Bags, Baby, Books and Blessings - Blanca Baquero

            It was Thursday, February 27, 2014. At first, they came slowly but sharply, pains in the stomach area. I had managed to get through the day thinking that when there was no pain, whatever it was, it was going to go away. By 10:00 that evening I was in excruciating pain accompanied by a high fever.

            Around 12:30 a.m., I was rushed to the hospital by ambulance. Five hours later I was told that I had to undergo an emergency operation—no ifs, ands, or buts. That was all I was told. No mention was made of bags or a stoma protruding from my belly…just “you have a perforated bowl in two areas and we have to operate now.” In such moments, one adapts quickly. “Okay. That’s okay. Something is wrong, but when I wake up, everything will be fine,” I thought to myself.

            Day 1. A total blur to me because I was on painkillers and antibiotics. I vaguely remember nurses fiddling with my arms, poking at me, calling my name. I remember asking myself why everyone was fussing over me so much. At the end of the first day, I had not yet realized what had happened to me.

            Day 2. My world was turned upside down. My doctor told me that had I delayed coming to the hospital any later, all the antibiotics in the world would not have saved me. Unknowingly, due to a perforated bowel in two areas, feces had entered into my bloodstream. The poison had caused the high fever and could have led to peritonitis and perhaps to sepsis. He informed me that a colostomy had been performed, that I was now wearing a bag and that the nurses would explain everything to me. The good news was that there were no signs of cancer (thank God!), and that I was eligible for reversal in four to five months because of the type of surgery I had had. The surgery is called the Hartmann’s procedure, first described in 1921 by the famous French surgeon Henri Hartmann. It is used to treat colon cancer or, as was the case with me, inflammation of the bowels such as diverticulitis.

            I was in shock. My fingers passed surreptitiously over the lump I would not look at…beneath my hospital gown….on the left-hand side of my stomach. A bag? What do they mean by a bag? Go to the bathroom in a bag? No one goes to the bathroom in a bag! That was not very feminine! Dare I look to see what was there? No, that could wait. Ah, he mentioned reversal. Great! How about right now or tomorrow morning? Good God, how did all this happen? My head was spinning. Life had come to a screeching halt. My initial reaction was No! No! Why me? Why me?

            Days 2 and 3 were spent crying under my bed sheets at every opportune moment. I wanted to cry. I needed to cry. I enjoyed crying. Going to the bathroom just to urinate was traumatic because I was forced to see the bag. At this point, I had never actually looked at it. My eyes would simply look in the general area of…you know what I mean. I didn’t want to see it. All too soon, however, I had to learn what to do: squish feces out from the bottom of the bag, wipe the opening, and put the clamp back on. No, this would not do. A mistake had been made. I was in denial.

            Day 4. I was lying in bed when it happened. I had been in deep thought all that day, probably due to the fact that by this time, I had cried myself out. Don’t ask me how it happened. It simply did. Out of the blue, I became fascinated with the letter B. My first and last name began with a B. My stoma was not far from my bellybutton. Bellybutton started with a B. So did the word bag and the word bowel. I reached for my purse, pulled out my trusty notepad and scribbled down these words. Oddly enough, I found myself, no longer thinking about the bag, but trying to assess the situation. Where did I stand in all of this? Would this bag affect all aspects of my life? What was this bag going to prevent me from doing? Would people notice I was wearing a bag?

            Dark disappointments dangled before me like hanging sockets without bulbs in a run-down garage. Not only had doctors taken away a part of my bowel, but they also ruined my plans to fly to Denver, Colorado in April to attend the birth of my grandchild. Birth and Baby. Those B’s again…two blows in a row…and now B for blow. I was being bombarded with B’s. See, there’s another one…bombarded. Once again, I grabbed my notepad. Perhaps I was going mad? If the word “mad” had started with a B, I think I would have lost it.

            The third blow on that fourth day was the realization that I would not be able to complete my semester at Acadia University. I was registered in a degree program, and it was a life-long dream of mine to graduate. Doctors had interfered with my B for books.

            I did, however, observe one other change that fateful fourth day in the hospital, and it hit me like a ton of bricks…see? Another B. I survived the operation and I was alive. I remember staring out of my dreary hospital window and repeating: I’m alive! I’m alive! Somehow, some sort of shaky, unsure joy had set in.

            Day 5. Survival instinct kicked in. I had always turned to writing throughout my life, during good times and difficult times, but unknowingly, the indignation and anger accompanying my dilemma had hidden my pen from me. Suddenly, out of the blue (B for blue?) I once again had an overwhelming urge to record and to write. Through my writing, I would perhaps find the answer to my questions? In my listlessness and desperation, I played with all the new words in my notepad that made up my new life…bellybutton, bags, bowels, blows, bombarded, blue, bricks, baby, books, making comments about each word and describing how I felt.

            A light flickered. The word brave came to mind. “I don’t have a choice,” I thought to myself, “I have to be brave.” There…brave started with a B. I was bent on being brave and finding a way. B for bent. I wrote it down. Somewhere in all those B’s there had to be an answer. All these words and thoughts rushed through my head in one single day. I wrote frenetically. Though I had no strategy or goal, I was searching for hope. I was using my pen to search for a light at the end of the tunnel.

            And light did come. It came to me in the form of angels who bestowed upon me Acts of Kindness. Will you look at that? Another B word. At the top of the list were the nurses who took such good care of me. I saw it now and noted it. Acts of Kindness came in other forms as well: surprise visitors, flowers, cards, concerned e-mails and encouraging phone calls from family and friends, as well as containers of home-made food. Simply put…a plethora of positive thoughts and prayers peppered my days. I was blessed. Oh my goodness, B for bestowed and B for blessings.

            The days passed. I continued to write furiously and revelled in the laughter and happy moments shared with friends who came to see me. I wasn’t in the best of shape, but I was resolute: my name is Blanca Baquero and my mission is to own up to the letter B. It sounded crazy, I know, but it was my mantra when they wheeled me out of the hospital ten days later. This incident was not going to be the end of the world, at least not my world. Perhaps my body was not invincible, but my spirit was.

            March and April were spent getting used to “the bag”. My biggest concern was the fear of leaking. I was always so nervous when I put on a new bag. What if I did not put it on right? What would my reaction be if I smelled in public? How would people react? I couldn’t say “the dog did it”…I didn’t have a dog. Somehow the days slipped by without any major catastrophes.

            Surprisingly, I noticed that I was beginning to get a little sassy when I referred to it. “You frigg’n little bag, you, I’ll show you who’s boss.” Oh dear, another B word. Where’s my notebook? I learned, too, that I had no control over when I would have a bowel movement and accepted the fact that it was my stoma that was going to rule for a while. One day, it dawned on me. Hey, I wasn’t going to cow-tow to just anyone, so I nicknamed my stoma. I nicknamed her Your Royal Highness. This woman was not going to serve anything less than bona fide blue blood, if you will pardon a few more B-words.

            As soon as this had been established, the days improved. I had an accelerated interest in the products on the market and approached those bags like I approached shopping for clothes…if it didn’t feel right or if there was a problem, I questioned it and tried something else. With the help of my ET Nurse, Eleanore Howard, endless conversations with representatives selling ostomy products, and coupled with my curiosity to learn, I soon became well informed which, in turn, led to confidence.

            I will be perfectly honest and share a personal anecdote. On one day, I had taken a nice shower, put on a new bag, and began to prance around the bathroom looking at myself in the mirror, admiring my general appearance. “I don’t look that bad,” I said to myself, “nor does the bag.” Actually, the bag looked better than my sagging breasts. Ah ha! I found another B word. Now that was a consolation! I remember laughing. And when I placed the bag at a certain angle, instead of simply vertically, well, it had a certain flare, you know, sort of a classic look with an edge. My rounded and orbicular friend was slowly growing on me, if you’ll pardon the pun. Giving free reign to my imagination pushed me to take the leap of faith necessary to embrace this new and altered way of living.

            I did not realize it at the time, but by nicknaming my stoma, I had opened a door for people to ask me how I was doing in that area. To this day, I still receive phone calls from family and friends asking me: So, how’s Her Royal Highness? Life was going to be okay. I had come to terms with B for Bags.

            While I was in the hospital, my daughter and I spoke on the phone almost every day, and together we found solace in the fact that, though we would not be together for the birth of Baby Crist, at least I was alive, and besides, there was always a baptism to look forward to in the months ahead. Oh dear…B for baptism. I wrote that word down, too. What I did not expect was the treasured moments provided me by Tiffany’s mother-in-law, Wendy Crist, on the day that our grandchild was born. Wendy patiently held the camera over the delivery room table where Cambree lay…all the while giving a play-by-play description of what was going on via skype. It was such a comfort to spend over half an hour just staring at our grandchild…taking it all in…while I etched every inch of her in my heart. Wendy had made far away seem not-so-far-away after all. B for Baby had a happy and satisfactory ending.

            My professors at Acadia had been notified of my situation. What a relief to learn that my semester would not be lost. I would be allowed to do my assignments on my own at home, at my own pace, and I would not be penalized for missing classes. I was also told that the university had no qualms about letting me do my final exams at home. April and May were spent studying and writing papers. This kept my mind busy. In fact, it fueled me. Furthermore, to have such support from university faculty left me no choice but to continue being brave. I attacked my studies with vigour, all the while taking care to rest often. I was determined that I would not have any setbacks. B for Books looked promising.

            As strange as it may sound, there were a few upsides to my operation. I was told that the most crucial period after the type of surgery I had is the three months following the operation. No carrying heavy loads (the equivalent of a feather first month, a two-pound limit the second month, and a five-pound limit the third month!). Translated à la Blanca, this meant no vacuuming (oh joy!); no washing floors (more joy!); no major house-cleaning (major joy!). I sucked up every consolation prize that came my way.

            During those first few months, I joined two support groups…one in the Annapolis Valley where I live…and one in Halifax. I wanted to be sure that I was aware of everything that could be of benefit to me. I think that if there had been half a dozen support groups in the area, I probably would have joined all of them. Five weeks after my surgery, I attended my first meeting of the Annapolis Valley Support Group. I was told that it was customary for new members to stand and introduce themselves. When my turn came, I stood up and proudly declared: “Hello, everyone. My name is Blanca Baquero and I am the new bag on the block.” Everyone laughed in surprise.

            As well, I will never forget my first support group meeting in Halifax. The speaker asked if anyone had questions. I raised my hand and explained that I belonged to a group in the Valley made up of members who had ileostomies, and that I would love to talk with people who had a colostomy. After the meeting, about 7 or 8 individuals crowded around me to introduce themselves. Everyone was so open and friendly, so realistic and down to earth. I listened in awe to the stories of ostomates who had undergone far more serious and complicated surgeries caused by Crohn’s disease and cancer, some of them having undergone as many as four or five operations. I returned home that day feeling grateful for my lot in life.

            On Monday, May 12th, less than three months after my operation, I attended the monthly meeting of my Loosely Bound Book Club. What a shot in the arm to be with them! Once again, I was afforded the opportunity to be fueled by the energy and positive thoughts of bright, insightful, and wonderful women. B for Books continued to make its presence felt in my life.

            A sign of getting better is making goals. Before I knew it, I had returned to a habit I had had before my operation—making “To-Do Lists.” Because I love writing, the first matter on my To-Do list was to send out thank you notes to all the people who had wished me well during my convalescence and who had demonstrated their kindness to me in one form or another. Nurses were at the top of my list. In my writing frenzy at the hospital, I had taken down the name of every nurse and CC who had been by my side. I imagined those nurses accompanying me to the bathroom to help change my bag. Good bless each and every one of them. It was bad enough that I had to at “it”, as I called it then…it could not have been pleasurable for them either. The project was a blessing in disguise and had far-reaching results on my well-being.

            First of all, the task kept me busy. Second of all, the joy I felt when I delivered my 28 letters to the hospital left me feeling euphoric. Because I sympathized with the daily ordeals the nurses faced, showing my appreciation brought me solace. How could I possibly feel sorry for myself when there were all these wonderful people to admire, to recognize, to tend to, to thank…and all these tasks to accomplish and feelings to feel.

            Family and friends were next on the list. I opted to say thank you through the medium of a newsletter describing my progress. I also elected to mail a newsletter to all the people on my Christmas card list. In that way, everyone would know what had happened to me, and I would not have to spend the good part of the future explaining or retelling the story. “Get it all over in one shot,” I thought to myself. I sent out over 100 letters. I was busy being busy. I was reaching out to people for life has taught me one truth: people are the landscape of life. I wanted people and I wanted life.

            I was supposed to go for reversal in September 2014. This meant several more months of recuperation and, at this point, I had not yet seen my new grandchild. In August 2014, I opted for a trip to Denver, Colorado, staying over two months to bond with baby and witness her baptism. Bond…Baby…Baptism…the adventure with B’s continued. As a result of going to Denver, I missed a semester of school, but I simply had to be there. B for Baby had turned out…well…if you will pardon another B word…Beautifully.

            I returned to Acadia in January 2015. When classes ended in May 2015, I decided to get in better shape. During my youth and young adult years, joy came to me on two wheels…biking! Ah…B for Biking. Every trip out was an adventure. That summer I pedaled my first 76 kilometers—from Port Williams to Berwick. Her Royal Highness had no say in the matter. I told her she could come along for the ride or stay home for all I cared.

            Because these events had had a profound effect on me, in 2015 I decided I wanted to be a volunteer visitor in hospitals. Ostomy Halifax Society provided the necessary training and soon I became a certified volunteer visitor for people with a recent colostomy. I have met with several patients since then and this has brought me a great deal of satisfaction.

            I returned to my studies that September, writing my final exam in December. In May of 2016, I graduated from Acadia University with a Bachelor of Arts in French…another B word! Not once, on that auspicious day, did I think of Her Royal Highness. B for books had had a happy ending.

            After two and a half years of research and reflection, including with people who had gone through reversal, I decided not to have the surgery. Some operations are a success—some are not. It is a Catch-22 situation and no one can really be sure of what the outcome will be—especially after a certain age. But in my heart of hearts, I did know this: I want to live life to the fullest. I had bounced back both physically and mentally, and I felt healthy and happy. I wasn’t about to give that up—even if it means being a bag lady.

             There is no doubt whatsoever in my mind that the professional attention and kindness shown to me first and foremost by my ET nurse, Eleanore Howard, played an instrumental role in accepting and adapting to my new challenges. I have placed Eleanore on a forever and ever pedestal. I am truly grateful as well for the new ET Nurse, Charlene Doyle, who replaced Eleanore, as well as the medical professionals, family, friends, and fellow ostomates who played an enormous role in the healing process as well.

            I am also grateful for the professional help-line personnel from Hollister, Coloplast and ConvaTec whom one can call for advice when learning about products. I have the highest regard for their golden work ethic: “to listen, to recommend, to provide tools and information—and always in a delicate and humane manner.” No matter how many times one calls, they are always there to listen.

            There is no doubt in my mind, too, that my writing played an enormous role in the healing process. Words were the stepping stones that led me to look inward, to think, to evaluate, to record those first insecure steps to recovery, and to reach out to those people who would provide me with the support, courage, and the laughter needed during an extremely fragile period.

            When I reflect on my experience, I rarely think of the operation. All I see are the positives that came my way. Blanca had amassed and conquered a barrel full of B’s: Bags, Babies, Books and a Bountiful supply of Blessings.

            I would like to save the best for last. I am eternally grateful to the Ostomy Annapolis Valley Support Group, to Ostomy Canada and to Ostomy Halifax Society for the support they provide at their meetings, support that they continue to provide to this day. We need organizations such as these. Think about it…in the future, ostomates around my age (77) will not be here. There will be new ostomates attending these support group meetings, many of whom will have woken up one day asking themselves: Why me? Out of all of this, the best and most beautiful part is that there will be someone from one of these indispensable organizations who will give them the guidance and support they need. Many dedicated people have paved the way for an easier path to follow for future ostomates.

By Blanca Baquero

May 22nd 2022