Flatulence. It’s a fact of life.
Bum burps, trouser trumpets, crop duster, muff puff, whatever you want to call it, anal acoustics is something we all experience. As a woman this is something I probably shouldn’t confess to, and goodness knows the Iceberg will be mortified, but I have been holding onto this since treatment and I finally feel it’s time to let go. Excuse the pun!
As babies our bowel movements and sound affects amuse parents the world over. I only have to recall the sound clip my brother sent me of Conor when he was a few months old. I waited patiently as I expected to hear Conor giggle or even his first word. To no avail I was holding my phone to my ear in anticipation for the sound of Conor breaking wind. My brother was so proud! I have to admit it did make me giggle. As children we find great amusement in ‘letting one rip’. In my early teens I remember very vividly chatting to my friends on MSN only to be disturbed my oldest brother who had ran into the room with the specific aim of farting in my vicinity before running off in a fit of laughter. I didn’t find it quite so funny on this occasion. Even now, my 3 year old nephew finds the whole world of ‘pumping’ very entertaining!
Upon starting treatment I was welcomed with a whole encyclopaedia worth of side affects which were repeated to me on a daily basis. Due to the imminent nature of these I failed to compute the long lasting side affects. Apparently temperamental bowels, sporadic bloating and frequent flatulance is the fine print of cancer treatment. The Funny Boy and I had been together a modest 6 months when I was diagnosed. Until that point I was still a lady in his eyes. On the odd occasion I found myself needing to toot I would excuse myself and run the tap in the bathroom. However the combined attack of chemo and radiotherapy on my bowels would require me to run several baths a day in order to mask the tornado brewing inside. So alas, the Funny Boy and I reached that ‘over comfortable stage’ very early on. Gone were the days of leaving the room or trying to mask it with a cough; I had a bigger issue to deal with. Thankfully the Funny Boy finds trumping as humorous as my nephew. It almost brought out his competitive side. In Crocodile Dundee Fashion his response of ‘that’s not a Fart, this is a fart…’ Highlighted that this new level in our relationship would only bring us closer together!
I had assumed following treatment and its aftermath, that the need for ‘under thunder’ would surpass. Regardless of what I eat or do, however, it’s an ongoing fixture. Come Monday I will be returning to the hospital for my 9 month check up. I am back at work, enjoying my fitness training and overall, I am enjoying life. Yet, I do find myself regularly battling inexplicable booty bombs. I could be at the gym, sitting at my desk at work or simply watching TV and then an internal struggle to remain a lady arises. Although socially awkward it is a tiny detail in the fine print of survival that I can cope with. If nothing else it gives the Funny Boy and I something to laugh about!