A day in the life of a Crohn's sufferer

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.

With the appropriate levels of trepidation, I approached the nearest store clerk - dutifully restacking the shelves - and asked if I could use the toilet. He barely looked up from the pack of pita bread pockets in his hand and offered the expected "no", returning to place the pockets on the shelf next to some rather out-of-date looking bagels. I tried again, this time forcing the card in front of him and pleading that "I have a medical condition - can I PLEASE use your toilets?" At this point, my knees were ready to collapse on me. The world had become a frightening lucid dream as I desperately tried to fight the urge to do what my body was telling me to. The consequences of what would follow if I didn't find a toilet soon was playing out in my mind like some sort of awful, scatological tv clip show.