He knew this feeling. It wasn’t the normal gurgle of his ileostomy. This was the enemy: a blockage.
He knew the first rule: do not eat. Do not drink a full glass of water. You cannot push a cork down a full bottle. Instead, he shuffled to the kitchen, poured a warm cup of peppermint tea, and sat down. He took tiny, rabbit-sized sips. Warm liquids acted like a gentle lubricant. He avoided cold water—his surgeon had told him cold shocks the bowel into a spasm.
The clock on the nightstand read 2:47 AM. Leo lay perfectly still, one hand pressed against his lower abdomen, the other gripping the edge of the mattress. A cramping, colicky pain was building—a wave of pressure that would crest, hold for a terrifying second, and then ebb, only to return a minute later. stoma blockage what to do
He then tried the trick his ostomy nurse, Brenda, had taught him: The Splosh . He took a 60ml syringe (without the needle) filled with warm tap water. Gently, he inserted the tip into the opening of his stoma. Not deep—just the tip. He slowly, slowly depressed the plunger. A few drops of water went in. He waited. A gurgle. He did it again. This wasn't a flush; it was a "lube job."
Don’t panic, he whispered to himself, repeating the mantra from his discharge papers. Panic clamps the gut tighter than any blockage. He knew this feeling
Gently, so gently, he placed his palm beside Buddy. He did not press hard. He used a soft, circular, clockwise motion, like he was polishing a priceless antique. He was trying to encourage the trapped food—likely a fiberous string of green bean or that rogue almond—to wiggle loose. He visualized the blockage: a tiny raft stuck in a river.
He realized that if the warm bath, massage, and "splosh" hadn't worked after two hours, or if he had started vomiting, he would have been in the car to the ER. A complete blockage can lead to a ruptured bowel or severe dehydration. There is no shame in the ER. Pride doesn't digest fiber. He knew the first rule: do not eat
Six months ago, the word "stoma" had sounded like a medical curse. Now, "Buddy," as he called the rosy nub of his small intestine protruding from his right side, was just part of the team. But tonight, after a celebratory dinner where he’d foolishly nibbled on a few nuts and forgot to chew his mushrooms properly, Buddy had gone silent. The ostomy pouch, usually gurgling with activity by now, was flat. Empty. And Leo’s belly was starting to look like a kicked soccer ball.