When I was in my early twenties and in college, I stayed for three "trimesters" each year to finish early. One spring and summer I rented from a family a small cabana-style room overlooking their swimming pool.
Their "family bathroom" opened both to the house and to the pool area; it was also used as a dressing room for the family and to shower when they used the pool.
They had one child, a boy about eleven. They had explained that I'd be sharing the bathroom with him, and showed me how to lock the door to the rest of the house so he wouldn't walk in on me, and told me to remember to unlock it when I left.
The bathroom was large, and the tub and shower were separate; the shower rather large. And there was a long naugahyde bench along one wall, and various hooks, two with towels having from them, at various heights above the bench.
The day I moved in they told me something else: they told me that on Friday nights they would be giving the boy enemas on Friday night, on Saturday, and on Saturday night, so at those times the bathroom might be unavailable for longer periods of time. They told me that if I really had to use the bathroom and couldn't wait during those times that I could use the master bathroom if absolutely necessary.
Of course the first night I showered in the bathroom I just had to get out of the shower, leave it running to cover any noise, and check out the bathroom's rather large linen closet.
They had a virtual cornucopia of enema equipment and supplies taking up two shelves of that closet. Large enema bags, two enamel enema cans, two large glass pitchers, some small bulb syringes, and lots of tubing. What really caught my eye was a a box of colon tubes, all stretched out straight rather than curled. There were also boxes of rubber gloves and tubes of lubricants. And one shelf of diapers and plastic pants (these were the days before disposables).
Having had lots of enemas myself as a kid and still taking them fairly regularly, I felt sorry for the kid and what he was going through.