It’s been a learning curve, and that’s possibly slightly understating it. There have been tears, tantrums, eureka moments and lots of poo. To begin with I couldn’t bring myself to look at the stoma. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never had a body to rival Elle Mcpherson, I’m overweight, and have a mum pouch, but I’m generally happy in my own skin, to quote Mika, I’ve got lumps and bumps in all the right places (I’ve probably quoted that wrong, but you know what I m ean). However the stoma freaked me out - my insides were on the outside and I had a bag stuck to my tummy. What. The. Actual. Fuck. So the first week or so, I had very little to do with the stoma, nurses and care assistants emptied it and changed it and I ignored it as much as I could. I hadn’t looked at it, I’d glimpsed it, but looked away quickly. I’m squeamish when it comes to things like this on my own body - fine looking at things like this on other people, but on myself - nope. Someone suggested to me I should name the ...