My name is Luis. I’m 42 years old, and exactly nine months ago I almost died because I treated going to the bathroom like an optional activity.
For years I was “that guy.” The one who bragged he was so busy he didn’t even have time “to go to the bathroom.” I ate standing up, swallowed fast-food in the car between meetings, drank two liters of coffee and maybe half a liter of water if I remembered. Fiber? That was something rabbits worried about. Sleep? Four or five hours was luxury. Exercise? Only the walk from the parking lot to the office.
At first it was just two or three days without a bowel movement. Annoying, but nothing dramatic. Then it became four, five, seven days. I’d feel bloated, but I’d pop a laxative tea or a couple of stimulant pills and eventually something would happen. I never told anyone. Macho pride, shame, whatever you want to call it — talking about poop felt ridiculous for a grown man.
By the time I hit two weeks without evacuating, I knew something was wrong, but I doubled down on the teas, suppositories, abdominal massages at night. Nothing. My belly started to look pregnant. It was hard, tense, painful to touch. I couldn’t button my pants anymore. I told my wife it was “just gas.”
Day 30 came.
I woke up at 3 a.m. with pain I can only describe as someone stabbing me from the inside with a hot knife. I couldn’t stand straight. I vomited. My urine had turned the color of Coca-Cola and the volume was almost zero. My wife found me on the bathroom floor, pale and drenched in sweat. She dragged me to the car and drove to the emergency room.
I remember almost nothing of the ride. I remember the triage nurse pressing on my abdomen and me screaming. I remember the look on the doctor’s face when the CT scan loaded.
Diagnosis: Acquired megacolon secondary to severe fecal impaction.
Translation: My colon had turned into a 12-centimeter-wide concrete pipe full of rock-hard feces. More than 7 kilograms (15.4 pounds) of compacted waste had stretched my intestine to the absolute limit. The mass was pressing on my ureters, blocking both kidneys — I was heading into acute renal failure. One small tear in the intestinal wall and I would have spilled that toxic content into my abdomen. Death by sepsis within hours.
They rushed me to emergency surgery. General anesthesia. Eight hours on the table. The surgeons had to open me up, literally break apart and manually remove the fecal boulder piece by piece, then wash out the colon. They ended up giving me a temporary loop colostomy because part of the colon was so damaged it needed months to recover.
When I woke up, the surgeon sat next to my bed and said, very quietly:
“Luis, one more day… and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
I cried like a child.
What I Learned While Recovering With a Bag on My Belly
- Chronic constipation is a disease, not a personality trait Fewer than three bowel movements a week, hard lumpy stools, excessive straining — that’s not “just how you are.” It’s a problem that gets worse if ignored.
- “Holding it” destroys you slowly Every time you ignore the urge, the rectum stretches and eventually stops sending the signal. You think you’re saving time; you’re actually training your body to forget how to work.
- Laxatives are not candy Stimulant laxatives (senna, bisacodyl, etc.) used long-term make the colon dependent and lazy. When you finally need them to work in a real emergency, they often fail.
- Fiber + water + movement is basic maintenance, like brushing your teeth I now eat 35–40 g of fiber a day (beans, oats, vegetables, fruits with skin, chia, psyllium). I drink 2.5–3 liters of water. I walk 8,000–10,000 steps. My stools went from rabbit pellets to perfect Type 4 on the Bristol scale in less than a month.
- Shame almost killed me If I had told my wife, a friend, or a doctor after the first 10 days, none of this would have happened. Talking about poop is uncomfortable for 30 seconds. Sepsis is uncomfortable forever.
Today
My colostomy was reversed five months ago. I have a long scar from sternum to pelvis that reminds me every day what stupidity looks like. I go to the bathroom as soon as I feel the urge — at the office, at a client’s house, in a gas station, wherever. I keep prunes and a water bottle in my car like other people keep cigarettes.
I’m not telling you this story for pity or drama.
I’m telling you because the surgeon showed me the bucket with the 7+ kilograms they removed from inside me. It looked like wet cement mixed with rocks. That was inside my body because I thought being “too busy” to poop was a badge of honor.
Your body keeps the bill. And when it decides to collect, it charges compound interest.
Please, listen when it whispers. Eat plants. Drink water. Move. And for the love of everything holy, go to the bathroom when you need to go.
It’s not a luxury. It’s the cheapest health insurance you’ll ever pay.
