toilet!! It was not until I was discharged from hospital, however, that I discovered I was housed on the HIV ward which had nothing to do with Gastro and was about as far away from the Digestive Diseases dept a person could get. Still with no solid answer as to what was wrong with me the docs seemed to be trying any avenue. Pregnancy tests and continuous questions about a recent tattoo followed. Eventually I was sent for an ultrasound which came back clear.

What followed after this ultrasound was a fun filled 42 hours of testing. I went through every machine I think that hospital own. Starting with a chest and abdo X-ray it became clear there was something wrong with my gut. An MRI followed as well as a CT scan. If I am honest, I would quite like to give the CT scan a go now I am more conscious of my surroundings. It really was one of the most surreal experiences. My stomach was wheeled into a giant polo. A dye was then administered through my cannula to show up my internal organs on the scan more clearly. As this liquid entered my system I could feel it shoot up my right arm and under my tongue where it left a metallic taste before it shot back down my left side and into what felt like my bladder. The guy running the machine told me I might feel as though I could wet myself but assured me I wouldn’t. Lucky for him he was right. The sensation of the dye was warm and strange but not wholly unpleasant. The final test, however, was anything but.

The last examination was the most invasive. The Flexi Sigmoidoscopy. The process by which a camera is carefully inserted via your anus and pushed up into your colon or large intestine. Apparently these procedures don’t hurt. Bullshit. I was in agony. Any hope I had of seeing my bowel on the screen before me was smashed in screaming agony. The nurse who had held my hand soon told me to let go as I was cutting off her circulation as I waled in pain. I don’t think I was the easiest patient but then I can’t imagine most people are too happy about an object akin to a light saber being rammed up their rear end. I managed to hang on long enough for them to take a number of biopsies from my intestine and to take the photographs needed to confirm the hospital’s suspicion: I had Ulcerative Colitis.