It would be fair to say that there’s been quite a lot of drama in my life recently. When I say drama, what I really mean is trauma. As people are quite fond of pointing out to me: ‘God, Louise, you couldn’t write this.’
Yet sharing the way my life and health fell apart (on Instagram and then in my book Lucky) has helped me make some kind of sense of it. The near-death experience of childbirth, the surgeries, the removal of my colon, the depression, the PTSD – perhaps they all have a purpose if I can use my experiences to help other people.
So every month in YOU magazine, I’m going to bring you an unfiltered look at what’s going on for me: the deeper stories behind the Instagram posts. I want other people to know that there is a road back when your health and your sanity appear to have gone awol forever. There’s also room for some laughs along the way. Humour has certainly kept me going.
Those of you who already follow me on social media or have read my book will know what’s been going on but, for everyone else, here’s a potted history.
On 15 November 2021, my son Leo was born after an agonising labour where he got stuck in my pelvis leading to an emergency caesarean section. During the labour my womb tore, I lost three-quarters of my body’s blood volume and it took medics three hours to stop the bleeding. It was a nightmare during which I remember turning to my partner Ryan to check whether I was still alive.
As it turned out, the nightmare was only just starting. A week later (having been discharged) I began to haemorrhage again at home. This time it took four hours to stop the bleeding, I lost five litres of blood and had several transfusions.
That’s when the PTSD started. Leo’s cries would trigger utter terror in me. I wanted a pill to end it all because I wasn’t brave enough to do it myself. I felt broken and had no idea how I could ever be a decent mum to my son.
Then there was a third haemorrhage and, by that point, the ulcerative colitis, which I’d suffered from for six years, flared up so badly that I was going to the loo 18-20 times a day and excreting blood.
On 31 January this year I had surgery to remove my colon. During the operation, the surgeons left a small part of it outside my body (this is known as a stoma) and now I wear an opaque grey bag to collect my bodily waste, which I have to empty a few times a day. My bag is nicknamed Winnie. I’ll let you work that one out. (I’ve since discovered that Winnie is my best friend’s favourite name for a girl if she has a daughter one day!)
Fast-forward to April this year and I was going out socially for the first time since the stoma surgery. Randomly, it was with a bunch of people I don’t know all that well (some mums from Leo’s nursery), so I really wasn’t prepared for the topic that they wanted to discuss.
‘How do you have sex when you’ve got a stoma?’ The women look at me expectantly. Never mind that the question hadn’t crossed my mind – clearly it was firmly lodged in theirs.
I have subsequently discovered that this is, indeed, the first thing that people think about when you say you’ve got a stoma: what exactly are the mechanics of physical intimacy when you have a waste bag glued to your stomach? Many people are too embarrassed to ask. The nursery mums were not those people.
Louise displays her stoma bag in a bikini during a recent boat day in Mallorca
It probably won’t come as a massive surprise to learn that having a poo pouch stuck to the outside of your body for the rest of your life takes a bit of getting used to. In the early days after the surgery, I was too afraid to move at all – terrified I would hurt myself. A part of my body that was previously safely housed inside me was now out in the world.
Even when I did feel brave enough to move around, I couldn’t pick Leo up. I still worry about my stoma. As I write this column, the first hot weather has just hit London. Could my poor little stoma cook in the sun? Is that a thing?
You’re getting, then, that sex was definitely not at the top of my agenda back in April. It wasn’t even on the agenda – I hadn’t had sex since back in November, so it had been a full five months – and I laughed off the question. But then, straight after dinner, I rushed home and bought myself a slinky black bodysuit.
My reasoning went like this: if other people thought that I looked well enough to be having sex (and this, I noticed, made me feel quite good) then maybe I should be, well, having sex. The trouble was that Ryan hadn’t seen much of Winnie.
I was still really shy about showing it to him; I didn’t let him see it at all for the first six weeks after surgery. Also, let’s face it, if you’re thinking about how to put the spark back into your relationship, then confronting him with a bag of poo might not be the answer.
Speaking of spark, my sex drive had been low for a while (a combination of scrambled hormones and the traumatic childbirth). I would definitely not call myself a well-practised seductress. Even when I was trying to get pregnant, I had to make a real effort to be feminine and flirty, which was comical because it was during lockdown, so I’d go from the at-home uniform of trackie bottoms then swan into the kitchen in a ballgown when I wanted sex.
I should also add that, while I was pregnant with Leo, we were living with my parents, which really killed the mood for me. That was not a sexy environment – I know some people love a danger shag, but personally, I don’t.
So back to the post-surgery bodysuit. I figured it could be a saviour. It would unbutton in all the right places while holding everything in – and on. A matter of days after my interrogation over dinner, Ryan and I went for a weekend at the Four Seasons Hotel in Hampshire, and I decided that this would be the moment to bring out the bodysuit.
When I did, however, I felt totally ridiculous. It wasn’t me at all. I’m not a particularly ‘dress up’ person and dressing up for sex made me feel silly. I decided I’d be more embarrassed about doing it in a bodysuit than I would about the stoma.
So we turned the lights low and the rest… well, use your imagination.
I have no idea what actual scenarios my nursery-mum friends had in mind but presumably when they asked, ‘How do you have sex?’ they really meant, ‘In what position do you have sex? If you do it missionary style, will the stoma burst? If the stoma owner goes on top, will it flail around?’
To answer those concerns: missionary is fine. I mean, I’d probably advise emptying the bag first but other than that stomas don’t flail – they are tightly stuck to your body with adhesive so strong that you have to use special spray to get it off. At one point, I did hear Winnie sort of crackling (I hadn’t considered sound effects) but I don’t think Ryan noticed. I did, however, make a mental note to put on some mood music the next time.
The other bonus is that my partner likes sex in the middle of the day, historically a total inconvenience, but now it happens to be when my bag is emptiest – so that’s a win.
These are the practical things you have to think about when you’ve got a stoma. The feeling after that first time was one of relief. For both of us. It was like, ‘Thank god, that’s done’ – a bit like losing your virginity all over again.
So to come back to that original question: ‘How do you have sex when you’ve got a stoma?’ I’d say there are three key ingredients: courage, humour and an energy-saving lightbulb.
Picture director: Ester Malloy
Styling: Nicole Rose
Styling assistant: Hope Palmer
Hair and make-up: Krystal Buckley
