Almonds, Emily thought. Classic culprit. Their fibrous, undigestible skins could clump together like cement in the narrow lumen of a stoma.
Emily’s stomach tightened. Blocked stoma. One of the most urgent complications in post-op care. She pulled on her white coat and hurried down the dim corridor.
As she walked back to the on-call room, she thought of all the simple, terrifying things that could go wrong in a body rearranged by surgery. A stoma was a second chance at life—but it demanded respect. And sometimes, all it took was one almond to remind you. blocked stoma
Mr. Hendricks was a quiet man in his sixties, three days post-colectomy for colon cancer. When she entered, he was curled on his side, face pale and beaded with sweat. His colostomy bag, attached to the stoma on his lower right abdomen, was empty—bone dry. But his belly was distended, tight as a drum.
Emily gently examined the stoma. Normally, a healthy stoma was pink, moist, and slightly raised. This one looked different—swollen, dusky purple at the edges, and no effluent whatsoever. She donned a glove, inserted a lubricated finger into the opening with care. She felt it immediately: a solid, crunchy obstruction about two centimeters in. Not a twist or a kink (which would be surgical emergencies), but a food blockage. Almonds, Emily thought
It was 3:00 AM when the call came in for Emily, a third-year surgical resident. The voice on the other end was shaky. “It’s Mr. Hendricks, Room 408. His stoma… it’s not putting anything out. And he’s in agony.”
She explained quickly: “Your stoma is blocked. Not by a hernia or a twist—thank God—but by food. We’re going to try to soften it from the inside out.” Emily’s stomach tightened
Mr. Hendricks let out a sob of relief. “Oh… oh, that’s better.”
