By Carrie Bradley.

What evacuating excrement taught me about honesty.

Everybody poops. Not everyone does it through a hole in their belly.

Another Kind of Enema

I sat on the toilet with my pants still on, my T-shirt tucked into my bra. It was early in the morning; my family members were still asleep. I gazed at my navel and popped open the lube tube, smearing goopy clear liquid onto a white cone attached to a tube connected to a bag of warm water hanging above my head.

I inhaled deeply and made a conscious effort to relax my muscles—slack my jaw, drop my shoulders. “May I come in?” I asked my stoma, the red round loop of intestine that lives on the outside of my abdomen.

Memories of trauma surfaced as I gazed at the place where stool now exits my body. “Danger,” my body said, though this was only medical discomfort. Slowly, I slid the small end of the silicone cone into my stoma’s opening. I let my body and mind adjust to the strange sensation. I held the cone there with one hand and with the other turned the gauge, releasing warm water flowing from the bag, down the tube, into the cone and inside my colon.

Until my ostomy nurse told me, I had no idea irrigation even existed. After more than forty years of bowel movements the usual way, I was still reckoning with the fact that I will never again sit on a toilet and have a “normal” one.

Less than two years ago, part of my large intestine was removed along with a large cancerous tumor in my rectum. Doctors cut out the cancer and later sewed my bum hole shut. Now, I have a permanent colostomy.

When I first started irrigation it was just a medical procedure. Now I see it differently. It symbolizes freedom.

As I leaned back, I felt the pressure build as my intestine filled with water. The bloated feeling intensified and a slight sense of nausea crept into my lower abdomen. My shoulders started reaching for my ears again.

“This is safe,” my brain reminded my body. (Except for the slight chance of bowel perforation — yikes.)

“You’re OK; relax. It’s almost over.”

I turned off the flow and slid the cone out of my stoma. Water started gushing out, guided into the toilet by a plastic sleeve attached to my abdomen with a belt. Waste joined the water exiting my system.

I sat there for several minutes, fascinated and surprisingly not disgusted by this foreign phenomenon.

Irrigation is uncomfortable. It can be messy, and it takes nearly an hour each day. But I look forward to it because of how I feel after: lighter, freer, and ready to take on the day.

On the outside, I can wear a small cap — like a big Band-Aid — over my stoma rather than a bag about the size of a hand which adheres to my belly. On the inside, I feel cleaner, empty in the best possible way.

Without irrigation, I’m back to bag life.

Bag Life

When I’m wearing the bag and haven’t irrigated, excrement comes out anytime, anywhere. The stoma is not like a sphincter; there is no clenching it. When poop wants to come out, it comes out.

I can be standing in the grocery store staring at soup cans and all of a sudden think, “Oh. I’m pooping right now.”

At home, I have a hard time keeping my hands off the bag. If there’s anything inside, I feel the impulse to smooth it down. My fingers, long ago trained in massage therapy, can’t help but search for differences in my stool. “A piece of a nut. That must be quinoa. Didn’t chew that carrot enough.” It can be very distracting.

I often feel self-conscious when wearing my ostomy bag, wondering if people can see it through my clothing. I’ve changed part of my wardrobe to disguise it. When I wear tight workout clothes and swimsuits, it’s noticeable.

One benefit of bag life: You can’t smell my farts. It’s all contained. But if there’s a leak, it stinks. 

Bag life can be inconvenient and humbling. It’s also the reason I’m alive.

My surgeries saved me from colorectal cancer and painful blockage. Feces that accumulate in the body can become toxic. I know what it’s like to be bloated with waste.

And I’m starting to realize I’ve also been blocked by some false stories.

Full of It

The expression “full of crap” is used to describe someone who is lying, exaggerating, or talking nonsense. In a physical sense, when waste can’t exit the body, it can be dangerous. In a metaphorical sense, being “full of it” is undesirable and can quietly shape a life. 

I’ve begun to wonder how many of us are walking around constipated with stories we’ve never questioned — stories we inherited, stories we were handed, or stories we created to survive. The stories that protected us once don’t always serve us in adulthood.

You can’t empty what you refuse to confront.

When I first got an ileostomy, I didn’t know anyone else who had one. I thought it would be temporary. After months of complications, I learned that my digestive tract could not be reconnected, and I received a permanent colostomy. Grief hit me hard.

While still in the hospital, I gave up my position as an open-water swim coach, a part-time job I loved. I didn’t want to quit, but I believed ocean swimming would be too hard to do with an ostomy.

Underneath that decision was a sneaky belief: different equals bad. That story kept me isolated. I assumed my difference would lead to rejection and failure. Then I went looking for others like me.

Online, I found a handful of ostomates sharing their experiences. Seeing them speak openly made me feel less like an anomaly, less like a weirdo or a freak.

What felt true was that I should be ashamed and hide. What is true is that I am a valuable person who now has a disability that makes me poop differently than most.

Seeking Support

After accepting that my ostomy was permanent, I sought support through Ostomy Canada Society, the non-profit organization dedicated to educating and supporting ostomates to live life to the fullest.

There, I read stories of ambassadors working to destigmatize ostomies.

Seeing Sara Levitt compete for Miss Universe Canada as an ostomate helped me question my assumptions. If she could rock an ostomy bag in a bikini, why couldn’t I let mine be seen in a swimsuit?

Reading about Alex MacInnis running the Squamish 50/50 ultramarathon with an ostomy rekindled my excitement for endurance sports.

I reached out to Coach Jenn Moore and began rebuilding strength under her expert ostomy-informed guidance.

By living their lives authentically, these ostomates helped me confront the story that said I was limited. 

What Now?

I haven’t returned to consistent swimming yet, but I no longer believe I can’t.

Just like learning to irrigate, it won’t be comfortable at first. It will require patience, repetition, and trust.

For now, every morning that I can, I hang the bag of warm water above my head. I inhale and relax my jaw, exhale and drop my shoulders. I gaze down at my stoma and ask, “May I come in?” Then I let go of what I no longer need.

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Carrie Bradley is the host of the Plucky Not Perfect podcast.

This story was sourced by Lisa Gausman, Ostomy Canada Senior Editor.