Some funny things about an OSTOMY

I couldn’t believe my luck when I woke up recently from emergency surgery for an intestinal obstruction. There, on my stomach, like a good conduct medal, was a discreet little sort of sandwich bag, which, for the foreseeable future, would be externally collecting my poop.

            Oblong, rounded at the corners and rather loosely secured by what looks like a potato chip bag clip at the bottom, the gift was entirely unexpected.

            Did my doctor realize he was placing such a weapon in the hands of a Raging Granny? Especially one who had been desperately searching for a solution to the violence that often erupts during a peaceful protest, like Bush’s visit to Ottawa?

            With our mandate, to make the world a better place for grandchildren, the Granny presence is deliberate and planned. In hat and shawl, we quietly plant ourselves among the young to help with the larger picture with signs, smiles and songs.

Something topical, like: “I want a mouth, just like the mouth, that Carolyn Parrish has…” to the tune about the girl who married dear old dad. Everyone joins in, laughing, tension drops and then -

Suddenly, maybe ten body lengths away, some misguided youngster pulls up the bandana around his neck and without warning, bops one of the officers standing between us and the way forward.

 I am particularly sympathetic to the opposition, as I have had both husband and son in the peace officer profession. Fortunately neither has had to stand against me or haul me off, so far.

However, bandana face doesn’t see any humanity. Perhaps he has not yet learned to look beyond the uniforms on either side. Ooof! Whack! Without warning the push is underway, escalating, from zero to CHARGE!

            Grannies don’t move fast. Unfortunately, when bashing and bopping begin, we sometimes find ourselves caught in the middle.  

            And the official presence can lose it. The fact that grannies are stirred into the mix doesn’t always seem to register. “If you’re foolish enough to be on the front lines,” the attitude seems to be, “then it’s your outlook. What’re you doing here anyhow?”

            Hoping my benign, elderly presence, my commitment to peace as well as free speech, may cool aggression. Demonstrating that satire is a far more superior and memorable weapon. 

Yes, we take a calculated risk, being present, as hotheads unfortunately prevail on both sides. Any group of protesters, while perhaps containing some looking for a scuffle, also has its share of experienced old lady pacifists

            Well, now, thanks to the hospital’s gift of the odiferous little bag, the quiet, completely non-violent granny profile just took a giant leap forward.

            That baton, the hooves on that horse, the tires on that shiny motorcycle can get incredibly stinky if the wrong woman, the one with the bag, goes down. Statistically, a granny is much more likely to contain an ostomy bag than the average punk. Stomping me could mean a week afterward of scrubbing and scouring.  Am I worth it?

            At the best of times, the bag isn’t all that stable. Mine has taken to coming detached and falling off, not to mention the multiple possibilities of punctures.  It can come in handy in all sorts of situations.

            During the Millennial Women’s March on Parliament Hill, I took a short cut across a small park by myself; not knowing it contained just such a hostile opportunistic individual, awaiting his victim. 

With my handy little bag now, all I have to do, is loosen the flimsy clip and dribble on his feet. No need for a police lineup when he could be picked out, maybe for weeks to come, by a single sniff of his shoes.