Part of the fun and circus of our move-in weekend involved catching a couple of plane flights from my onsites in Austin, TX, back to Bloomington, IL, by way of Atlanta, GA, because Delta almost always hubs at its homebase. Mostly, I had the usual concerns of plane flight: wanting to get there in plenty of time to get through the line, get through security, hit the bathroom before boarding, see what gate I might need to find at Atlanta (I think I've only landed in the correct terminal for my connecting flight ONCE in a dozen or so flights), calculating how much time I'd actually have between flights, deciding what I should have on hand vs what could be buried in my bag, filling up my water bottle, etc.
Once boarded on the first flight, I was zoning out pretty hard but not quite napping--I had been at the airport at four in the morning to make this six o'clock flight. Melvin was burbling along pretty actively that morning. I was hoping to be able to make it to the airport before needing to empty the bag, since we're in a confined space and emptying a bag full of farts isn't always the nicest thing I could do to those who happen to be next to the bathroom. Eventually, though, the bag was FULL, painfully stretching against the Stealthbelt holding it to my side. I finally got out and emptied it out completely in the bathroom, feeling much better about the situation as the panic deflated, too. That went without incident.
Zoning out again, the flight continued. I noticed that Melvin was filling up once more, the bag again as a source of pressure against my side and a strong pressure in my mind. The food cart was between me and the bathroom. I was hoping I could make it to the airport. The cart finally moved far enough. Maybe I could make it to the airport anyway? The seatbelt sign was on--we started our descent. Well, shit. I felt trapped in that seat. I didn't know if I could get up anyway, if I could vent the bag a bit from where I was at and become a permanent anecdote for my seatmates whenever air travel was brought up in conversation. Paralyzed with those ideas, whether it was too late to get up anyway or if maybe I could just hold out, I felt the pressure lessen a bit at my side and caught a decided whiff of trouble.
Yep, I had just blown a bag. On a plane. Where I couldn't immediately change the bag and tend to it. And I couldn't move from my seat. I couldn't even get a good angle to lift my shirt to check the extent of the damage in my seat--what would be the point? Leaking over more things? Best to keep it contained under my shirt than to potentially leak onto my pants. Could I call an attendant for some kind of help? What kind of help could they be? I was very quietly freaking the fuck out in my seat.
I opted to vent the bag a bit further, to minimize the possible extent of the damage by releasing additional pressure. I watched the man in front of me pull his shirt over his nose and say something presumably to his neighbor about it. I don't think he knew it was me--what average person would automatically assume the person fumbling with something on their stomach was the source of the epically bad fart smell? I had many rude thoughts to that man, along the lines of "fuck you, it's not my fault. Suck it up." I was so furious with myself for being "nice" and not venting the bag from my seat earlier before the pressure reached the point of exploding out one side of its containment system. I was also mortified. I wondered again if I should call a flight attendant, ask if I could somehow be given priority disembarking privileges to take care of it immediately after we landed. I didn't. Wasn't even sure if it would be possible or how much I wanted to explain of the situation to the someone, in front of any seatmates still awake. It sounded stupid to say "I didn't want to break the rules" as a reason for the predicament that I was now in--surely they would have understood if I had gotten up and then explained with "I have to check my medical appliance."
Once we got close to actually landing, I was checking my arrival and next departure gate per usual, so I had an idea of where I was heading next and how much time before that flight began boarding, but I was also plotting my fast escape. As soon as the seatbelt sign went off, I had my backpack shouldered and ran forward about eight rows to speed up my departure from the plane. I saw a couple people look up at me, projecting that they were wondering why I didn't wait my turn. I bet for at least four of them I was right from the looks I got, thinking maybe at best they might assume that I was trying to make a short connection. But I didn't owe them an explanation. They could presume that I'm just an impatient jerk, if it pleased them; this was advocating for myself. There was nothing else I needed collect at the end of the path or get out of the bins--I was ready to make my way to the nearest bathroom as fast as humanly possible. I held one hand against my stomach, waited for the first twelve or so rows to clear out (unbearable slow, it seemed) as I held a hand against my ostomy bag.
Thankfully, a bathroom was in immediate view once I exited the gate. I made a beeline, found a stall, and threw down my backpack, digging for my spare ostomy supplies. Then, I could finally lift my shirt and survey the damage: as blowouts go, this one was not bad, contained mostly to the plastic/fabric of the flange, but the seal was definitely broken. But the real problem was more emotional: my confidence was still shattered AND I still had to make my connecting flight. After a deep breath, I started tucking my clothes out of the way and pulled the bag off, dropping it into the tiny trashcan in the stall for feminine hygiene products, sparing a short hope that there was some kind of lining in this one for whomsoever had to change that later, since I wasn't in a place to confirm it myself. I cleaned it up as best I could with what I had in the stall, not wanting to venture out to a sink in this case, just keeping my few pieces together. Putting my connecting flight temporarily out of my mind, I made short work of the bag change and was quickly dressed again.
A part of me was panicking--I had used my emergency supply and I only had one on me. If something else happened, I was decidedly hosed. I walked to my next gate instead, resting a hand protectively over the bag to use the warmth to help the bag bond better to my skin. The panic subsided a bit, apart from the underlying anxiety about not having another backup. At least the next destination would be home, where I had many, many options for resolving that kind of problem.
Again, not as catastrophic as it could have been, but it colored my day, this before getting into all of the moving stuff no less. But this is a reality of my life, that I constantly carry the anxiety of a potential leak of my ostomy bag. This is the first that I had had in months, but what made this one weird was the guilt that I felt in putting myself in that position, by trying to adhere to social niceties (not venting ostomy farts in my seat or adhering to the seatbelts sign). I don't feel I can decide that rules don't apply to me in some situations, but this will be one worth considering. Can I weigh my neighbor's potential discomfort against my mental and physical wellbeing? Will it make matters worse for my flight if I disobey the signs? I am aware that blowouts are always a possibility, that few things in this world are guaranteed. What can I do or not do to prevent these or plan for them? What other situations would I be confined to a spot where I'm not supposed to leave? What's the right way to say "I'm special and have to bend that rule" to an authority figure?
I carried that secret shame and frustration through the airport, no one the wiser to the level of distress I was feeling, apart from some bad smells. I had compassion for other ostomates in that moment who have been in similar binds--I cannot imagine trying to explain this to a teacher the first time in a classroom that has draconian bathroom policies. It stemmed from the societal assumptions that we make, that everyone has a similar set of wants/needs/desires as you do--logically we know this isn't true, but we don't remember much of the potential reasons why someone cut us off in traffic while we're yelling at them for doing so. This is a problem that a lot of people just don't have to deal with, that they have absolutely no context for. I don't suspect people to understand it, but that's partly why I'm doing blogs like these. For those who understand this life and all of its weird little quirks, we have reasons that we seem like inconsiderate assholes. We don't owe an explanation, but I want to bridge the gap where I can, all the same. I have a solid mix of not wanting to inconvenience others and not caring what they think about the situation. It isn't necessarily consistent these two facets, shame vs not, flow into each other in interesting ways, where I cannot always predict what reactions will invoke shame or which won't affect me at all. I feel that I need to start leaning more toward the "zero fucks given" camp of things, that advocating myself means that I am one of the persons I take into consideration when weighing needs more frequently than I do. Instances like these will continue to foster more of that growth, where I can also hopefully advocate for others in similar places.
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