Same, Same But Different
By Rachel Cooper
The traditional post-partum body narrative is something we are well versed in; your body changes and neither you nor your partner or anyone else will like it as much as your pre-pregnancy body. This narrative applies to all body transitions: growing from younger to older; transitioning from one gender presentation to another, and becoming disabled.
As I stood in the bathroom of the maternity ward having given birth a few days earlier, in a rare and frightening moment of privacy, I dared to look down and take in my post-partum body. I’ve never heard of a pregnant person’s body returning to “normal” post-birth. Yet there I was in the mirror, my socially acceptable size 10, stretch mark free self. But the veneer, the externality of supposed health and acceptability wasn’t representative of what was going on inside my body. I suffered a (missed) third degree tear and was now completely faecally incontinent, meaning I had a split-second warning and zero control.
Two weeks after giving birth, my body was the same as it was pre-pregnancy, and yet completely different. I now had a section of my large intestine sitting flush on my belly over which was stuck a bag to collect my shit.
The first reaction I encountered to my colostomy bag was from continence nurses in the National Health Service (NHS). I was initially pleasantly surprised when they wanted to talk to me about my sex life, but soon realized they only wanted to know if I could have penis in vagina sex and if I would even want sex at all. It was a shock (and weirdly amusing) to be advised by the NHS to wear sexy underwear and learn that the hernia belt I now required was available as lace covered. The interaction was both ableist and heteronormative.
Beyond the confines of the NHS, reactions to colostomy bags can be much less controlled and much more visceral. I think those who are convinced that ostomates (those of us who use colostomy bags) can’t possibly have sex lives imagine a soap opera scene of a would-be lover who takes one look at the bag-ladened body and instantly rejects it in disgust.
The reality is nothing like that; it’s far more mundane. After the stress of planning my supplies, I head to work knowing I’ll have to continuously check myself throughout the day. This means accessing different disabled toilets, possibly dealing with leaks, definitely audibly farting in at least one person’s presence at the bus stop and maybe even in front of all my colleagues at a board meeting. At some point, I’ll glance at the socials and see some ableist vitriolic crap and return home. It’s a drain on my mental energy, and the shame and anger that come with it do nothing for my sexual mood.
What’s lost cannot be replaced, but what has emerged is a different mode of being.
For such a long time, the loss of mine and my partner’s previous relationship was hardest for me to deal with. I grieved for it. The loss of our intimate rituals that were for us and us alone. The loss of how we would jokingly hotwire our connection and chemistry at the end of a work day by running toward one another, whipping up our shirts, and shouting in unison “belly love” before falling into a more serious embrace. The loss of feeling my partner’s tongue run from bony hip to bony hip across my pot belly, unimpeded by the bag. The loss of feeling my tummy brush over my partner’s bare ass as my tongue makes its way down her body.
What’s lost cannot be replaced, but what has emerged is a different mode of being. Two women, one who is now disabled, with a new body, rediscovering sex together. It’s a big fuck you to people who think sex without a cock isn’t real sex and sex with an ostomate can’t be desirable. It’s subversive and subversive is sexy.
I once read that the hottest sex happens when one is at their most vulnerable. When I lay there fully naked, looking down to see my partner kissing my tummy, her head millimeters from my bag, I am definitely at my most vulnerable.
What about my partner? Well she’s always been unsentimental and blunt. True to character, she simply feels that it doesn’t change anything for her and that’s that.
Still, my body has changed and we have changed with it and it’s not a poor imitation of my pre-pregnancy self.
About the author:
Rachel Cooper is a queer woman, punk, and disability activist. She works for a nonprofit operating within the social model of disability, and has stepped up her raging against the machine following permanent birth injuries.
