Girls don't fart or poo, we release small puffs of pink glitter and it smells like roses -- well, not in my cancer case. Don't worry, I can hear what you're thinking, "How is this related to your cancer, Alexandra?" Well, let me tell you, my cancer has literally been shit. Some of the grossest, funniest moments since my diagnosis have involved just that -- poo and toilets. Now I'm going to be honest with you, but you need to promise you'll stick by me after reading this and to any potential future boyfriends out there, I have a good excuse, OK?
The first toilet incident came after my egg preserving operation. Unfortunately, seven hours after my procedure it was confirmed I was suffering from a mild case of ovarian hyperstimulation as a result of all the fertility drugs I'd been taking. Anyone that's been under a general anesthetic will know that the stuff puts your bowel movements into holiday mode. After a three night stint in hospital I was released back into the world, a colon full of hospital grub and feeling rather bloated I thought the best option was to pop some laxatives and let them work their magic. Picture this, my nether regions had been in the wars for a few days, ovaries the size of oranges and fluid around my stomach and liver. Laxatives were not a good idea -- cue manic screaming. No word of a lie, I was on the toilet, screaming like the exorcist, naked because I was so hot and I'd stripped all my clothes off. I remember seeing my mum stood at the bathroom door, not really being able to read her expression because naturally she had no idea what to do. These cramps were like what I imagine women feel when giving birth, except I was trying to push out a poo baby that had been residing inside me for five days.
The second incident, now this is some serious shit (no pun intended), was after my first round of chemotherapy and I was suffering from some of the expected side effects. Sickness, nausea and that lovely stuff known as diarrhea. Actually, I didn't realize I had it until I experienced something mortifying, a moment that made me consider living in a hut on a far away island until all chemotherapy side effects had subsided. I was stood in my kitchen, wearing just my dressing gown and I released what I thought was a small puff of pink glitter aka a trump. When I realized what had happened my eyes nearly exploded out of my head just like the liquid lava poo did my backside, I could see a minuscule brown puddle on the floor and I could hear my sister hysterically laughing and screaming. My body was punishing me, dirty protesting against all the drugs It had pumped into it. So I ran, ran to the toilet and once again ended up naked because I'd had to strip from my dirtied dressing gown. Instead of screaming, exorcist style, this time I was half crying, half laughing hysterically, what had my life become!
I'm happy to report I now only have one round of chemotherapy left and I'm very much back in control of my bowel movements. I'm sure somewhere there is a sensible message to take from my embarrassing stories. Hopefully someone else has experienced something similar and can relate or if I'm alone in this I'm definitely booking the first flight to that hut on the beach, where I will hide for the rest of my life!