My coursework is finished, and the grades for my classes are submitted: my first year of PhD school is over! While I would love to spend the next three months goofing off, as I did the summers of yesteryear, alas, the wheels of academia grind on. In two weeks I’ll start teaching classes and taking classes again.
This first year went really quick, and I learned very important lessons this year.
When my doctor diagnosed me with autoimmune-associated pouchitis, a chronic condition that has not gone away, she prescribed me immunosuppressants. This wasn’t entirely surprising, as she had hinted before that this would be the likely treatment.
The question I had, and my family and friends had, was: how long would I have to remain on this medicine?
The answer: indefinitely. That’s the word my doctor used, and the more I’ve thought about it, the more I prefer that word. Indefinitely sounds less threatening than “forever,” which is usually the way we interpret our treatment plans in our heads. But the word choice is more than just semantic preference: indefinite is really the best word to describe treatment for IBD.
Lauryn, a brave young 14-year-old, shares her story of ulcerative colitis and the ups and downs she’s experienced the past couple years. She’s very inspiring and we could all learn something from her attitude.
This last month I’ve been talking about my recent diagnosis of autoimmune-associated pouchitis (see previous entries for more details). I know I’ve been talking about this a lot, but people have many questions and concerns about this.
One question I’ve been asked several times now is: would I consider ostomy surgery again instead of going back on medicine? I find this a fascinating question as usually surgery, especially ostomy surgery, is something people try everything to avoid.
Since being diagnosed with autoimmune-associated pouchitis (see last two blog entries for more info), many people have been concerned, perhaps more concerned than I am. Some have asked me about the discrepancy between what I was told before surgery—that surgery would cure my ulcerative colitis and I no longer needed medicine—and what I am experiencing now—a return to IBD medicine.
Some have wondered, perhaps rightfully so, how I feel about this. Do I feel like my surgeon misled me? Do I feel betrayed? Am I angry that I was told one thing and now live another?
While I would rather not take medicine, truthfully I am not upset at all. Surgery always includes risks, and just because something didn’t work out the way we planned doesn’t mean it was a bad decision
Last week I wrote about my recent diagnosis of autoimmune-associated pouchitis. For those unfamiliar with this diagnosis, I suggest reading that blog first before this one. Basically, I’ve had chronic pouchitis (an infection of my J-pouch that causes symptoms similar to inflammatory bowel disease) for months, and am now treating it with IBD medicine.
People with Crohn’s disease often continue taking IBD meds after their colectomy: even if their disease was primarily in their colon, it can appear elsewhere in the digestive tract. IBD meds are necessary to keep the disease in remission.
However, people with ulcerative colitis often don’t need to take IBD meds after their colectomy. Ulcerative colitis only happens in the colon, and if the colon is removed, the disease is removed along with it. Thus, IBD meds are not necessary.
And yet, I was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis—not Crohn’s disease—and I am back on IBD meds, even though my colon is missing.
Several people have asked me how I feel about this. In this entry I hope to provide some perspective on coping with such an unexpected diagnosis.
I’ve been writing the last few weeks about the various tests I’ve undergone to get to the bottom (haha) of my chronic pouchitis. This problem happens in patients with J-pouches (an internal reservoir) who have had their colons removed. My symptoms have been bleeding, increased frequency, and leaking at night. After two MRIs, an endoscopy, a pouchoscopy, and several blood tests, I now have a diagnosis: autoimmune pouchitis.
The results of my second pouchoscopy attempt, my first actual pouchoscopy. All in all, a pretty mild experience (and so much less frightening than a colonoscopy!).
Keep fighting,
~Dennis
Question: Have you had a pouchoscopy? How did your experience differ from mine? Respond to this post with your story!