Erin Goodwin, 36, shares her true life story:
My mum, Julie, handed me a present and sat down next to me on the lounge.
“Merry Christmas!” she exclaimed.
I forced a smile but I was hardly in the mood to celebrate.
I was on loads of different medications and completely exhausted.
After exchanging gifts, I retreated to my bedroom in tears.
My tummy troubles had started a year earlier and shortly after, I noticed blood when I went to the toilet.
A doctor diagnosed me with ulcerative colitis, a condition that causes inflammation of the colon and rectum.
There was no cure but doctors said steroid tablets might help.
But the pain only got worse.
I constantly felt like I needed to go to the toilet.
Some nights I even slept on the bathroom floor.
But all I could pass was blood and mucus.
I could barely eat, either, and within a month I’d lost 20kg.
“I’m in complete agony,” I sobbed to my doctor.
They couldn’t work out why my condition was so bad.
I was told I’d need a total colectomy, a procedure where my large intestine would be removed and waste would be redirected from my rectum to a hole in my stomach.
Then, my waste would be collected in a pouch from the outside.
At just 26, I was horrified.
I should have been out travelling the world. Instead, I’d be miserable and going to the toilet in a bag.
Mum tried to cheer me up after surgery.
As Christmas Day rolled around, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for myself.
It was like all the magic had been sucked out of life.
I’d gone from a fun-loving confident girl to someone who despised herself when she looked in the mirror.
I lived in loose clothing which covered my bag and was gentle on my tender stomach.
I was so grossed out by having to empty the pouch every few hours that I barely left the house.
There was no way I could do that in public!
Over the next two years, I had 10 surgeries and was in constant pain.
“It would ease your discomfort if you had the surgery to make this permanent,” a doctor told me.
I shook my head, unable to accept this pouch would be with me forever.
With my condition also came loneliness.
I missed going out with my friends and the thought of ever finding love was hopeless.
Two years after my surgery, my sister, Shada, dragged me out to the races.
As we wandered through the crowd, Shada brushed against a guy with tight, brown curls down to his shoulders.
“Your hair’s awesome,” I blurted, as we shuffled past in opposite directions.
Later, he approached me and introduced himself as Peter.
“Your hair’s nice, too,” he grinned. “Can I have your number?”
I was flattered, but my excitement came to a screeching halt when I remembered my pouch.
He’d surely run a mile.
So I gave him my number with a couple digits switched around.
But Shada noticed.
“It’d help if you give him the right one, silly!” she chirped, correcting me.
He texted me that evening, inviting me out to a party, but I was too exhausted.
Two days later, he texted me again.
Thanks, but I’m not in the right place to date, I replied.
He told me to let him know if I changed my mind.
A month later, I needed a date for a work function.
Too scared to consider online dating, I texted Peter.
Me (right) and Shada at the races.
After all, he already knew I wasn’t up for anything serious.
Two hours into the boring evening, we ditched it and went for coffee instead.
Peter was a complete computer geek but despite our differences, we got lost in conversation.
“I’ve been pretty sick lately…” I said, and stopped myself before I said too much.
You can’t tell him, a panicked voice in my head screamed.
Soon afterwards, I went to a New Year’s Eve party Peter had invited me to.
His eyes lit up when I walked in and later, as the crowd counted down to midnight, we kissed for the first time.
I felt giddy but nervous, too.
I liked him too much to lie to him anymore.
As he walked me to my car, I knew it was now or never.
“I have an ileostomy bag,” I said, explaining what it was. “It’s up to you whether you can accept me or not.”
His brow creased and I could see he was processing it all.
I told him tonight wasn’t the time for questions and if he wanted to, he could speak to me tomorrow.
After another quick kiss, my sister drove me away, leaving him standing there on the footpath.
The next day, Peter turned up on my doorstep.
“If we’re going to be together, I need to understand your condition,” he said.
As I told him all about it – gross bits and all – a weight lifted.
For the first time, I realised the bag didn’t change who I was.
It was a part of me.
Peter was unfazed by it all.
Even when we became intimate, he assured me I was sexy, and, slowly, I started to believe him.
With his support, I decided I was ready to have the permanent procedure.
Afterwards, I was finally free of pain.
I could enjoy my life again!
By Christmas, Peter and I were head over heels in love.
That morning, we were rummaging through our Santa sacks when Peter pulled out a colourful lolly ring.
He slipped it on my ring finger.
“Marry me?” he asked.
We’d never discussed marriage so I assumed he was kidding.
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I popped it in my mouth and Peter gasped in mock surprise.
“You ate your engagement ring!” he exclaimed. “You have to wait until next year now.”
I rolled my eyes and kissed him.
On Christmas morning the following year, we were in the backyard, surrounded by our families, when Peter handed me a giant box wrapped in Christmas paper.
Inside were hundreds of heart-shaped lollies.
“There’s nothing else in here,” I said.
I looked up to see Peter on one knee, with a white gold diamond ring in his hand.
1“Will you marry me?” he asked again.
I nodded and pulled him in for a kiss.
It was the best Christmas ever!
We got married in Thailand two years later.
Looking back on that first year with my ileostomy bag, I wished I’d known that, in the end, I’d get everything I’d ever wanted.
Since I learned to accept my ileostomy bag, I’ve felt happier than ever.
Peter’s Christmas present was the gift that turned my life around.
Me and Peter on our wedding day.
