# My IBS experience: From An Alternative View Point



## 16512 (Jul 21, 2005)

My IBSâ€”From A Different Perspective.I have been suffering from IBS since 1974, and although the explanation for it has always been right there in plain view I had chosen to ignore it because it was too threatening. Telling myself I am the cause for my own pain tantamount to an admission of guilt, which if internalized, could only make my misery more profound.One day in 1974 I read with unhealthy interest an advertisement for a topical treatment for Hemorrhoid. Three months later I unaccountably developed a serious case of Fistula-in-ano which required surgery and a week in a hospital. The connection between the two events was as apparent as day; but I chose to dismiss it. During my convalescence I learnt to dread what used to be a normal bodily function: bowel movement. Yes, that was when I first fell victim to IBS, except I did not then recognize my condition as such, and consequently suffered less because of my ignorance.Still, soon, diarrhoea became a constant terror. I suspected my diet. I blamed the weather. I even accused my mother for passing onto me â€œbad genes.â€ Back then there was no Imodiumâ€”only Keo-Pectate in liquid form. So I turned to a proven make of herbal pills which worked reliably, but just as reliably the pills irritated my stomach and stopped up my bowel. Here, I will not waste time to describe my suffering because that is something we are all so personally familiar with.In the 1980s I landed a hard-won job with IBM. I became a customer service engineer and spent most of my working hours either on my way to, working at, or coming back from customers offices all over the city. It was a great job but an incredibly wrong choice for someone with IBS. Intimate knowledge of the locations of all available washrooms with nearby parking helped, but nevertheless the fear of unable to reach one of them in time multiplied exponentially. The only solution was to increase my daily dosage of the patent pills.Then one morning I woke up with unbearable stomach pain. After three trips to the hospital a diagnosis of acute appendicitis was offered. Later inside the operating room the doctor discovered my appendix was actually fine, but my colon has perforated and infection has spread. So the doctor cleaned up my inside the best he could, administered heavy doses of antibiotics through my IV, removed the damaged section of my colon, attached the upstream end of it to a stoma opening in my abdomen, and then sewed me up. When I came to again I was told to return in a month for a second operation. It was disheartening news, but I did not suspect the upside would be a month during which I could banish all fear of diarrhoea because I was using ostomy bags. It turned out to be such an intense relief I almost deemed it worthy of all the pain and inconvenience. A month later the doctor connected the two sections of my colon, and sent me home in time for Christmas. Another month went by and my stoma opening became just a scar and the colostomy bags bad memories. I truly thought I was healed. Convinced now the cause of my IBS had been found and eliminated, I enjoyed two blissful, symptom-free months. Then one cursed day I woke up and my IBS had returned with new-found vigor. That afternoon I again stocked up on those patent pills.In the 1990s because of marital changes I found myself sharing an apartment with a persons-to-washrooms ratio of 3:1. I suffered wretchedly from my IBS but also noticed the condition would often miraculously cure itself once I arrive at my office which boasted a more comforting ratio of 20:10, counting the washrooms located at the lower floor. I began to suspect it was all in my mind. The following Friday evening I checked into a motel room with an ensuite washroom that I did not have to share, then proceeded to gorge myself with food and drinks I normally avoided, including ice cream and spicy curry, washed down with beer. Nothing dramatic happened that night or the next day. I repeated the experiment the next Friday with the same result. However, I have to admit the revelation frightened me more than it comforted me.In 2001 I spent six months in Shanghai, China, working as a cashmere buyer. The job required I spend my work day mornings in a warehouse located in a village. Were there washrooms? Yesâ€¦, but the washrooms were in an out-house, and the local joke was not even a fly would venture closer than 100 meter from the out-house, not even when the fly was suffering from a severe cold. The first time I approach the out-house because of an undeniable need to relieve my bladder a kind soul stopped me and asked if I smoke: I answered yes; and he told me to light up two cigarettes. At first I figured he just wanted a smoke, but turned out it was the only way --with two lit cigarettes dangling from my mouth so my sense of smell could be fooled long enough for me to stay inside the washrooms for a minute. It was pure hell. I would get up three-hour too early in order to "take care of my morning needs." I dared not break my fast--not even with a cup of espresso--until I was safely back at my hotel room in the late afternoons, and as a result I lost more than ten pounds in that six months. I had to come up with ingenious and even illegal means to keep myself supplied with Imodium, which had once again become my staple diet. Shanghai was a great city, and I enjoyed the sights and the people. Shanghai also boasted some of the world's best restaurants but I had little knowledge of that, and readers of this bulletin board should understand exactly why.I came back to Canada in July of 2002, and since then I have been working as a free-lance technical writer. One would assume working at home must have saved me a lot of grief, and one would be wrong. In early 2003 a persistent case of frequent urination joined force with my IBS to torture me. I became so desperate and pathetic I even resorted to adult diapers.Then finally one day I looked back at my life and decided I had suffered enough. So about a year ago I tried another approach. I stopped hating and blaming my bowel and my bladder. I told myself my bowel and my bladder were victims just like myself. After all, what could my body have done but to echo my moods? And what else but my body would have suffered if my mind was full of hatred for myself? Even if I could somehow blame others for how I was suffering, still I could not thus rid myself of the guilt and fear. So I learned to relax and look at my IBS (and also my case of frequent urination) without judgment, expectation, or speculation. I confessed I knew nothing about IBS and even less about how to deal with it. I told myself my body is inherently neutral and blameless until I try to define its purpose. It was not easy because too often I would lapse back into my old habit of judging everything and everybody--certainly including myself, and then I would have to again reach for the Imodium.Has my changed view-point been working for me? Yes. Not only my IBS but my life too, seems to have improved. But no, I am not cured yet--not until I can change my mind for good. I am still plagued by diarrhoea, albeit less regularly. I still religiously carry Imodium in my wallet. I still keep an empty pop bottle under my bed, just in case. But there have been blessed consecutive days when I would be free from any symptoms.So I am writing this with the intention of posting it; and if my experience can help just one fellow IBS sufferer to suffer a little less even for the briefest period of time, then this effort will be worthwhile. What I am proffering is not even a pretension of a cure to IBS, but an open and sincere invitation to share and learn, in the hope of keeping hopes in our hearts.


----------

