I Always Had Company in the Bathroom — Until It Landed Me in the Hospital

The weight of caregiving and everyday life became overwhelming, culminating in a humiliating visit to the ER.

The abdominal pain was so severe, I was convinced I had appendicitis. My husband, a physician, asked, “Does it hurt more on the right side?” I hesitated, unsure, and he rushed me to the emergency room.

It was Halloween night, and outside, a striking blue full moon illuminated the sky. The ER was packed, grappling with one of the busiest nights of the year, compounded by a computer system failure. Yet, my state must have looked dire, as they whisked me into a room where I was then gratefully given a dose of morphine.

Certain it was appendicitis, I even debated with a nurse whether a CT scan was necessary before surgery. It could add hours to the wait, and I wanted nothing more than to return home to be with my grandmother, who was in her final days. My kids, aged 4 and 6, were with my sister for a Halloween candy hunt and were expected back the next morning.

But rules are rules. While waiting for a technician to wake up, I filled out my grandmother’s cremation paperwork on my phone—just in case I needed it while under anesthesia.

When the scan results came in, my appendix was clear. The issue? I was severely constipated, with stool backed up from my large intestine into my small intestine, which was quite alarming. I had recently learned from my son’s preschool curriculum that the large intestine measures about five feet long. I stared at the doctor in disbelief when she asked how many times I had gone to the bathroom that week. Honestly, I had no idea.

Of course, there were mitigating circumstances, but this embarrassing moment was the result of a long-standing pattern. Since my mother passed away and my grandmother moved in upstairs, I had been juggling the needs of my children below and my matriarch above. Bubbi spent 20 months in hospice care for suspected pancreatic cancer. Despite the help from caregivers, the burden weighed heavily on me, especially during the COVID pandemic when I was also responsible for my kids’ remote learning.

In the thick of caregiving chaos, I tried to carve out time for exercise, which had become my lifeline. I occasionally meditated, but guilt over allowing my children too much screen time often cut my showers short—earning me the nickname “Nature Mama” from my husband. I only allowed myself bathroom breaks when I could manage them in under a minute, a phenomenon humorously termed “the mom ninja poop” among other mothers. Once, I even tracked how long it took me to use the bathroom alone. The answer? Seven days.

I sought help from various doctors to understand my persistent bloating and discomfort following two C-sections. After being told by one specialist that I might have a parasite and another that I was just full of shit, I chose to believe the former.

At the ER, I received a prescription for laxatives and was sent home, facing what felt like a colonoscopy prep. However, I got off relatively easy. A few months later, a friend with a similar history ended up hospitalized with an intestinal blockage. Both of us were informed that scar tissue could be the cause. Follow-up tests, including swallowing a capsule-sized camera and carrying a tracking device to monitor my bathroom habits, ultimately led to a diagnosis of stress.

Once I returned home from the ER, I rushed upstairs to see Bubbi, kissing her and announcing that I needed to rest after a tough night. She perked up immediately, asking, “What’s wrong?” I replied, “Just some sympathy pains.” She passed away two days later.

At my first follow-up with the gastroenterologist, I joked about taking my deceased grandmother’s Miralax. She sympathized but recommended something stronger. Over the next year and a half, I managed to reduce my medication as my stress levels normalized. My children are now back in school, Bubbi’s apartment has been sold, and I’m meditating twice daily. I even told my gastroenterologist that I’m taking the time to chew my food. Her response? That makes a difference. So does spending an extra five minutes on the toilet.

Jamie Lee Thompson is a writer and yoga instructor in Queens, currently working on her memoir.

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In summary, the challenges of caregiving and stress can lead to unexpected health issues, as experienced by the author. With the right support and adjustments to lifestyle, recovery is possible and can lead to a healthier, more balanced life.

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