Post 118: The Battle Between Constipation and Diarrhoea.
After much experience and heartfelt deliberation, I’ve decided: I’d rather have drug-induced constipation than drug-induced diarrhoea.
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What a day.
After yesterday’s trip out with no major issues, I figured Monday would be a great start to a week of outings. But instead of planning ahead, I was caught off-guard by the morning’s “relief” — a loose-ish stool (after five Laxido over the past three days) that turned out to be a warning shot rather than battles end.
By 2:30pm I was in bed, knackered. Not really from the walk around the car show, but more from a mix of early rising (to write this blog) and whatever chemical chaos was happening inside me.
As I write this now — still hovering around the loo in the early hours of Tuesday — I’ve taken two loperamide tablets to try and plug the flood. I call them chalk-corks. Anti-diarrhoea tablets that solve one problem by inviting another: constipation.
And so the war rages on.
Can I ever win?
Everything I take has a side effect that needs another pill to counter it. My poor, confused gut doesn’t know if it’s coming or going. It’s all reactive now. I go with the flow (not a pun, I promise), adjusting as best I can. But tonight, my backside is screaming: “What are you doing to me?!”
I need a rubber ring to sit on, such is the pain. And with a blood test at 9am and the oncology call at 10:50, I’m not exactly looking forward to the day ahead. Fingers crossed the chalk-cork kicks in soon.
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Meanwhile, away from the battleground…
There’s not much happening. I’ve not set foot on the treadmill (which is now, technically, in use — by Mr Vicious, who naps on it regularly). He’s modelling my current lifestyle quite accurately.
Where has all my energy gone?
Gone with yesterday’s news.
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While I was half-dozing in bed, preparing for another toilet dash, I found myself on the Macmillan forums. I like to check in, reply to a few posts that echo my own experiences — it helps me feel useful. But then I fell into the usual social media rabbit hole. Endless FB scrolling, reels of music and oddities to numb the brain.
Somewhere in there, I came across one of those “I was…” stories — you know the type — click “More” and you’re in for an essay. But instead of reading that one, it reminded me of a moment from my own life that’s stuck with me all these years. One I’ve probably told before. One that deserves repeating — especially on a rough day like today, when a reminder of better things helps.
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It was just another night at the snooker club.
We all said our goodbyes and headed off — bellies full of beer, no work the next day. I was about to go my own way, but for some reason decided to walk with two of the others instead. One guy peeled off early, he was knackered and wanted to get home, so I stayed with the other. Not a close friend — more of a friend-of-a-friend — but something about him made me hesitate to leave him from the start. Something was wrong…
I sensed something. Couldn’t say what.
We didn’t rush home his way. We stopped, sat, talked. Not because we were tired — but because the chat needed to happen. Back then we both smoked, though I only had roll-ups and he was a tailor-made man. He chain-smoked through his pack as the conversation slowly poured out.
There were hints: a breakup, a failing business venture. Interconnected but separate in other ways. Things teenagers usually bounce back from. But his tone was off. The engine inside him — always ambitious, driven — was sputtering.
And then, it became clear: he was seriously low. Suicidally low.
I stayed. I listened. I waited. Patiently. Quietly. Trying not to interrupt the flow of despair, but hoping — waiting — for his better self to resurface. The one I’d seen before. His usual self.
Eventually, something shifted. You could feel it. His words got lighter. His thoughts less heavy. The ambitious lad began to return, slowly, cautiously. By the time we finally reached his place, daylight was breaking.
We hugged, and said goodnight a million times. No fanfare. Just tired souls with a deeper connection than we’d ever expected. I knew I could leave him but you never really know.
He never told anyone, nor did I. Until much much later. It was his business alone, I was a conduit. Just lucky to be there, to help.
These days, when I see him — Christmas or summer drop-ins — we don’t mention that night. But it’s there, unspoken. A shared truth. A bond. The hugs and handshakes are very special, even now over 40 years on.
He has a lovely wife. Kids. A successful business. A full life.
Sometimes you don’t know when you’ll make a difference. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you do.
And maybe, just maybe, my waffling can sometimes help.
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Tomorrow’s scan results await.
Once I hear them, I’ll rest a little easier. I hope.
The chemo bus is two days away from its next stop. Hopefully, Dr S will wave me back on board and all will continue as planned.
I’m feeling hopeful, even if I’m still not far from a toilet. 
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The war inside continues, but the spirit holds steady.
I’m okay.
