I Still Carry a Lot of Guilt When it Comes to My Illness

13 April, 2026

By John Bigland

I’m 36 years old and live in Urmston, Manchester. I work as a criminal investigator for the UK Government, building cases against organised fraudsters before arresting and interviewing them. I’m fiancé to Gemma, stepdad to Alfie, and dad to six-year-old Sonny, who lives in Dublin with my ex-partner (who I’ll call Sally*).

I have a colostomy. A urostomy. And currently, a nephrostomy because one of my kidneys is blocked.

Like most lads my age, I love football, fishing, and a few pints. The bags and scars don’t change that. But they do tell a story.

This is mine.

The Beginning

In January 2015, I moved to Dublin to be with Sally and our 18-month-old son. Sally had struggled with post-natal depression, and being apart had been tough. We’d met in Benidorm, done long distance for two years, and then found out we were having a baby.

I settled into life in Ireland. New job. New mates. Joined a football team. Tried to make it home.

Then, in March 2015, things started to feel… off.

Small symptoms at first. Feeling like I hadn’t emptied properly. Straining. I blamed stress. Moving countries. Job exams. But it didn’t improve. My GP referred me for a sigmoidoscopy.

Because Sally worked at the hospital, the appointment was brought forward from January 2016 to November 2015.

That decision saved my life.

A week before the appointment, my stepmum died from post-cancer complications. She’d been with my dad since I was two. We were incredibly close.

At the sigmoidoscopy, the nurse saw a tumour. She called a surgeon in immediately. I remember crying uncontrollably. Pure panic. Pure fear.

I was told I had cancer.

And that I’d need a permanent colostomy.

All I could think was: Am I going to see my son grow up?

Grief on Top of Grief

Choosing where to have treatment was one of the hardest decisions of my life. My family were in Manchester. My fiancé and son were in Dublin.

I chose Dublin.

I started chemotherapy. Radiotherapy was booked in. Breaking the news to family back home was horrific.

Then, just days after being discharged from hospital, Sally and I went to the cinema to distract ourselves. When we came out, I had a message on my phone.

My dad had died.

Completely unexpected.

I flew back to Manchester to plan his funeral, numb with shock. I carry a lot of guilt about my dad. He died grieving his wife and devastated by my diagnosis. I sometimes wonder if the stress of it all broke him.

The night of his funeral, I flew back to Dublin. Radiotherapy started the next morning.

The day after my first session, a nurse took me into a side room. Sally was there.

My grandad had died.

He’d been my father figure. I’d lived with him and my nana from the age of 11. The funeral was delayed until I finished radiotherapy. I was in agony from the treatment – going to the toilet felt like passing sandpaper. I flew back to Manchester in January 2016 to bury him.

Cancer had taken so much already. And I hadn’t even had my surgery.

The Surgery That Changed Everything

In February, my surgeon, Mr O’Rhiordan, told me the tumour had grown into my bladder. To get clear margins, they would need to remove it.

That meant a permanent urostomy too.

A full pelvic clearance: anus, rectum, bladder, prostate, some bowel.

I was 30-something and being told I would never have an erection again without injecting my penis.

We had already frozen sperm before radiotherapy. We’d wanted more children. That door had effectively closed.

In April 2016, I went in for surgery. The night before, I recorded a goodbye video for my son. There was no guarantee I’d wake up.

I came round five days later.

Two weeks in hospital. Learning to walk again. Dealing with infection. Nerve damage in my feet. Within days of being discharged, I was readmitted with a wound infection that required vacuum dressings for six months.

Then came the stoma complications. My urostomy collapsed internally. Constant leaks. Daily anxiety about smells, damp clothes, visible patches.

I started chemotherapy again in late 2016 – the strongest regime they could give someone my age.

I survived it.

But my relationship didn’t.

When Illness Breaks More Than a Body

Sally and I were under unbearable strain. I was ill, leaking, and impotent. I felt completely emasculated. Injecting my penis to attempt intimacy is not something you ever imagine doing in your 30s. And when it didn’t even work, it broke something in me.

Sally was dealing with her own battles. Post-natal depression, caring for a toddler, and now a partner with life-altering cancer. She turned to drinking to cope. We tried counselling. We tried talking. But eventually she had a breakdown and was admitted into psychiatric care.

I made the decision to return to Manchester, hoping space might help.

It didn’t save us.

No betrayal. No drama. Just two people crushed by circumstances.

I will always love Sally and her family for what they did for me. We remain close. I see Sonny every month and we FaceTime daily. That relationship means everything to me.

Starting Again (With Two Bags)

Moving back home felt like failure. Back in my childhood bedroom. Single. Two stoma bags. A huge scar. A penis that didn’t work.

Not exactly Manchester’s most eligible bachelor.

I dated, but never let things get intimate. My body confidence was gone.

Then I met Gemma in October 2017.

From the start, we were open about everything. She saw the scars. The bags. The damage. And she saw me.

When my urostomy collapsed further, I needed revision surgery in December 2017. More bowel removed. More complications. My colostomy output has been watery ever since – sometimes 20 times a day. Dehydration. Blockages. A constant balancing act.

Gemma never wavered.

Reclaiming My Manhood

Eventually, I was referred to a specialist on Harley Street for a penile implant. The procedure involved inserting two inflatable cylinders connected to a saline reservoir.

I had the surgery in January 2019.

The recovery pain was brutal.

But when it worked?

I felt whole again.

It wasn’t about sex alone. It was about identity. Confidence. Feeling like myself.

Gemma certainly didn’t complain either.

Life Now

I returned to work – first briefly to the prison service, then into my current role as a criminal investigator. Arresting suspects with two stoma bags has its moments, especially if things turn physical. But my employer has been incredibly supportive. I’ve always been honest about my condition.

Gemma and I are now trying for a baby. IVF funding hasn’t been straightforward, but we’re hopeful.

I’m still here.

And that matters.

The Guilt I Can’t Quite Shake

Writing this has made me realise how much my brain has protected me. There are gaps. Emotions I can’t fully access.

But the guilt remains.

I feel guilty for the pain my diagnosis caused my family.
Guilty that my dad died carrying that fear.
Guilty about the toll on Sally.
Guilty about what Gemma has had to endure.

I know, rationally, it wasn’t my fault. My cancer was bad luck, not lifestyle. I’ve had counselling. I’ve tried mindfulness. Medication. The guilt lingers.

But so does gratitude.

Thanks to extraordinary healthcare professionals, I’m alive. I get to watch my son grow up. I get to build a future with Gemma. I get the chance – hopefully – to have more children.

Why I’m Sharing This

After my diagnosis, I made the mistake of turning to Google. The statistics terrified me. Rectal cancer like mine is rare in young people. The numbers didn’t apply – but they haunted me anyway.

What helped was people. Real stories. Real bodies. Real survivors.

There is still stigma around stoma bags. Around scars. Around altered bodies.

But here’s the truth:

If bags and scars mean I’m alive, then they are something to celebrate.

They’re not pretty. They’re not glamorous.
But they are proof that I fought – and that I’m still fighting.

If you’re reading this and you’re in the thick of it – leaking bags, broken relationships, shattered confidence – please know this:

You are not alone.
You are not broken.
And life, even after everything, can still be full.

*Name changed to preserve anonymity.

For more support and advice please contact us on: 0800 328 4257 or visit our support page for more ways to get in touch: colostomyuk.org/support