A chink of light

There was a news item recently that really upset me and I can't stop thinking about it.  A young girl went to a wine bar to celebrate her 18th birthday and drank a cocktail that was concocted using liquid nitrogen; a few hours later in terrible pain she was rushed to the hospital where she was told they had to remove her stomach or she would die.  I can't begin to comprehend what that must feel like for her, because her life will now be changed forever in a really profound way, and all because of a drink!  I have personal experience now of abdominal surgery, and I can tell you it's bloody painful, and like her I had no choice; if I hadn't had that operation I wouldn't be here now.  But what she is going to have to endure is way beyond anything I went through, and the consequences for her mean that she will never be able to function normally again; life can so cruel sometimes, but stuff like this shouldn't have happened to a little girl; because that is what she is - a little girl just turned eighteen, studying at sixth form with the rest of her life before her, and it is so tragic and unfair, and all because someone had the bright idea of constructing a colourful alcoholic cocktail that foamed and bubbled, to entice young people to drink.  I know now just how important a healthy gut is and how devastating it is for some people when cancer or other illnesses affect the stomach.  From the day I was informed of my cancer I never cried; I just for some reason apologised relentlessly to my wife, Sarah, because I somehow felt I was letting her down; worrying how she'd cope if I didn't come through it and all that kind of stuff.  And all through the pain and indignity of the whole medical process I somehow held it together.  But what affected me more than anything was seeing other patients in the ward who were really suffering much more than me; hearing them cry out in pain, clamping my hands over my ears as a doctor was breaking the bad news to a guy in the next bed that his illness was terminal, watching people struggle with the reality of having to face the rest of their lives with a bag stuck to their side.  But one guy in particular, called John really got to me; early twenties, he was a handsome kid, though terribly thin because he had had the whole of his large intestine removed and was in constant pain.  Every day his beautiful young wife whom he had just married would come and sit by him, stroking his forehead as he slipped into a welcome torpor as the morphine hit him - and believe me after a few hours of that kind of pain you long for that morphine shot.  He had been in hospital for a month, and things kept going wrong for him; constant emergencies where he would be rushed back into surgery and they would cut away yet another piece of his stomach.  He had a stoma, which he would have to cope with for the rest of his life, and many other complications that I won't go into; needless to say he was suffering a great deal.  I got to know him quite well, and we'd talk about stuff, football mostly; especially as we were both West Brom supporters, and one day after spending hour after hour vomiting up green bile, struggling to breath through his pain, he declared - "I just want a chink of light; just want to know that things'll get better than this one day... just a chink of light."  That stuck with me and always will, because it sort of summed up what we were all looking for in that hospital ward - a chink of light to signify we were on the mend and might one day recover and get back to our loved ones.  When I did eventually come home, frail and wasted and weighing less that eight stone, I sat on the sofa with Sarah and Lucy, not quite believing I was back, feeling somewhat disorientated and shell-shocked, and Lucy asked me what it had been like, and so I began to relate various stories about my treatment and of the other patients in there, and then I told her about John and how badly he was suffering and suddenly and for the first time since my diagnosis I found myself weeping inconsolably, sobbing and choking just remembering the poor guy and how fate had torn his life to shreds.    I find it strange that when some people learn that you have had bowel cancer one of the first questions they ask is "have you got a bag?"  What's that about?  Why do they want to know?  What business is it of theirs anyway?  It so happens that I escaped that particular trauma, but I now know people who do have to cope with it, and I think they're really brave, and I know that most of them would prefer to keep that piece of information to themselves, because why would you want to discuss something so personal with anyone other than your family?  I have always felt uncomfortable when someone jokes about disability, and the colostomy bag has always been a target for a cheap laugh - well you never know one day you or someone close to you might just find themselves having to carry one around stuck to their abdomen, then I think the reality of having to live with 'a bag' may just make those jokes feel rather unpleasant and tasteless.

And now I find myself crying for a person I don't even know - a young girl for whom a chance event has left her forever dependent on medical help; her stomach has gone and I don't need to point out what that would mean to a young woman just beginning her journey into adulthood; the implications are just too horrible to contemplate, but the poor soul will have to learn to live life in a very different way from here on.  God damn any fool who would take smallest risk with such a young life by selling them something so inherently risky as a drink that is made using liquid nitrogen!  The alcohol industry sees our young people as potential consumers, and something like this is the consequence of their cavalier attitude when trying to reel them in.  I hope that she finds her chink of light eventually, but my God the poor girl has got a momentous task in front of her.