Now we can start actually making impromptu plans again. Or plans that are not events, just hanging out. This has taken some rethinking and adjusting, as simple as that kind of low-pressure situation is.
Firstly, I find that I am still in a state of overshare. What I mean is, while I'm still wrapping my head around my new normal, I am talking what feels like too much about certain subjects in a way that I'm not quite certain is socially okay. I'll sit back as a passenger to my own mouth as I, unprompted, tell someone that my butt is sewn shut. This, at least, seems more for those that have some background into what has been going on, thankfully. With new people, I feel the pressure to say something burning at my throat and can often ultimately quash it, unless it's relevant to the conversation and I feel there is enough of an invitation--it definitely still counts in the "what's new with your life?" line of questioning. This is all VERY new and significant in my life.
And then there are the weirdly normal parts of it. For example, I'm going to highlight something that happened with my friend, Eve, from church: Hi, Eve! Eve is total sweetheart--the Asian grandmother you didn't know you had. After coming back to choir, she made sure to give me a hug and also took a moment to say "Hi, Melvin!" to my lower, right-side abdomen. I think Eve is one of few people in the world I am absolutely okay with talking directly to Melvin. I had a nice laugh. It brightened my day in a way that I had not expected and still makes me smile to think about.
As another example, I'm going to bring up my brother David. On Christmas presents, David likes to make very personal tags on them, directing presents to you paired with some kind of inside joke or family memory. This year, my Christmas present was directed to "Melvin's Person." It took me several minutes to stop laughing.
On the other hand, there have even been a couple of jokes that Andy has made where I had to stop him and make clear that I was not ready for that particular kind of joke yet. I'm still trying to find exactly where these lines are, what points are uncomfortable to have discussed or joked about openly and where they are not. In fact, there may be some jokes that I'll never actually be okay with someone making, even after a certain amount of time has passed. Within that calculation, I'm not a huge fan of body humor in the first place, and I think it's fair to say that I'll like it even less, watching to make sure that fart and poop jokes don't stray into places that are too real. I suppose I won't have a hard and fast rule for a while yet.
Andy is very open, though, in trying to help me find more ways to be comfortable and flexible while I find my own footing. Now, since I no longer have sphincter control for when my body expels stool or gas, Melvin will burble away with a fart or another splort of poop whenever it pleases him. And sometimes, that will be in a very quiet, tense moment or while I'm giving a presentation at work. I have figured some of the timing between eating and when Melvin tends to move most significantly, meaning that I can at least try to time my meals to correspond accordingly. Mostly, I don't really mind this--it's out of my control and I'll be very honest about what is happening if I'm asked. Andy asked me, in a half-joking, half-serious way, if it would make me feel better if he farted more audibly in public alongside me, specifically so I wouldn't be the only one. I laughed and told him no; as weird as the offer is, it was also very thoughtful, particularly in our strange world.
We don't know what the rules are yet. I can't help him find ways to help me until I have identified what they are, and it's just too soon to expect that to be there. We're three months in on a lifetime change.
Even calling my colostomy "Melvin" is a weird little joke in and of itself. I'm not mocking any particular person--actually, my mother picked the name, and I cannot remember the specific context, just that it stuck and there was no use trying to call it anything else. Firstly, it is less of a mouthful. "Melvin" sounds less intimidating than ostomy or colostomy. Also, I find that it adds levity the situation, sounding more playful and more human. And even if the other party doesn't understand when I say "Oh, I had to take care of Melvin," they have the opportunity to ask if they want to know or to let it go if they don't have the time or the inclination, which makes it clearer to me when someone has invited me to explain or when they're just being polite.
Most importantly, though, it separates my ostomy from me. Melvin will always be a part of my life, but it does not define my life. I can sit back and blame Melvin for misbehaving instead of blaming a sense of "me" that I cannot control. It moves the lack of control to another "being." It moves the situation out of my sense of self. That gives me space to cope and space to breathe.
Not everyone names their ostomies. Some people need to keep it as clinical as possible or otherwise not give it the dignity of a personality or even spare a thought for it more than they have to. I would not want to suggest that there is a right way to emotionally deal with a permanent or temporary ostomy at all. For me, though, I like to root out the why I react and respond the way I do, to explore meaning in a different way and find the healthiest way to go from there.
Here is some of what I've found:
- Part of my coping is this blog, a space where I don't wait for an invitation and work through some of these actions and feelings by writing them down in my own voice.
- Part of my coping is telling more people about Melvin, to free others who might be hiding with their own symptoms a place to be included and represented, at least in part.
- Part of my coping is to teach.
The rules will make more sense as we go and will continue to change as I do. I will be clear when boundaries are crossed, particularly when I have figured out how to articulate them. And I will continue to find humor where and when I need it.
Also, Melvin says "blorp."
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