Emily gently examined the stoma. Normally, a healthy stoma was pink, moist, and slightly raised. This one looked different—swollen, dusky purple at the edges, and no effluent whatsoever. She donned a glove, inserted a lubricated finger into the opening with care. She felt it immediately: a solid, crunchy obstruction about two centimeters in. Not a twist or a kink (which would be surgical emergencies), but a food blockage.
She wrote the orders, checked his vitals—heart rate already slowing, blood pressure stabilizing. A blocked stoma could turn into a perforated bowel if ignored. Tonight, they’d caught it in time.
He groaned. “My wife brought me… nuts. A handful of almonds. I thought… healthy.”
It was 3:00 AM when the call came in for Emily, a third-year surgical resident. The voice on the other end was shaky. “It’s Mr. Hendricks, Room 408. His stoma… it’s not putting anything out. And he’s in agony.”
“Mr. Hendricks, did you eat anything different today?” she asked.