This morning I was reading the Bible. A rarity, but I was trying to find out the 'facts' about the Easter story. Basically another excuse to go off on one of my tortuously tenuous analogies. I was trying to suggest that I took inspiration from Jesus when I finally started the Salazopyrin yesterday, Easter Monday. Some sort of doubtlessly blaphemous linking of my finally getting up the bottle to start these drugs and Jesus' resurrection. Unfortunately Jesus' rise from the tomb was on Easter Sunday of course, a day on which I was still prevaricating. As it happens, it seems he didn't do much on Bank Holiday Monday at all: he appeared to the Disciples on the Sunday evening, and then again a week later - presumably he was reacquainting himself with Dad, and maybe getting in a couple of jars with the Holy Spirit. Interestingly, when he returned the second time, to prove himself to 'doubting' Thomas he made him put his hand into the wound in his side that the Romans had inflicted! Not: "Do you remember that funny mole on my back?", or "You are Thomas of 34 Acacia avenue, married to pauline, you keep your spare cash in the jar on the mantle-piece and your favorite biscuits are custard creams..." or even "Bring me a loaf!", but "Stick your hand in here...". Maybe if I have to have the old colostomy, when I return to work I should prove my existence by getting people to stick their fingers in my stoma... Sorry that is really gross.
Anyway, twas on easter Monday that I finaly began the Salazopyrin. Here is the delightfully orange little chap:
I took the orange tab, 20mg's of prednisolone and a tab of Adcal3, which I guess is not much really. However, the psychologoical power of the orange one is massive...
In order to divert my feeble brain from the inevitable fixation on the impacts of this pill and because it was a beautiful day, we decided for a family walk somewhere on the South Downs - get some country air. So, we jammed the boys into the car and got out of the city.
Here is a pic of Devils Dyke - a must-see part of the South Downs for every UC sufferer I always think, as it reminds me of a massive bum crack in the very Earth itself.
Anyway, it worked. And to celebrate my 'bravery' we had a home-made Balti for dinner. This was followed by a sleepless night where I lay awake unable to muffle the sound of my intestines gurgling, gasping, sighing and basically whining. This morning I rose at 6.30 to take my wife to work, to the most uproarious flatulence I have had since I stopped drinking. As it used to say on my whoopie cusion: 'A real bronx cheer!'
I have yet to decide if this has been down to the salazopyrin, the curry, anxiety, or a mixture of all three.