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.

Don’t panic, he whispered to himself, repeating the mantra from his discharge papers. Panic clamps the gut tighter than any blockage.

The pain pulsed again, a 6 out of 10. He ran a warm bath. As he lowered himself into the water, the heat began to unclench the knots in his abdominal wall. He then performed the "gas pass" pose—knees to his chest as best he could.

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."

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.

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.

He smiled in the dark. Crisis averted.

Suddenly, a small, hard pellet of undigested nut flew out into the washcloth. Followed by a spurt of liquid. Then a loud, glorious, bubbling fart.