The Adventures of Zeppy the Zeppelin
Part 1, 1st April 2023
Hi, my name is Zeppy, and I’m a stoma.
I’m mostly kept in the dark and usually sit in poo; sometimes I think I’m a mushroom. At least I get washed and changed regularly.
Then again, for a mushroom I have a mind of my own; I am my own stoma, and I can do what I want whenever I want, without asking permission, and no-one can stop me.
I do get lonely, it’s just me here. I know some stomas have a friend called Illy, but my owner is an osto-no-mates and he tells me he wants to keep it that way.
I suppose the good news is that I’m here for the duration, my owner can’t get rid of me, he’s got nowhere else to poo from.
I have a got a friend of sorts. He’s called Herman the Hernia, but he just sits there getting fat, he’s not really what you’d call lively company. I think my owner is planning to have Herman evicted soon, and to be honest I won’t really miss him if he is evicted.
Anyway, nice to chat with you, take care, and maybe we can catch up again later.
Part 2, 14th August 2023
Hi there, it’s me, Zeppy the stoma again.
You might remember when we chatted before that my owner said he was thinking of evicting Herman the Hernia from next door to me. Well, we’ve finally got an eviction date for him: August 24th. I can’t wait, he’s been the worst neighbour.
Mind you, I am a bit worried. My owner has said that he’s booked me in for some cosmetic surgery on the same day; he says it’ll make me more attractive. I’m not sure I believe him, because…
…I’ve got another neighbour, called Willie, who lives just downstairs from me. Some time ago I overheard my owner chatting to Willie and reminiscing about the old days. I think he and Willie might have had some adventures together in the dim and distant past, before I moved in.
For some reason he was trying to build Willie’s confidence back up, so he gave him some medicine called ‘Viagra’. It didn’t do that much for Willie, but it didn’t half do something for me. From being a shy and retiring stoma, barely putting my head above the parapet, I became a monster. A stoma on steroids. I ended up bigger than Willie; that put him in his place, and it made me laugh I can tell you. [Owner’s comment: my stoma nurse says this is coincidence, NOT a Viagra cause and effect!]
Anyway, I think Willie has been very persuasive with my owner. They do go back a long way; they’ve been very good friends over the years. I’m sure Willie just wants to cut me down to size; he got jealous, simple as. So now my owner tells me the cosmetic surgery is to ‘pretty you up’ as a special treat for me on the same day that Herman gets evicted. I suppose ‘cute’ might look better than ‘prolapsed’, but I was just getting used to being the top dog here.
Oh well, I suppose I’ll have to go along with him, after all I can’t go anywhere else.
Catch up again soon, bye.
Part 3, 5th September 2023
Hello again, it’s me, Zeppy the stoma here.
Well, the cosmetic surgery I was telling you about has made a great difference. Obviously, I’m not as big and hunky as I was, but I look at myself in the mirror now when my owner is washing my face, and wow, I am so handsome. And there’s a scar away to one side that makes me look quite rugged. Overall, I’m really pleased with the result, much better than the prolapse look.
My owner has even taken me out to a lovely warm waterfall, he’s been showing me off to his partner. She thinks I look lovely too, although I didn’t think she’d be quite as impressed if I showed her a bit of what I can do. Then oops, on the second waterfall visit I did perform! She thought it was hilarious, which is not what I expected! He said something about selling tickets; apparently, she seems to think me and my owner under the waterfall is a spectator sport.
Of course, now that I’m not as big and floppy as I was, Willie from downstairs is much happier. He’s no longer in my shadow, and I think he feels a bit more important again. Mind you all he really does is just piddle about. We’re forever trotting off to the loo with him. In the hospital after Herman the Hernia had been evicted all Willie did was dribble on, and on, and on. So they stuck a tube down him to shut him up, that made me laugh.
It’s great news that that miserable neighbour of mine, Herman the Hernia, has been evicted. While I was being made prettier, he was being made homeless. Normally I’d feel a bit of compassion about someone being made homeless, but Herman was loafing idly about, a real couch potato. He wasn’t contributing anything. He was just making the place look untidy, so in many ways he got what he deserved.
Now that Herman’s left, I’ve had a word with my owner about maintaining standards in the neighbourhood. Herman had really brought the tone of the place down, so I’ve asked him to take care and make sure he doesn’t let any of Herman’s relatives come and live here. Hopefully my owner will treat the place with a bit more respect now.
Well, that’s us up to date, good to catch up with you.
Until next time. Take care.
Part 4, 28th September 2023
Hi again, it’s me, Zeppy the stoma here… or there, or somewhere.
My owner has learnt a new word that he’s been teaching me: convalescing. It’s quite nice, I get to do quite a lot of low-intensity exercises; you know, lots of end product for not a lot of effort. Since we came out of hospital he’s been loafing about a lot, muttering “ouch!” every now and again. His partner has been far too nice to him, she lets him get away with murder.
After a few weeks of this, they’ve taken me off on a holiday. We’ve gone glamping. I must admit it is a bit of a worry, getting washed and dressed in an unfamiliar place, but my owner seems confident we will cope. I’ve still got the stitches in, but I can’t really see them from where I am.
I know that he’s not always been terribly neat and tidy about clearing up where Herman the Hernia used to live. The hospital put some glue over the eviction site, and that held everything down really nicely. Now that my owner has allowed bits of the glue to flake off, some of the stringy stitches are flapping about in whatever breeze they can find, and that seems to make him go “ouch!” quite a bit.
So he went back to the hospital and saw a stoma nurse who washed my face for me and tried to tidy up some of the glue. Then she put a spongy sort of neck brace around me before she put my clothes back on for me. Apparently, that’ll make the glueless gappy bits easier to deal with.
Anyway, back to convalescing in a tent. A big posh tent. When we got there, I heard him asking about a disabled loo; I don’t know why, because I feel perfectly able. Maybe he’s just looking to reassure me, after all it seems, my stitches are still there as much as Herman’s. Well, apart from the odd one or two that have come out.
Sometimes my owner can be a bit sloppy. This neck brace that I’ve got while it all heals needs to be properly removed, and he is so slapdash. He left some of the old one on underneath the fresh one while we were convalescing in the tent. He won’t do that again. I believe he swore before he called it pancaking, or a poonami, or plain simple embarrassing, when he woke up in the morning. Well, you know, I’m a busy boy, things to do, places to poo, can’t wait around for him to sort things out while I do my exercises.
We’re going home tomorrow, it’ll be nice to get into the old routine, although to be fair I’ve enjoyed the warm waterfalls he’s taken me to this week.
Catch up soon, take care.
Part 5, 18th October 2023
Hello again, it’s Zeppy the stoma here.
Well, after eight weeks of convalescence for my owner, there’s no excuse for him to worry about me anymore. But his partner does. Worry I mean. She’s always shouting at him not to do things: “Don’t lift that!” I think it’s more to do with keeping Herman the Hernia’s relatives out of here than anything to do with me. I’m just getting on with it as and when.
My stitches are all gone, and that sexily rugged scar where Herman used to live is looking really impressive now. When my owner washes my face, I look in the mirror and I’m really impressed with it; how anyone could resist me is beyond me. I’m too sexy for my bag.
He’s taken me to see my very own specialist nurses a few times since my plastic surgery. They’ve tried dressing me up in a couple of different outfits as well as those nice snug neck braces. To be honest I had to have a word with my owner about these new outfits, they just weren’t me.
One of them was a black outfit, and it made me look as if I was going to a funeral every day, or like some kind of Goth stoma. The other one left a gap where his belly button is, and in spite of the neck brace acting like a scarf, it felt a little draughty, I was sure I’d get a chill. So thank goodness it’s back to my usual wardrobe, but a different size since I’ve lost weight.
Now that I’m fit and raring to go, I can sneak up on him any time I like. It’s like I’m a super-spy. Uh-oh seven, that’s me. He puts a new outfit on me, and before he knows it, he’s having to give me a wash and brush-up. And no sooner has he done that, than I can sneak up on him again and I hear him saying “When on earth did that happen, Zeppy?” Stealth poo, that’s my new tactic.
As you can tell, I’m really enjoying life now. My own plastic surgery went well, and that overgrown prolapse is a thing of the past. I’m not tripping over Herman anymore, and I reckon I look far sexier than I did before.
Times are good, I think I might be too busy to write to you for a while, after all, you’ve got to make the most of the good times, haven’t you?
Bye for now, take care everyone.
Part 6, 28th November 2023
Hello again everyone, it’s me, Zeppy the stoma here.
I just thought I’d give you a shout about my birthday. Four years old today, I can’t believe it, time has gone so fast. It looked touch and go for while when I was born, I didn’t produce any poo until I was seventeen days old, the doctors were really worried. I can’t say I was terribly worried, because after all, who really wants to be known as a public poo-passing-place when you’ve only ever done that in private before? It’s not the most attractive thing to be known for. I always used to just pass it on to Ronnie the Rectum. I’m not sure where it went from there, but Ronnie’s long gone along with his mate Albie the Anus, so maybe Albie was involved somehow too. Last I heard about him though, Albie wasn’t very well.
Where I live now had been pristine, my owner had never had anything like me there, I suppose it’s what they call a new build. I was a bit embarrassed and didn’t really want to mess it up if I could help it. But needs must, and sure enough once it had happened the first time, hey, I figured I might as well carry on with it. It turned out that I am quite good at it, but my owner kind of messes things up for himself sometimes if he eats too much of the wrong things. Generally speaking, though, I am on really good terms with my cousins the Intestine family who live up the way a bit from me; they mostly seem to manage to filter his excesses for me really well.
I suppose it seems unusual to you that I am only just four years old but quite literate. Well, the truth is you grow up fast in this environment. If you don’t stand up for yourself, no-one else will. My owner’s not always too clever about looking after my clothes, so I have to force the issue sometimes. At times I feel that a few great big breaths of air will remind him to look after them better; at other times he needs a more substantial, heavyweight, reminder. I think we have an understanding now.
Then again there’s my owner’s partner. She tries to blame all her noises on me these days; she accuses me of being a ventriloquist. Has she ever seen my lips move? Well, apart from that one time in the warm waterfall. I know my owner sometimes lets some of my wind out in retaliation, he’s definitely on my side, but my stealth poo strategy means that he doesn’t often like to risk that.
Anyway, as a birthday present today, we’ve been out and about. He took me to see the stoma nurse. She wished me happy birthday, and my owner got her and his partner to join him in singing a silly little song “happy birthday dear Zeppy”. It seems that the nurse is really pleased with the healing after Herman the Hernia’s eviction and my prolapse plastic surgery. She wants to see me again in six months. I don’t mind, she cleans me up a treat, and I think she appreciates how good-looking I am now.
After that we went for a bit of a drive in his car to meet up with some of his relatives for a pub lunch. I suppose the rest of my birthday treat will be whatever leftovers eventually come my way tomorrow; I look forward to it.
Hope you are all doing well, we must catch up again sometime.
Part 7, 6th January 2024
Hi everyone, Zeppy the stoma here.
Great news for you all. My owner asked for my permission to show my earlier posts to a magazine he reads. He thinks I deserve a wider readership.
So he sent my Facebook posts off to Colostomy UK and apparently they have agreed to print them in the next edition (Spring 2024) of Tidings magazine.
He says Tidings is a great read about other colostomy’s lives with their owners, and told me to tell you to sign up for it if you haven’t already. Apparently Colostomy UK have got a website, whatever that is, that you can sign up for Tidings on. I think he said you can goggle it.
My owner has had a reply from them, and apparently they have added a paragraph explaining who I am and that the article contains ‘scenes of a sexual nature’. Dunno what that’s about. All right, I know I’m much sexier now than before my prolapse plastic surgery, but really?
Then again maybe they are thinking about what I wrote about my neighbour Willie downstairs and how he and my owner would reminisce about their past?
Well, I’m struggling to prepare myself for fame and fortune, after all I’m a stoma, how am I going to sign autographs?
And which is my better side for those glamour photos? The side with Herman the hernia’s eviction scar, or the side with my owner’s belly button?
So many questions. Celebrity isn’t easy.
Part 8, 6th February 2024
Hi there, it’s me again, Zeppy the stoma. Just a quick update if that’s all right with you?
I suppose familiarity breeds a certain amount of contempt. I keep hearing my owner telling his partner “I’m just off to the loo to sort out the Zepster.” This gets to me on two levels really. Firstly, it’s a bit disrespectful, a bit over-familiar: my name is Zeppy, is that too difficult for him? And secondly, he thinks he’s going to “sort me out”? Who does he think is in charge around here? Exactly.
Alternatively, familiarity has a certain amount of comfort to it. At least he says it in an upbeat kind of way. He’s not grumpy about it anymore. When I was the prolapsed stoma, I could tell he resented the efforts he had to put in to look after me and my clothes. Fair enough, I was pretty unmanageable, but it’s good to get your teenage rebellion out of your system as you start to get a bit older, isn’t it? Now that I’m the sexy mature grown-up version of Zeppy, I think he appreciates all the hard work I put in for him.
He’s been busy at the hospital lately. I’ve no idea what most of the stuff he goes there for is all about, but at least sometimes it’s about me. Just after he’d been celebrating the New Year, he took me to meet my maker. It was an annual check-up my maker’s been doing on me and the eviction site for Albie the Anus and Ronnie the Rectum. Trust me, that’s a big eviction site, much bigger than Herman the Hernia’s. I’ve heard that Albie was really not at all well, and his problem was highly contagious; they both had to go. But I mean, my maker had only seen me recently for the prolapse plastic surgery, so it seemed a bit like overkill really.
The cheeky man lifted my cover to look under my clothes; never asked me, just took it for granted it was OK. Thank goodness my owner had changed my clothes and washed my face just before we went. He’d said something about it being best to put clean underwear on. My maker prodded around a bit, then announced that that was it, he doesn’t want to see me again. My maker has abandoned me; my maker has deserted me. One minute he wants to see me every five minutes, next thing you know… My owner seems to think that’s great news, he’s delighted by it all.
At least that nice stoma nurse is still at my beck and call… …well, only if really needed I suppose. Like when I had that blockage ages ago, that was pretty unpleasant, we needed her then. The nurse found me a doctor, but imagine, having some stranger of a doctor shoving a couple of suppositories down me, no wonder I spat them straight back out. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? It didn’t get much better when the nurse gave my owner something called “the Devil’s Brew” to take home for the next morning. I don’t think I’ve ever worked so hard in my life. But that was a long time ago, and I think my owner has got his act together a bit since then.
Speaking of the stoma nurse, we had a follow-up visit to see her today. I enjoy seeing her; let’s be honest, it’s a real pampering the way she cleans me up and dries me off. She undressed me only to be met by a dollop of pancaking, not the image I was hoping for. My owner has been a bit careless again. He owned up to her that he’s been eating too much cheese lately, that’s his excuse for the mess she had to deal with. It’s like he thinks he’s Wallace and I’m Gromit.
Anyway, she was pleased that I hadn’t put on any weight, no sign of prolapse returning. She doesn’t want to see me for another six months. Was it because of my owner’s untidiness? Was it something I said?
Or am I just perfect the way I am?
Part 9, 20th February 2024
Hi everyone, Zeppy the stoma here again.
Now that my maker has abandoned me, I’ve been trying to make more sense out of why my owner spends so much time at the hospital. See, it’s not all about me, me, me.
From what I can gather there’s stuff that went on before I was born. I’m pretty sure Willie downstairs has got a close neighbour called Prostate Pete, and I think it all begins with him getting sick. Whatever it is that’s wrong with him, apparently my owner took Pete to the hospital where they zapped him with some sort of ray gun. This was meant to kill off all the bits that were wrong with him before they infected anything else.
Well, not only did the ray gun not kill off all of the sick bits of Pete, but my owner thinks some of the zaps missed Pete and hit Albie the Anus instead. As a result, some of Pete’s wrong bits seemed to have infected Albie; it is quite contagious after all. No one at the hospital seems to agree with my owner about this, but that’s my owner’s theory anyway. So, my maker (remember him?) had to evict Albie, and to be on the safe side, Ronnie the Rectum had to go as well. And that was when I was born.
I think my owner has been struggling to keep Pete under control; he’s been taking loads of pills to help him. But now it seems that Prostate Pete’s wrong bits have started to seep out of Pete and into the neighbourhood, so the pills aren’t working. So, we went to another hospital somewhere else, where they can inject something like a nuclear cluster bomb of “wrong bit hunters” into the blood. Apparently, there is no collateral damage with this, the stuff hunts down the wrong bits and destroys them, leaving the good guys alone. It won’t sort out Pete’s problems though.
I had to laugh when my owner was reading some of the leaflet’s instructions to his partner. “You should not attempt to father a child until six months after the course of treatment ends; you will be given advice on contraception”. Bless him, my owner will be seventy-one years old by then, I don’t think that’ll be an issue. Also, he has to wash his underpants separately from the rest of the laundry. Presumably that’s because of Willie’s dripping on all the time. Poor old Willie, he’ll probably be glowing in the dark by the time my owner’s finished this treatment!
I can’t say I was too bothered when my owner took us off to see this new doctor at the new hospital. Much as usual, it didn’t sound as if it was anything to do with me. Then the doctor, I think his name was Oppenheimer or something, told him that the nuclear cluster bomb stuff that he will inject into my owner will mostly leak out through me! Not through Willie after all. So it’s me that’ll be glowing in the dark. I wasn’t expecting that. Still, it might turn me into some kind of caped superhero, we can but hope.
And my clothes. My owner has to wear gloves when he changes my clothes. Then he has to double bag it all and store it away from where he and his partner might be until a fortnight after the zapping. Then he can put it in the garbage. And we do all this once every four weeks for six sessions. Willie will be remorseless in his ridicule of me. Until I turn into the superhero, then I’ll sort him out!
Part 10, 16th March 2024
Hi there, Zeppy the stoma here again.
Well, to be fair, not a lot has happened lately. At least not a lot has happened to me. Not as much as I expected, anyway. Good news was that some of my earlier messages to you got printed in Tidings magazine. I’ve even had some fan mail!
We went to hospital somewhere else, and my owner was told he was going to be injected with some sort of nuclear cluster bomb, and that the nuclear waste and contamination would work its way out through me. I was very worried. I might mutate into something weird. Zeppy the mutant stoma. There’s a movie franchise there somewhere.
My owner has started wearing gloves to change my clothes and wash my face – he’d never done that before. Then he had to dispose of my old clothes in a separate bin, keeping them away from everyone else in the house.
How do you think that made me feel? After all he doesn’t change my clothes after every little bit of poo, he waits until it’s “worth his while”. That means that I’ve got all this fall-out and contamination right up against me for hours sometimes. It can’t be doing me any good.
But it doesn’t seem to have been a problem for me. So far. I’m still enjoying my Herman-free zone and sexy post-prolapse good looks. Of course, maybe I shouldn’t speak too soon. I think my owner’s got another five of these nuclear cluster bombs to come. Hopefully the nuclear waste won’t give me any problems.
The one bomb he’s had has made him pretty miserable though. I think it has given him a lot of pain in his bones. But it’s meant to be good for him, and it’s in my best interest if he stays alive and well, so as far as I’m concerned it can carry on hurting him, ’cos it’s not hurting me!
Anyway, then we had a moment of excitement. He had a letter from my maker. My maker seemed to want to see me again, in April. I was really happy, I thought he had deserted me, abandoned me. Well, my owner followed the letter up, and the receptionist said that it was a computer error. Apparently, this was the same letter that had been sent a year ago when I saw my maker to be put on the list for my prolapse and Herman’s eviction.
My owner told me that it’s like one of those annual reminders that he has on his calendar for my birthday. But the hospital should have deleted it really: the letter, not my birthday. I was kind of looking forward to meeting my maker again, but hey-ho, it wasn’t to be.
Anyway, we’ll see how the nuclear bombardment goes, and I’ll be back in touch with more news.
Take care everyone.
Part 11, 26th March 2024
A day in the life of Zeppy the stoma.
Because he was in a lot of pain from the nuclear attack my owner’s under these days, quite often he wakes up really early. And the first thing he always does is wake me up too. He checks out my clothes, prodding all around. My stealth poo strategy has got him worried about what I might have been up to while he was asleep. Can’t say as I blame him, sometimes I can be quite busy. But there I am, wide awake, with quite possibly nothing to do for ages yet. He could have left me to catch up on my beauty sleep.
When I was first made, my owner was told to eat a “low residue diet”. That was quite nice and easy for me, not too much effort. Then they said that he could eat what he likes. Sometimes now he eats a “very high residue diet”, and boy can my clothes sometimes get heavy. Of course, because of my stealth poo strategy, he rarely notices until it really is time for a change of clothes.
When he finally does get round to changing my heavily laden clothes, I’ve noticed that he’s started singing while he’s undressing me in front of the mirror. He’s got some songs he sings: “He ain’t heavy, he’s my Zeppy”; “Zeps, you’ve got to carry that weight, carry that weight, a short time”; and “take a load off Zeppy, take a load for free”. I think they’re old songs and he’s made some of the words up. Then a wash and dry, a fresh set of clothes, and thank goodness he stops singing. He’s not what you’d call tuneful.
Quite apart from anything else, my owner and his partner have been joking at my expense again. Apparently, there’s some kind of arty bloke called Banksy who famously drew this picture of a girl with a balloon… it was a red balloon. They were talking of my owner getting a tattoo of the girl with me – me, Zeppy – as the red balloon bit. Taking the Mick, or what?
It’s quite ironic really, because my owner has always said that the plastic surgeon who helped my maker during the surgery should have been called Banksy. That’s because when I was born and Albie the Anus and Ronnie the Rectum had been evicted, loads of doctors and nurses came to look at how he’d stitched all the eviction wounds up. All of the doctors and nurses said that it was truly a work of art. I suppose if he’s got a Banksy on his backside, he might fancy getting one on his front side as well!
So, he’s had the call from Oppenheimer, and later this week he’s up for the next nuclear cluster bomb injection. That means I’ll be treated as a nuclear waste disposal unit again. I mean, to be honest, the first one didn’t really bother me, I just got on with it as normal. As it turned out, I don’t seem to have mutated into anything weird… …all right, it’s matter of opinion there. It got to him though, he was in a lot of pain for a while, but I heard him speaking to the nurse the other day about “increasing the pain management”, so hopefully he’ll be a bit happier this time round.
Speak soon, take care.
Part 12, 1st April 2024
It’s difficult to believe, but it was a year ago today that Zeppy, my stoma, asked me to write out the first of his lifestyle diaries for all of his Facebook friends. It is said that history is always written by the winners, and Zeppy felt that the same applies to the lives of stomas, their history is always written by their owners. He wanted to try to get the stoma’s side of the story heard, and to give stomas a voice.
He has been delighted that so many people seem to have appreciated his posts, and that so many people also seem to have a had a bit of a laugh at some of his antics along the way. He has even been lucky enough to have some of his diary entries printed in Tidings, ColostomyUK’s quarterly magazine. Who knows, a second chapter of Zeppy’s contemplations might hit the next issue as well?
On this first anniversary – stomaversary? – of his very first diary entry, he has asked me to thank everyone who has responded so kindly, and with such understanding, to his words over the past year.
So, a big “thank you” to you all, from Zeppy.
He’ll be back.
Part 13, 13th April 2024
Hi again, Zeppy the stoma here,
My owner’s not allowed to play walking football any more. His consultant said there’s no such thing as non-contact football. His bones aren’t strong enough, and that’s what the nuclear cluster bombs he’s having are about, trying to make them better. But he still goes along to watch “the lads”, and then afterwards all of these old men go into the clubhouse and sit drinking tea and coffee and eating loads of biscuits. And they chat. And they chat. Sometimes they don’t half talk rubbish, and a lot of it. When I join in, I think I make as much sense as most of them.
Anyway, there was this one time when seven of them were sitting around a table chatting away, and one of them complained about his hernia giving him grief. Naturally my owner told him all about how he’d dealt with Herman and had eventually had him evicted. Then one of the others piped up about how he can sometimes push his hernia in and that it’ll stay pushed in for a while. Then another one joined in. It ended up with all seven of them comparing notes on their hernias. All seven of them, all chatting about their hernias over a cuppa and a biccie. Unbelievable Jeff!
So, a while later and the bloke with the grief-giving hernia told my owner that he’d been to the hospital about it. The surgeon told him that they would evict it in within six months. The bloke told my owner that he’d mentioned Herman’s scar – it’s about “that long”. No, the surgeon told him, we’ll do it all by keyhole. Then the bloke said they did his pre-op paperwork and sent him for an ECG. My owner didn’t want to frighten him, but he told him that it sounded more like next week than six months.
Of course, my owner wasn’t given that keyhole choice about Herman. When he washes my face I look in the mirror and I can see some keyhole scars on his belly that my maker made when I was born. To be honest they look more like blemishes than scars. Herman’s eviction scar makes me look so much more hunky and butch, I definitely prefer that to more blemishes in the neighbourhood.
Ah well, enough of someone else’s problems, and back to the mundane I suppose. My owner was told that there were three main side effects that might come his way with these nuclear cluster bombs. First up, pain flares, and he had a fortnight’s worth of that with the first bomb. Then sleepiness or drowsiness, and he’s certainly having that with the second bomb. He drops off very easily. And of course, the third one is diarrhoea, which he’s yet to get. Not that it’ll be him that gets it of course; oh no, it’ll be headed my way. That’ll put paid to my stealth poo strategy! But, so far, as Meatloaf would say, “two out of three ain’t bad”, and long may it stay that way.
There you go, that’s us up to date again. Take care everyone, see you soon.
Part 14, 9th May 2024
It’s me, Zeppy the stoma here again!
We’re trying to carry on as normal here, a fairly quiet life at the moment. My owner is still going through those nuclear cluster bombs, which have left him pretty wiped out. Hopefully they’ll be mending his bones for him as planned, but they haven’t really affected me at all, tucked away in my little fallout shelter here. No sign of the promised diarrhoea that’s meant to go with them so far.
Of course I could be tempting fate a little here, but the nurse at Oppenheimer’s place told him the bombs might bring on constipation instead. Whatever comes along, I’ll just have to deal with it all, same as ever. As long as he washes my face and keeps my clothes clean, I’ll look after him as usual.
My owner has started to talk to me more now. He’s had his ears cleaned out, and our conversations are much easier. The poor old bloke was going deaf, and now he’s only gone and got himself set up for hearing aids. This means that soon he’ll hear everything I say to him, even under my breath. That’ll put paid to my stealth poo strategy; he’ll be able to hear the lot, right down to my quietest little gurgles. “I heard that, Zeppy. What have you done now?” It seems unfair that I won’t really get away with anything anymore. Still, at least when he goes to bed he’ll take the hearing aids out, and I can get on with it under the covers just like I always have done.
I really got him a treat the other night. Just as he settled under his covers there was this wonderful noise. He was convinced that it was foxes mating outside in the garden. Then a minute or so later he heard it again, but a little bit quieter and definitely closer. Yes, it was me both times! Now that he can hear me a bit better, I’ve started to be so much more chatty.
It turns out that there’s more to this than meets the ear though. With these nuclear cluster bombs he has to change my clothes more frequently. I mean, it is radioactive poo, and I don’t want my fallout shelter exposed to that any more than it has to be. Now Oppenheimer seemed to promise him a straight choice between diarrhoea and constipation as the side effect. They never mentioned my runny, snotty nose instead.
Honestly, it’s so embarrassing when he washes my face now, there’s strings of mucous sliming all over the place. It is truly disgusting. Thank goodness it’s only me and him that get to see it. It’s a long way from the hunky heroic scarface image I have been cultivating lately. Imagine if it was my favourite stoma nurse changing my clothes and washing my face, I wouldn’t want her to suffer the sight of that. I hope it’ll pass soon enough; a very short half-life would be handy.
Well, we carry on. There’s not a lot else going on here really. Catch up soon, take care everyone.
Stewart's Blog 