It was a beautiful Sunday morning.
I'd decided to cook American-style
pancakes for my flatmate's birthday and headed out to acquire the necessary
ingredients. If I was anyone else this might be a rather pedestrian task. But I
had been getting over a fairly bad Crohn's relapse and for some reason, the first
few hours of my getting up always seemed to be the hardest and least
predictable. Still, in order for this breakfast to be a surprise, I couldn't ask
anyone else to get the ingredients, and besides, it seemed that no-one else was
up. To be honest, I was damned if having Crohn's disease was going to somehow
stop me from picking up vanilla extract.
Wandering around the store with
my shopping basket, deciding on what seemed the most ethical yet reasonably
priced flour, I suddenly felt my stomach revolve several times and begin to
tighten.
The majority of my time spent living with Crohn's is based around
being able to differentiate between stomach pains like this. Is this a passing
grumble? Will it go away and politely leave me to get on with my day? Or will it
become something more? Essentially, will I be left in an awkward position of
trying to find a restroom as quick as is humanly possible? Sadly, the difference
between the relatively innocuous stomach pain and the more pressing concern
always reveals itself just a little too late. I started to break out in a cold
sweat, my legs became weak and the overwhelming urge to get the hell out of this
overly-lit, uncomfortable shrine to commerce was possessing every physical
aspect of my being.
At this stage, my brain always traverses a razor-thin
wire of reality and fantasy. My mind starts to view the world from without. In
this hightened state of physical pain and worry, I begin to view everything as
if watching it all from the comfort of my couch at home. My situation is
suddenly a rather tedious reality show that I've stumbled upon while
absent-mindedly channel surfing. And yet, conversely, I feel more alive and
aware of myself than ever before.
Within seconds, the cogs in my head had
started rolling into action and sifting through the options. On an early Sunday
morning, all bars and pubs in close proximity will be shut and there are no
cafes nearby for me to stop into. There are no public restrooms to speak of
because, well, I'm in New Cross, a small area of South London with little-to-no
passing tourism. My only options were a possible ten minute, risky sprint back
home, or pleading with the staff of the store to let me use the private
restrooms.
Then it hit me. I have a card. My special Crohn's card. This
handy credit-card sized humiliation tool sits in the bottom of my wallet hoping
never to see the light of day. It reads simply: "The holder of this card has a
medical condition and needs to use your toilet facilities URGENTLY." Charming. I
often forget about this last resort as I've rarely used it. For obvious reasons.
But I now found myself with little choice.
