Dar Williams and I drove to work yesterday with the windows half-way down and the sun roof angled open to a crystal blue sky and comfortably cool early summer temperatures. Sixteen miles door-to-door was hardly enough — I could have driven for hours, far past the office to ... oh, maybe California (only 3,000 miles away). It was that kind of morning.

The current issue was almost complete but still needed the usual last-minute flurry of proofing. About 2 hours in, I answered the phone to hear a kind but obviously frustrated gentleman share intimate details of his recent problems with an 11-year-old ileostomy. I've grown accustomed to the willingness of complete strangers to discuss their ostomy complications (perhaps prepared by my family, that likes to compare pooping stories) but I will never stop feeling badly that I as a layperson I can do little to help other than to listen and perhaps forward their names and email addresses to Editorial Board members. These clinicians may be able to offer advice, although in our litigious society, they are reluctant to "prescribe over the phone." Knowing this, I immediately offered my caller some simple considerations: Have you contacted a CWOCN or ET nurse? Have you changed your diet? Have you visited the UOAA website? I told him I was thinking blockage — he doesn't need to know that the source for that information was my dog's wellness book (sometimes diarrhea indicates a blocked canine intestine) — but I reiterated that I was NOT a doctor. He didn't seem to care as long as he was getting some kind of advice.

I write this because I want the clinicians reading OWM to keep in mind the challenges their ostomy patients face. There is usually at least a glimmer of hope in healing a wound or a possible medication for incontinence or a new topical to try for diseased skin. But an ostomy is forever. Despite the resolve to preserve quality of life, there is resignation — I poop in a bag. And then to have reached a sense of order only to find a new "constant drainage from my bottom"?

I drove home listening to The Babysitter's Here with the usual lump in my throat I get when I hear that song, familiar with the sadness of farewell. I was glad I hadn't driven to California. Hopefully, some of the information we editors proliferate can help a clinician help a nice man in Florida.