A Writer's Life Interrupted: I Am Stronger Than You Think #crohns #ibd #uc

There are all types of courage in the world. There is the young Israeli mother who must take her children to play in concrete bunkers painted to look like a playground. Or the Palestinian woman who stands outside her children's school protecting a room full of rockets, ready to die for the cause.

Is she wrong? Probably. At least in my opinion. Still, it takes courage to do what she does.

There is Josephine Finda Sellu who lost fifteen of her nurses to Ebola. She thought of giving up, but didn't. She struggles on, tending to her patients, hoping and praying the epidemic will end.

My type of courage came in the form of an outhouse sitting atop a formidable hill covered in dry brittle grass. We'd taken our pontoon boat to a relatively rustic lake where there wasn't any running water and no flushable toilets. Anyone with Crohn's disease knows what a challenge this can be. However, I had my trusty portable toiletry bag with me thinking even outhouses were doable.

But, I hadn't considered the drought.

I gulped when I saw how low the lake was. Were outhouses even accessible? Fortunately, I'd thought to bring a spoon. I figured if worse came to worse, a quick hole in the dirt would suffice. Now, it looked like I might be forced into that situation. I couldn't tell my grandchildren the boat ride was over before it even began. So we headed out, into the wild.

Everything was great, the boat was awesome, the kids were loud, and life was good. Then, I ate a piece (or two) of watermelon. The pain hit almost instantly. And it was bad, the kind that has you curling up on the floor grabbing your gut wishing you had drugs to stop it. I wasn't sure if this meant a trip to the emergency room or a bathroom. I was one day shy of my Remicade treatment so it could go either way.  I sat on the bench waiting to discover which one it was going to be. I got lucky. I thought a bathroom would suffice. Still, I needed to find one.

"Can we stop at the next outhouse, please?" I asked my husband, Captain of our ship.

"Sure. Are you okay?"

I nodded. "Fine. But I suspect it might take some time and I need one in a hurry."

We rounded a bend and there it was.

An outhouse atop a hill.

The wooden rectangular box  shined in the sunlight, a beacon of hope amidst a sea of uncertainty. As far as I could see, there wasn't even a trail to the damn thing and before I could even begin to climb I'd have to cross a muddy embankment that might contain leeches.  This was a formidable adventure for a woman in the midst of a Crohn's meltdown. Worse than that, there was another couple ahead of me who'd just exited their boat deciding whether or not to make the climb.

There wasn't a choice for me. It was ether now or  the unthinkable. Already the wave-like pain was becoming intolerable, but I refused to let my husband, kids, and grandpuppies see how bad it really was. I grabbed my portable bag of toiletries, hopped off the boat, and started out. I kept my head down, focusing first on the mud and then the thick grass. I gave a quick glance to my legs, worried about leeches or ticks. I didn't see any, but that didn't mean they weren't there.

The couple ahead of me turned back to their boat. Had this been a regular restroom run, I would have joined them. But it wasn't. Soon there would be much moaning and pain that only a fellow Crohnie would understand. Last week it was cantaloupe, today watermelon.

I found a path, one not used for quite sometime. It was overgrown, long, and it wound this way and that. It was not made for someone who had trouble with balance. Trust me on that. I kept my mind away from anything my body was feeling so I counted rocks, felt the sweat drip down my face and neck and persevered.

Eventually, I earned my goal. It wasn't pleasant and the pain was horrific, but even the pain eventually passes. I could hear the family yelling from down below, hurry up Mom--grandma. My husband was out of the boat and heading up the hill.

I screamed for him to stop and he didn't hear me at first. I started waving my hands and telling him to go back. Finally, the kids saw me and yelled at their dad that I was all right. I headed down the hill and made it to the boat. I was pretty damn proud of myself. I had survived a Crohn's attack in the middle of nowhere. It was a personal achievement. 

This morning while driving to work, a memory surfaced of an incident that happened almost fifteen years ago. Someone very dear to me did something so horrendous as to be unforgivable. Since it was a family member, I continued to maintain contact, but I made it very limited. A few years later another incident happened that destroyed any attempt at a reconciliation. For many years, I berated myself for not being courageous enough to handle the situation. In fact, I was ashamed of myself.

But this time, at the very moment I would normally feel shame, I saw myself climbing that damn hill when it was hotter than Hades outside, when I was ready to keel over from the pain, all of it just so my grandchildren could enjoy their day.

I realized how much courage it took me to do just that. While I didn't save a life or guard myself and children from bombs raining down, I did want to protect them in case one of them develops a chronic disease. I need them to see that life with Crohn's is doable. I want them to know their life isn't over at any age. 

Because it isn't.

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