Background
Two years ago on September 1, 2023, I underwent surgery to remove 8 cm of infected colon that had repeatedly landed me in the emergency department. The most recent episode was on June 25, 2023, when I ended up hospitalized for five days due to a micro-perforation that required IV antibiotics.
That night, I woke up to a sharp pain in my abdomen. This wasn’t unusual—I suffered from diverticulosis that often turned into diverticulitis, and I had lived with IBS-C since I was 12. So, at first, I reasoned it away and tried to get back to sleep. But when I woke up a few hours later, the pain was still there. I ignored it at first because I had animals to care for, but after another two and a half hours, I knew I was in real trouble.
I called my mom to come get me and take me to the ER. She lives about an hour away, so I sat as still as I could to minimize the pain while waiting. When she arrived, we began the hour-long ride to the hospital—our rural Colorado reality. I felt every bump, crack, and jostle in the road. By the time we arrived, I was doubled over, crying, and begging for the pain to stop. My mom held my hand as the staff ran the usual tests: blood work, CT scan, vitals.
My husband arrived about an hour later, and together we waited for results. The doctor had ordered pain meds, so by the time the CT results came in, I was feeling much better—or so I thought. I figured it was just another flare-up, and that I’d be prescribed yet another round of antibiotics. But instead, a surgeon came into the room. He explained that this wasn’t simply another flare-up. I was naïve to the seriousness of the situation, but I remember him sitting at the end of my bed, saying the word surgery. I smiled, said I would follow up, and he left.
It didn’t hit me until the nurse returned and told me I was being admitted. Instantly, I broke into tears. The nurse tried to comfort me, saying, “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.” I gathered myself, put on my metaphorical “big girl panties,” and asked why I had to stay. He explained that IV antibiotics were necessary. That’s when it sank in: this was bigger than anything I had dealt with before. I agreed, and thus began my five-day, four-night stay at “Hotel Parker Hospital.”
I was lucky to have a wonderful night nurse who made me feel safe. She caught another issue that, if left untreated, could have caused serious complications. Over the next few days, they monitored me closely, and thankfully, the antibiotics worked. Eventually, I was released.
A few weeks later, I had my appointment with the surgeon, Dr. W. He explained the gravity of the situation: this was my third flare-up in less than two years, and it would likely continue. He recommended laparoscopic surgery to remove the infected section. He went over every possible risk thoroughly, but I never once doubted my trust in him. When he asked when I wanted the surgery, I replied, “The sooner the better. I don’t want to miss my nephew’s 16th birthday—I’m making him a cake, and I can’t wait to see his face.”
Dr. W. said he’d have his assistant coordinate scheduling. We booked the surgery for September 1, 2023. I left his office in shock but also with a sense of relief. I was tired of flare-ups and ready to get my life back.
As the date approached, my anxiety grew. I was told to expect a 3–10 day hospital stay, depending on how the surgery went. In this day and age, that felt like a long time. This was no minor procedure. The night before, I completed my prep and tried to sleep, but my stomach was in knots. Tomorrow was supposed to mark the first day of a new beginning—one where I wouldn’t have to rush back to the ER.
Tomorrow was Day 1.
