When my body asks me to do something I physically can’t 

Phantom rectum is one of those things you don’t expect to still be dealing with decades after surgery. 

And yet, here it is. 

It doesn’t happen all the time but when it does, it can hurt like crazy. 

What phantom rectum feels like 

For me, phantom rectum feels urgent. Convincing. Alarming. 

It comes with a sudden, overwhelming sense that I need to pass faeces immediately, like an emergency. The kind of urgency that makes your body react before your brain has caught up. 

I end up sitting on the toilet, heart racing, convinced something terrible is about to happen. 

And then the pain builds . . . There’s pressure. A deep, crushing, stretching sensation. 

It feels as though something inside me is trying to push, even though I know, logically, that it can’t. 

The pain can become so intense it genuinely feels like I might rip open down there.  That fear is real, even if the anatomy isn’t. 

The cruel contradiction 

Here’s the strange part. 

I know I don’t have a rectum.  I know I can’t pass faeces.  I know there is nothing to evacuate but my body doesn’t know that in the moment. 

The signals are powerful.  Primitive.  Urgent. 

It’s like my nervous system has memorised a response that no longer has anywhere to go. 

When it tends to happen 

In the early years after surgery, phantom rectum happened more often. Sometimes randomly, sometimes frequently. 

Over time, it settled but it never fully disappeared. 

Now, decades later, I notice it most when I’m: 

Anxious. 

Nervous. 

Under pressure. 

In unfamiliar situations. 

Facing something like a job interview 

Moments where other people might get a “nervous poo” or a “nervous wee”. 

My body tries to do the same thing.  It just . . .  can’t. 

Why anxiety triggers it 

I’ve come to understand this: 

When nerves hit, the body defaults to old survival patterns.  For most people, anxiety triggers: 

The urge to empty the bowels. 

The urge to urinate. 

A release response. 

My brain still sends that signal but my body has been surgically rewired. 

So instead of release, I get: 

Contraction. 

Pressure.

Pain. 

Nowhere for it to go. 

The signal doesn’t switch off just because the anatomy has changed. 

How I get through it 

Over time, I’ve learned that fighting phantom rectum makes it worse. 

What I’ve found works best is allowing the pressure to do what it’s trying to do, letting my body follow through the pattern it’s reaching for.

Yes, it’s painful but when I allow the sensation of needing to pass faeces to play out, the pain passes more quickly. Fighting it seems to intensify everything. Going with it, gently and without panic, helps it settle. 

Alongside that, I focus on: 

Slow, deliberate breathing, reminding myself (sometimes out loud) 

“You don’t have a rectum. You can’t pass faeces. This will pass.” 

Trying to relax the pelvic and rectal area, even when my brain insists I can’t. It doesn’t make the episode disappear instantly but it stops it escalating. 

The strange grief of it 

There’s something uniquely cruel about phantom rectum. 

It’s not just pain, it’s being asked to perform a bodily function that no longer exists. 

It can feel embarrassing.  Isolating.  Hard to explain and because it’s invisible, it’s easy to feel like you should be “over it by now”. 

But nerve memory doesn’t run on timelines. 

Two decades on and still here 

Twenty years after surgery, phantom rectum still shows up in my life.  Not daily.  Not constantly but enough to remind me that the body remembers. 

This doesn’t mean my surgery failed.  It doesn’t mean something is wrong.  It means my nervous system learned a pattern early on and sometimes, under stress, it replays it. 

What I wish someone had told me 

If you experience phantom rectum, you are not imagining it.  You are not weak.  You are not failing and you are not alone. 

Your body is responding exactly the way it was programmed to even if the wiring has changed and with time, awareness and compassion, it can ease even if it never disappears entirely. 

A quiet truth 

Phantom rectum is painful.  It’s frightening and it’s deeply misunderstood.  But it is real and it deserves to be spoken about honestly, without shame. 

Sometimes the bravest thing we do is allow our bodies to move through something that makes no sense and trust that it will pass. 

Because it always does. 

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