The Great Bowel Rebellion

By Antonia at Unremarkable Me(Chronically ill, hilariously constipated, and just trying to poop in peace.)

Some people bond over cocktails or concerts. I bonded with my best friend Shilpa over bum cleanliness and shared bathroom trauma.

Here’s the twist: Shilpa is the picture of health. Radiant, capable, not wrangling six diagnoses before breakfast like I am. But everyone has their bogeyman—and for her, it’s the bathroom. That porcelain cube of dread. The silent fear of a mid-wipe disaster.

So when we discovered we were the only ones in our friend group who properly prioritised bum hygiene—and that we both had designated bum flannels—it was a moment of pure, unfiltered joy. A flannel-forged friendship, sealed with toilet talk that would make most people clutch their pearls.

Shilpa may not live in a chronically ill body, but she gets it—the shame, the silence, the weird bodily betrayals we never talk about. She’s cheered me through flare-ups, breakdowns, and the day my insides declared war and refused to move for three and a half weeks. Yes, three and a half.

This story isn’t glamorous. It’s not delicate. It’s about constipation. And I’m going to tell it in full, horrifying, triumphant detail. Because if you’re dealing with chronic illness—or just met your own digestive bogeyman—you deserve to know: you’re not alone.

Welcome to Hospital. Please Leave Your Dignity at the Door.

I recently spent 10 days in hospital. And as tradition dictates: no pooping. My bowels stage a protest every time I’m admitted, but this time? They went full French Revolution.

The first five days I barely ate. I was too unwell to consider food, let alone digestion. Eventually, I improved—I could sit up, stomach more than three sips of water, and almost glance at the hospital menu without fear.

Which brings us to... the sandwiches.

Sandwich Sadness and a Dirty Little Secret

I started slow with a cheese sandwich that looked like it had survived a teenager’s backpack on a sunny day. Sweaty. Shiny. Sad. I gave the hot meals a go, but two days later, I was back to playing sandwich roulette.

Here’s my confession: I love an egg sandwich. Specifically, the sad little ones from petrol stations at 2am under flickering fluorescent lights. Comfort food for someone who’s clearly been through things.

So when I spotted one on the hospital menu? Game on. I ordered one daily until discharge. Did it help my bowels? Absolutely not. Did it give me hope? Strangely, yes.

Home Again, Full of Hope (And Something Else)

Once home, things got... emotional. Despite eating and drinking (small amounts—I’ve not been a big eater lately), nothing moved. I could feel the build-up. My stomach began to feel like it was holding secrets. Or, as I called it: my poop baby.

I tried everything. Senokot. Lactulose. Crying. Pep talks with my colon. Nothing worked.

Four days passed. And then came the war.

The Bathroom Breakdown: A One-Woman War

Picture it: I’m on the bathroom floor, pants around ankles, whispering to my enema bottle like it holds ancient magic. I squeezed the contents in and… honestly? Disappointing.

“I expected something more dramatic. Like, I don’t know, evacuation.”—Actual quote to Shilpa

Eventually, I passed what can only be described as a geological event. I texted her:

“Poo update: nothing but the occasional nugget until 20 minutes ago—and I’m never going to be the same. I genuinely thought I was going to have an aneurysm on the toilet. I have zero dignity left.”

This wasn’t an overreaction. This was a full-blown existential crisis, sponsored by senna.

The Great Release (And the Angry Commuters)

When the blockage broke, there was no peace—just movement. Like a rave in my gut.

Suddenly, everything wanted out. The blockage had passed, but now came the chaos. My belly buzzed with momentum. And I was terrified.

It wasn’t a graceful exit. It was a stampede of angry commuters trying to get from A to B. Elbows out. No apologies. The exit? Twice its normal size and emotionally scarred from battle.

And somewhere, floating above the carnage, was a calm voice whispering:

“YOU’RE A QUEEN. A FLANNEL-WIELDING, ENEMA-SURVIVING QUEEN.”

Honestly? I needed a hug. Because I felt changed. And not without casualties.

Let’s Talk Crap: Why Constipation Is a Chronic Illness Epidemic

Constipation isn’t just awkward. It’s an epidemic. In the chronically ill community, it’s a full-blown crisis with a PR problem.

Here’s why we’re blocked more often than a troll on Twitter:

• Medication side effects (opioids, antidepressants, iron) — NHS

• Reduced mobility — Bowel Research UK

• Gastroparesis & dysmotility — Guts UK

• Dehydration (thanks, POTS & nausea!) — Macmillan Support

• Pelvic floor dysfunction — Pelvic Health UK

• Autonomic dysfunction (bless the vagus nerve—it’s trying)

And the impaction? It’s not just physical. It’s emotional:

• Overflow diarrhoea (the cruelest plot twist)

• Appetite loss

• Distress and fatigue

• Full-blown trauma

  
  

What actually helps:

• Electrolyte hydration

• Gentle movement (even in bed)

• Soluble fibre (if tolerated)

• Toilet posture: knees up, lean forward—channel your caveman

• Laxatives, enemas (use wisely), or meds like prucalopride

• Emotional support. No, really.

  
  

Final Thoughts: The Trauma, The Triumph, and The Toilet I’ll Never Forget

This wasn’t a quirky poop story. This was a spiritual reckoning.

I walked into that bathroom a woman. I crawled out a survivor.

I may never look at egg sandwiches the same. I still eye the toilet with suspicion. I flinch when someone says low fibre diet.

But I made it. With Shilpa’s pep talks, a litre of lactulose, and an army of angry gut commuters.

And the thing that kept me from going back to hospital?

Not the gaslighting. Not the cancelled surgery. Not even the doctor who said I didn’t “look” like I had EDS.

It was this:I couldn’t poop there.

And honestly? Who knows what would’ve happened if I’d stayed. A bowel implosion? A haunting? A Channel 5 docudrama titled "Blocked: My Hospital Horror"?

No, thank you.

I’ll be here. With my flannel, my fibre, and the kind of best friend who doesn’t flinch at the word enema.

And if that’s not healthcare, I don’t know what is.