LOUISE THOMPSON reveals her secret pain: I hid severe bleeding and a prolapse – then found out I was pregnant and it became a fight to survive

You know that saying? ‘If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.’ At the start of 2024, it felt like this year was going to be a fresh start. A new beginning.

Having managed to scramble my way back from a series of mental and physical health crises that had dominated and dictated our lives since I had nearly died giving birth to my son Leo, I was working towards getting back to me.

I felt optimistic, hopeful. Happy, even. My drive to work had returned, I had exciting career opportunities coming in and was making money again following years of financial uncertainty. I’d even reached a place where I’d been able to stop working with my therapist.

We’d just celebrated Leo’s second birthday and my whole body ached with love for him. My relationship with Ryan, which had been hanging by a thread for so long, was back on track and we were looking forward to two epic family holidays – a week of skiing in the French Alps and then on to Antigua for a fortnight with my father and his partner.

I’m not saying it was all completely perfect. Life never is.

I’d been experiencing little flare-ups of ulcerative colitis since September and they’d been niggling away in the background … but in the grand scheme of things they were minor disruptions. There was nothing that felt unmanageable.

This was going to be our year. And so the big guy upstairs must have been splitting his sides as I stared in disbelief at the small plastic stick clasped in my hand.

A surge of panic ran through my body and the breath seemed to catch in my throat. Because although the line was very faint, it was unmistakably there. I was pregnant.

If I’m being totally honest, deep down I’d known the pregnancy test would be positive. The day before, I’d felt queasy and extremely tired while Ryan and I had been out for a walk. I’d been tracking everything to do with my hormones and ovulation so I knew I had a five-week cycle which was now running decidedly late.

Although Ryan and I were on much better ground when it came to communication, recovery from trauma can often take a sledgehammer to the old libido – that, plus running around after a toddler, meant that swinging from the chandeliers hadn’t been high on the agenda for quite a while.

And besides, the chances of conceiving after everything my body had endured were next to none. Apparently not.

The pregnancy was still incredibly early and since this was now the day before we left to go skiing, I didn’t have time to process the news. On arrival in France, I told Ryan, who was, understandably, speechless. I also confided in his sister-in-law Megan, but even saying it out loud didn’t make it feel real to me.

For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine what having another baby might look like for me. I thought about dates and star signs and potential names. A sibling for Leo. But that was over in a flash and I was back to being petrified.

Not just about the pregnancy. Since arriving in the Alps, my ulcerative colitis symptoms had taken a severe turn for the worse and I was now pooing upwards of 15 times a day and losing cupfuls of blood from my rectum each time. Every time I’d sit on the loo, I’d see my reflection staring back in the big mirror opposite and wonder what was happening. I felt strongly that the faint line was making my condition worse.

I tried to pretend to everyone – including myself – that everything was OK. I’d also built up an extraordinary amount of resilience in the face of adversity.

Some of that is down to becoming desensitised – I recognise that. I’ve spent so much time in hospital that there’s part of me that is now numb to it. I no longer bat an eyelid if I find myself with rubber hoses coming out of my stomach.

I soldiered on and by the time we came back from skiing, things seemed to have settled. I felt sort of … all right? Maybe I was kidding myself.

We were due to head out to Antigua, a trip Ryan and I had both been so looking forward to as a chance to make some memories after years of lost opportunity. I couldn’t bear the thought of our little family, having been through so much, missing out. How bad could it be?

And so we went. Looking back, I can see it was a dangerous decision. I was on an island with a completely different standard of healthcare and one I knew nothing about.

My family weren’t aware of how grave the situation was because the worst of it happened in private when I went to the bathroom and it’s not the kind of thing you want to show people – ta-dah! – because it’s pretty gruesome. It felt like a very lonely illness to live with.

I was constantly on the loo, I was passing out on the beach and I was bleeding out of my bum. Oh, and to top things off, I also suffered a rectal prolapse. I was trying to parent Leo, put on a show of having a good time myself, make sure Ryan, my dad and his girlfriend were enjoying their holiday, while at the same time I was in agony and having to push this prolapse back into my bottom.

It was a disaster.

The whole sorry episode quickly became unsustainable to the point where we had to make a snap judgment call and cut the trip short. Ryan and I flew back with Leo – I spent most of the flight sitting on the aeroplane loo – and by the time we got a taxi into London (me wearing a nappy), this stuff was pouring out of me.

The positive pregnancy test bombshell from a couple of weeks before was a distant memory. My mother met us at home and then drove me to the now-familiar Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, where I was admitted. I told the team I was pregnant, causing a flurry of concern. They took me off for a scan and a blood test.

I was so fragile and depleted and trying to zero in on staying alive. When the doctor told me that there was no longer any sign of a pregnancy, the news barely registered. There was so much going on – yet again my life was hanging in the balance – that I didn’t have the mental capacity to dwell on it.

Besides, another baby was such a far-fetched idea to me that I don’t think I’d ever seriously expected it to be something that could have continued.

Whatever had happened between taking the test and the hospital scan, it had been lost very early. Perhaps it was never meant to be.

I had to focus on what was happening here and now. They tried all sorts of ways to medicate me, but it was like this gradual, unstoppable decline into hopelessness. I was going to the loo more than 20 times a day – I’m not even joking when I say I’d celebrate if I had a two-hour window where there wasn’t a load of blood coming out of me.

My whole world had ground to a halt.

And so when, after a week, they raised the possibility of a stoma, I was thrilled. I know that might sound like a bonkers reaction to the prospect of having my colon removed and pooing through my stomach into a bag for, perhaps, the rest of my life. But to me it was the only answer I had left. It was a way to escape the suffering.

I was exhausted and out of my depth. I didn’t want to live like this any more. This wasn’t living.

My family felt differently and were completely devastated. But nothing – absolutely nada – will ever be as punishing as the mental anguish I’ve fought since childbirth.

Having said that, I’m not going to lie, the first time I saw the stoma itself knocked me sideways. Without the ileostomy bag attached, it looks quite shocking, like a big sea anemone. I wasn’t even sure if I could bring myself to touch it.

My recovery at home was quick, which I think everyone around me found rather alarming. ‘Poor Louise, she’s got a bag of s*** attached to her stomach. How can she possibly live like that?’ is what they thought.

It’s never been like that for me.

I don’t see my stoma as something limiting or disabling. Quite the opposite. It’s freedom, an end to the suffering. Changing my bag takes two minutes twice a day – it’s never more than a mild inconvenience and most of the time it’s not even that.

My stoma was the start of my new life. Ryan has always been extremely respectful of the situation although he’s never actually seen the stoma. Not because he’s repulsed by it, I’ve just never felt the need to show him. There’s no reason for him to see it.

Let’s face it, it’s not the sort of thing you sit down and have a romantic moment together over! Stomas aren’t exactly beautiful and I don’t need to scar Ryan’s brain with that.

In fact, the only person who has seen it is Leo. This completely innocent little human has watched me change my bag (which I’ve nicknamed Winnie, as in ‘The Pooh’) in the bathroom, he knows that poo comes out of my stomach and it’s totally normal to him.

I find the strength of the relationship we have as mother and son astonishing on so many levels. I have no idea how we’ve managed it. I know that everyone thinks their kids are special, but Leo has got so much empathy and sensitivity and maybe that’s one of the positives to come out of everything we’ve been through.

His nursery teachers have always said that if anyone falls over and grazes their knee, Leo is the first person to go over and see how they are and offer to kiss it better.

I remember the first time he said to me, ‘How are you, Mummy?’ and my insides erupted with joy. I really felt like he actually wanted to know and so I gave him an honest answer.

I thought about it and said, ‘You know what, darling, I was a bit upset this morning and I’ve had quite a tricky day but I’m good right now.’ And he listened.

Now, Leo isn’t going to become my new therapist! But I wanted to give him credit for taking the time to ask how I was and to show him that I took his question seriously. It was such a wonderful moment between the two of us. Post-stoma surgery, we trucked along for the next few weeks, all of us re-adjusting, and I considered when would be the right time to go public. If I did at all.

Ryan really didn’t want me to post about it. He was being protective, but I woke up one day and felt ready. There was nothing fancy about the video I put up. No frills or spills. Just a simple clip of me showing the world the grey pouch that might just have saved my life.

Afterwards, Ryan said he thought it was the perfect way to announce it. It wasn’t self-indulgent or ‘poor me’. He said he was proud of me and that felt good.

And it was a relief for the news to be out there. I had so many messages from friends, family and followers, which felt like this huge rush of love and positivity. I also had a lot of people with stomas getting in touch – I had no idea how many of us there were.

The hospital also put me in touch with a helpful WhatsApp group made up of about 20 women of similar ages and all with stomas, which has proved super helpful for medical support and general questions.

What’s the best travel insurance in case of a stoma blockage? Where can I find some amazing stoma-friendly leggings? How do you make the stoma not smell? Peppermint drops, FYI. By now it was May and my book was published. My birth-trauma story was finally out there.

It was spring. The weather was warm. Ryan and I were in the best place we had been for years. I was appearing on high-profile TV programmes like Loose Women, mainstream shows which the Naysayers had always said were out of reach for the likes of me. It was validation, finally.

IT started at home late one night in November. I thought I’d experienced the most excruciating pain possible before, but it was nothing like this.

Back in hospital again, I was diagnosed with peritonitis – swelling of the lining of the abdomen, an infection which can be caused by a hole in the bowel – and

heading for my sixth major surgery in the space of three years.

Thankfully they were able to do keyhole surgery, where they effectively washed me out and saved my life. Again.

But here’s the thing. Through all the trauma and previous surgeries, it had got to the point where I no longer cared if I lived or died. This time it was very different. I was different. I needed to live for Leo. Massively so.

I had to pull through and get well again because my son’s life was going to be so much better if I was in it. In the past Leo had been an afterthought. Sometimes not even that. I would get irritated if any healthcare professional asked me about him when it should have been my health that was the focus.

Now, I go in and look those people in the eye and say, ‘I’ve got an amazing life and a three-year-old son who needs me. I have to get better. There is no other option.’

Leo needs his Mummy. I don’t want to be absent for any of his growth or development. And that’s why I’m throwing everything at getting to the bottom of my health issues. I’ve still not got the answers I need. I still don’t know why this keeps happening but I will keep going until someone can tell me what the hell is going on. For Leo.

I still think about that lost pregnancy and sometimes yearn to have another child. It’s a physical longing but there’s so much to take into account because whichever way I look at it, it’s not going to be an easy journey for us and there’s a sadness which might always be there.

Maybe the next year will see us looking at what possibilities there are for us to expand our family. One question I’ve been asked by quite a few people, especially after this latest year of highs and lows, is about the title of my book: Lucky.

Do I still feel lucky? Honestly? The answer is yes. I really do. I have had access to the care I needed. I have had unwavering support from the people I love the most.

I’ve seen and felt the very best of humanity. I feel pretty undefeatable. I’ve gone into battle and every single time I’ve come out on top. I feel almost disturbingly strong.

That, to me, feels priceless.

Adapted from Lucky by Louise Thompson (Ebury Spotlight, £10.99), to be published April 24. © Louise Thompson 2025. To order a copy for £9.89 (offer valid to 26/04/25; UK P&P free on orders over £25) go to www.mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937.