Thus far my disasters have been few and contained. The one that stays with me happened in a full bathtub about five years ago. I’d been having period cramps and IBS cramps in the same blighted day. By the time evening came, I decided hot water inside and out was just what I needed.
I drew a deep bath, shook in fragrant bath salts, lowered myself in, inserted my nozzle, and started the flow. Initially it felt wonderful to float, relaxed, in the warm water and feel my belly gently expand. It was so comforting and blissful I wondered why I didn’t try an enema in the bath sooner. Goodbye shivering on the bathroom floor! This was clearly the way. This was how I wanted every enema going forward.
Just as that thought drifted away, I felt a cool current cut through my warm bath: the tubing had come off the nozzle, and brown water was jetting from my behind into the bath.
This realization caused every muscle in my body to tense, which only increased the velocity of my horrific fecal plume.
By the time I had the presence of mind to yank out the nozzle, I was bathing elbow-deep in a slightly rose-geranium-scented pool of my own waste. I couldn’t pull the tub plug fast enough, and it took me the equivalent of two showers to feel clean again.
That was it for me for enemas in the bath. I tried a second time without incident but was too tense to relieve my pain or enjoy any of it, constantly wondering if the tubing was still on the nozzle or if the nozzle was slipping out. No more bliss, just PTSD.