On the day I was discharged, the nurse showed me one more time how to change the ostomy pouch. I thought I had understood everything in the hospital, but standing alone in front of my bathroom mirror at home, my hands froze. The stoma sitting round on my belly looked redder and a little more swollen than I expected. The strangest part was that it was my own body, yet it did not feel like mine.
For the first few days, changing the pouch once took me more than thirty minutes. My hands shook from the very start, just cutting the skin barrier to match the size of the stoma. Cut it too big and it leaks; cut it too small and it presses on the stoma and hurts, they said, and judging that narrow gap was so hard. Once, after I had stuck everything on, the edge lifted up, so in the end I peeled it off and started over. That night, for no clear reason, my nose stung with tears.
What scared me most was leaking. One early morning I woke to a damp feeling, pulled back the blanket, and sat there blankly for a long time. There was no one to pour my troubles out to, and my heart sank at the thought of having to live like this for the rest of my life. Yet strangely, after going through it badly that one time, the next time was a little less frightening. Through failing, my body learned that the barrier sticks best when the skin is clean and dry.
I also came to know food bit by bit. On days I ate a lot of beans or cabbage, gas built up and the pouch swelled like a balloon; on days I drank too little water, the output turned thick, as if the outlet were clogged. It was a diet no one prescribed, taught instead by my own stoma, so I began jotting down in a small notebook what I had eaten each day. As those notes piled up, before long I could see the rhythm of my body.
Maybe two months in, one morning, while changing the pouch, it suddenly struck me. Without even looking in the mirror, I was attaching the barrier by the feel of my fingertips alone. When I timed it, it took less than ten minutes. I let out a small laugh to myself over such an ordinary thing. The thing that had so frightened me had quietly become a daily routine, like brushing my teeth.
Even now it sometimes leaks, and sometimes the skin gets sore and it upsets me. Still, when I picture the me who once stood frozen in front of that mirror, I feel proud of how far I have come. If someone is facing this for the first time today, I want to tell them: just hold on for a few days. Your hands learn faster than you think. And even with this pouch, ordinary days come back, days of going out, laughing, and eating a meal.
This article shares a personal experience and does not replace medical diagnosis or treatment. If you have leaks or skin problems while managing an ostomy, please consult your care team or an ostomy nurse.