There, I said it out loud. Mine is not the sort of medical condition that you talk about in polite company. There is nothing glamorous about it—you just can’t be more than five feet away from a bathroom at any given moment, and you consider buying stock in toilet paper to at least try to recoup some of your “investment.”
Here’s an example of just how little most people care to hear about my chronic disease. A couple of years ago, I posted on Facebook about prepping for a colonoscopy scheduled for the following day, stating simply that the prep liquid tasted terrible and I would be happy to be done with the procedure—nothing graphic or gory.
A friend replied, “Tammy, your posts are generally so interesting and upbeat and informative. We expect something of higher caliber from you.”
Crohn’s disease is a part of my life every single day. It is my constant companion. It knocks on the door from the inside of my guts and says, “Hey! I’m in here! You can’t forget about me!”
Sometimes it knocks so loudly that the racket coming from my abdomen causes Boss Tweed to flee in surprise and panic! I kid you not.
As I began scheming about this journey, it occurred to me: If I must be in close proximity to a toilet, I’ll take the toilet with me everywhere I go.
As Matthew Wilder sang, “Ain’t nothn’ gonna break my stride, nobody’s gonna slow me down, oh no, I got to keep on movin.”