It always starts the same way. 

I wake suddenly – heart racing, blood rushing straight to my core, that unmistakable feeling that I’m about to throw up. My body goes into overdrive. I become absolutely roasting hot, like heat is radiating from the inside out. My breathing changes, becomes quicker, shallower, panic – adjacent, even if my mind hasn’t caught up yet. 

I know what’s happening before I’m fully awake. 

I make my way to the bathroom, falling into the familiar routine of it all. 

I haven’t had a nighttime blockage like this for years. I genuinely thought these were under control now. 

But here we are. No clear trigger. No rhyme or reason. 

The culprit – my parastomal hernia or the adhesions. 

What it used to look like 

When this happened in the past – on and off for years – my routine was always the same. 

Bathroom first. 

Drink lots of water. 

Continuously rub my stomach. 

As the nausea worsened and the pain built, the heat in my body would intensify.  I’d know, deep down, that it wasn’t going to ease until I vomited. 

I’d strip off and get into the shower, aiming the water directly at my stomach. The pressure felt like it helped, massaging, soothing, giving me something to focus on.  I’d lather up a sponge while dry heaving, not wanting to be sick but knowing it was inevitable. 

I’d massage my stomach with the sponge, full of soap so it glided easily over my skin, right up until the moment I vomited. 

Then came the retching.  All the water I’d just drunk.  Over and over.  Until there was nothing left.  Dry heaving until I felt utterly lethargic. 

Some early morning wake-up call, isn’t it. 

Eventually, drained and shattered, I’d stay in the shower until the pain subsided and my stoma pouch began to fill with watery output. Then the shivers would start, my body flipping from high alert and burning hot to cold, shaky and exhausted. 

I’d slowly make my way out of the shower. Still sore but the pain bearable now.  I’d dry myself and creep back into the dark, quiet house, my husband and children still sound asleep, completely unaware of the night time battles my body had just fought. 

That was my normal. 

Two to three times a month. 

Trying to make sense of it 

For a long time, I thought it was my diet. I went gluten-free for three years and it genuinely helped, until it didn’t. Towards the end of that time, it started happening again. 

Eventually, I went to the doctor. I had a barium meal and an endoscopy. 

The verdict? . . . Rapid transit. 

My oesophagus and stomach were described as beautifully pink and flawless. 

What no one mentioned because scans don’t show them, was adhesions. 

I wasn’t told what to do to manage rapid transit. I received a letter in the post with the result and that was it.

No follow-up.

No guidance. 

I assumed it just meant things moved quickly through my system. I didn’t realise that liquid can push food through faster too. 

Looking back, I think the gluten-free diet helped partly because I naturally ate smaller portions. 

Last night 

Last night started with a surge of adrenaline so strong it jolted me awake. I recognised it instantly. 

But this time was different. 

This time, I understood the seriousness. A blockage with nausea or vomiting is an emergency sign, not something to manage at home. 

I woke at 4am. Heat coursing through my body. Breathing rapid. Instantly sick. I clambered my way to the bathroom, pulling off my clothes because I felt unbearably hot . . . I regretted not having a hair bobble to tie my hair back.

I felt panicked. 

Knowing the risks made everything feel more intense. 

My body began to retch and I struggled to concentrate. I needed to calm myself down. 

I placed one hand on my chest and one on my stomach and focused on breathing – in through my nose, out through my mouth.

Slowly.

Deliberately. 

Then I remembered the new position I’ve learned over the past months, one that often helps release blockages and settle my bowel. 

I sat on the bathroom floor, my back leaning against the bath panel. The cold against my skin was grounding.

I raised my knees so my legs were up and my back reclined slightly. It wasn’t comfortable, my tailbone took the weight but I stayed there. Hands on chest and stomach. Breathing. 

Telling myself: Breathe.  It’s okay.  You’re safe. Then, gradually, my bowel started to gurgle. My stoma began to release air.  The nausea eased. 

My pouch slowly started to fill with liquid output. 

I couldn’t believe it. 

In over twenty years, I had never experienced a blockage this intense resolve without vomiting. But this time, I’d managed it. 

Listening to my body 

Over the past ten months, I’ve studied my patterns.  I’ve paid attention to my body in a way I never had before.  I’ve learned how to relax, how to calm my nervous system, how to work with my body rather than panic against it. 

Last night could easily have ended in an emergency hospital visit. 

But here I am the next morning.

Drained.

Tired.

Head sore . . . but here. 

Ready to battle through another day. 

This post reflects personal experience and reflection, not medical or professional advice.