Chapter 1: It Wasn’t Haemorrhoids
My story didn’t start with a dramatic collapse or a blue-light ambulance ride.
It started with something far less urgent — and far easier to ignore.
In 2013, when I was 26, I began noticing changes when I went to the toilet. At first, it was constipation. Then white streaks on my stool. I didn’t know it at the time, but that white substance was mucus — something your colon produces when it’s inflamed and trying to protect itself.
Back then, I didn’t Google symptoms or push for answers. I did what a lot of men do: I noticed it, decided it was probably nothing, and carried on.
Looking back, that was my first mistake.
Talking about poo is still strangely taboo. We all do it every day, yet the moment something changes, embarrassment kicks in. I was a young bloke, working, raising a family, busy with life. Whatever was going on down there didn’t feel important enough to stop everything else.
So I ignored it.
Life carried on. I had a partner I loved, and between us we were raising four children full-time. We’d also just welcomed a daughter together, bringing our total to five. I was working at Waitrose, which had recently replaced the old Co-op in town, and on the surface everything looked fine.
But my body was quietly disagreeing.
Chapter 2: Hoping It Would Go Away
The symptoms didn’t disappear.
They escalated.
The mucus became more frequent, and then blood appeared. Bright red. Impossible to ignore — yet I still tried. I convinced myself it must be something simple. Something explainable. A reaction to food. A dodgy takeaway. A spicy meat feast pizza became the convenient villain.
Deep down, I knew better.
My partner noticed before I admitted it. She saw the weight dropping off me. Saw how often I was disappearing to the toilet. Eventually, she pushed me to see the GP.
I didn’t want to go.
There’s something uniquely uncomfortable about explaining bowel symptoms out loud, especially when you’re not even sure how to describe them yourself. But I went.
The verdict was quick.
“Sounds like piles.”
I walked out of the surgery holding a prescription for Anusol, feeling a strange mix of relief and disbelief. Haemorrhoids weren’t serious. They weren’t life-changing. They were something people joked about.
So I accepted it.
I applied the cream, endured the indignity of it, and waited for things to improve.
They didn’t.
If anything, they got worse.
Chapter 3: When Something Felt Wrong
A week passed. Then another.
Nothing changed — except my anxiety.
I went back to the GP, this time more determined. Something wasn’t right, and I needed someone to take it seriously. I was referred to gastroenterology, but like most NHS referrals, it came with a wait.
While I waited, my condition deteriorated quickly.
I reached a point where I couldn’t even pass wind without mucus being released. I was losing weight without trying. My energy drained away, and food seemed to pass straight through me.
That’s when the thought I’d been avoiding finally surfaced.
Cancer.
Once that word enters your head, it doesn’t leave quietly. It sits there, replaying itself during long nights and silent moments. Every symptom suddenly feels heavier.
By the time my hospital appointment came through, I was already braced for bad news.
Chapter 4: Level 8
My partner and I arrived at the hospital and made our way up to Level 8. We took the stairs — not out of fitness, but because she hates lifts. At the time, it felt like a pointless detail. Later, it would become one of those memories that sticks.
We checked in and waited.
Eventually, a nurse called us into a small consultation room. I explained everything — properly this time. No minimising. No embarrassment. Just the facts.
She listened carefully, then said the sentence that made my stomach drop.
“We need to make sure this isn’t cancer. We can’t rule that out yet.”
I barely had time to process that before she continued.
“I need to examine you.”
She drew a curtain and reached for a long, cold, metallic instrument — something that looked more like a transformer than a medical device. In that moment, it became painfully clear that this appointment was about to cross several personal boundaries.
I was mortified.
But there was no alternative.
The examination was brief, uncomfortable, and unforgettable — the first of many moments where dignity became secondary to answers.
When it was over, she was clear.
“There are no haemorrhoids. What you’re describing is consistent with ulcerative colitis.”
I finally had a name.
But I had no idea what it meant.
Chapter 5: A Name, Not a Solution
Ulcerative colitis.
She explained that it was a form of inflammatory bowel disease — an autoimmune condition where the body attacks its own colon. She also explained that more tests were needed to confirm the diagnosis and rule out cancer.
At that point, I didn’t care about the details.
I just wanted reassurance that I wasn’t dying.
I was prescribed Pentasa (mesalazine) suppositories and sent home to wait for further tests. The medication worked, at least partially. The bleeding eased. The mucus reduced.
But the weight didn’t come back.
And the fear didn’t leave.