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Inspired and a follow up to my 2018 post “Oh August, Why do You Hate Me?”

Something about being in August makes my brain itch.

The eighth month of the year, used to be my downtime between school years, between my years at university and it used to be the time I used to relax. But since being diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease, it has been my body that fails to do this each August.

Out of the last decade, half of the summers have been overshadowed by my disease rearing it’s ugly head. And you wouldn’t think I’d have gotten used to it, but in someways, I have.

Let’s take this year for instance, I didn’t expect to need a surgery, but here we are, just under three weeks away from hernia repair.

Last year we were deep in wound infection territory and needed a small EUA (Examination Under Anaesthesia) to sort that out, another summer gone and lost to my disease.

2018 we got a free pass!

In 2017 I had a couple of admissions because I was in transition from one hospital to another after relocating to Cambridgeshire from Staffordshire. It was rocky and rough, I was overwhelmed by not being able to get help when I first needed it.

And of course, in 2016 I had back-to-back surgeries with a stretch of back-to-back admission in between them. If i had to say anything, it would be that 2016 was worse than the summer in which I began presenting with IBD symptoms. Mostly because we knew there was something wrong but my body did not want to show it until it was absolutely necessary, and when I was very very sick. Thanks, body, just cheers.

So, you can appreciate my scepticism towards August.

It has been filled with medical shite for years on end and this year I was hoping to be free of it. But no, this hernia has appeared – although, I suspect it has been present for at least 9 months at time of writing – and needed some urgent surgical attention. The thing is, I can take the surgery; I am not at all phased by it. It is the other medical stuff that comes with it.

Canullas.

Drips.

Fluids.

Medications.

Check ups.

Daily pokes for blood.

New stoma and stoma care.

Catheter!

Drain!

Recovery!

And now, add to this ‘normal’ list of medical stuff, we have COVID to contend with. I am not fearful of it as I once was, but I am apprehensive of the PPE I will encounter and the lack of faces I will see during my stay.

So yes, August, you suck.

But despite this bleak outlook and small fear of what August might do to my already existing and engrained medical trauma, I am hopeful. I know and trust my surgeon very much. I therefore know I am in good hands. I have my support at home with friends and family. I have the strength to get my arse physically through this surgery and I am prepared for some emotional blow back. I am planning and preparing and organising; and while this is my strong suit, I still have my moments of wobbling.

Of thinking about the mesh being put into my abdomen to reinforce my muscles.

Of realising I’ll have a new stoma to adapt to and learn to love again.

Of knowing that reoccurrence is high.

Of being scared of going under the knife, despite my past experiences.

Of losing my independence.

Do you have any questions or queries? Or just want to share your own experiences?

You can leave me a reply here or leave comments via my social media accounts – on Twitter, find my blog page on Facebook and over on Instagram

If you enjoyed this post check out Growing Through Your Diagnosis , IBD & Mental Health and High and Low Symptoms Days