Part 1: The Break Begins

I hate rollercoasters, and the fact I’m on one right now is super ironic. There is no map for this, no safety bars, no harness to strap me in. Just time, and lots of it.

So my first blog is being born because, well, I definitely have the time, and I believe there are people like me who need an outlet and a reminder that they’re not alone.

This year marks my seventh surgery. An unplanned one, to say the least. I’ve been here before. At least I thought I had been. Recovery wasn’t new to me. My first memories as a child are of recovering from a kidney surgery at age three. I remember a caretaker wheeling me through the hospital hallways in a red wagon from the play area with the other “sick” kids. There are memories of that recovery, but to me, at such a young age, it was kind of my normal.

Fast forward through my childhood, and I was twelve and going through my third and fourth surgeries. This one was for my heart. A two-for-one special. I don’t know how they convinced us to do two in one day. Probably because of my age. They figured resiliency was a factor. That one threw me for a loop, and I wasn’t ready for the amount of time it was going to take to feel like me again.

I remember fighting with therapists who were trying to get me to walk. I hated walking, and they would threaten me with talk of my lungs filling up with fluid and a longer recovery time. I didn’t care. But there was this one physical therapist who looked like a retired biker, with tattoos up and down his sleeves. A big teddy bear. He convinced me that it was gonna be okay, that walking was a good thing, and that he was there to help. I believed him. Eventually, I was released from the hospital hallways back to my childhood home.

There were unrelated surgeries up until I was twenty-nine. Then I got a break. For thirteen years, my body didn’t have to see a scalpel or a tube penetrating it. Life began to feel normal. I was traveling for work and for pleasure, getting promotions, dating, living on my own, and showing myself and others that independence was obtainable.

Then I got news in 2024. One of the repairs from when I was twelve needed a closer look. An MRI had spotted a change, and a procedure was scheduled in 2025 to take a deep dive into my heart. This time with a camera. There was a stent on standby in case they felt it was the right route to take. The silver lining was if they chose to place the stent, the blood flow to my legs would increase, the cramping I felt when walking would go away, and I might even be able to jog and run again.

So I began texting and telling my friends that a custom stent was being ordered (’cause I’m boujee like that) and a procedure was being scheduled.

In late spring, I was back in the hospital, ready for my procedure with my parents by my side and my friends on standby. We prayed before the anesthesia started trickling into my veins. Prayed that everything would go fine.

But when I woke up, everything was not fine.

My bed was surrounded by nurses and doctors trying to save my life. The femoral artery, the one in my right leg, hadn’t closed properly after the procedure. My leg began to fill up with blood, and a massive hematoma was forming. Vascular surgeons were called in for emergency surgery. For over 45 minutes, a rotation of people took turns putting pressure on my groin. An ultrasound tech was called in to take pictures, and when she released the probe, I felt a warm sensation. Blood was coming out of my artery.

That’s when it really hit me. I could die right then and there.

I begged not to die. I begged someone to please put pressure on my leg. A doctor came running in and pressed down, but I felt his hands shaking. I remember saying something like, “It’s okay. I know this is hard.”

Then a group of female nurses came in. I said they weren’t as strong, and I wasn’t sure if they could handle it. What I think was the lead nurse said, “Do you hear that, ladies? She doesn’t think we’re as strong.” I tried to take it back, but I could tell she was joking. She was trying to rile them up and keep everyone fighting.

Then the man came back. He had what I found out later was a CROC tourniquet to stop the bleeding.

The scream I let out was barbaric. Something I didn’t even know I had in me. When they say “rate your pain one to ten,” I now know what ten truly feels like.

They rushed my mom out, tears running down her face. They had tried to prepare her, but they hadn’t prepared her for that.

The last thing I remember before the surgery began was seeing the male anesthesiologist and telling him I didn’t want to throw up. Please, just make sure that didn’t happen…

News flash: it happened. I was projectile vomiting on everyone!

Note:
Everything I share here is based on my own experiences, memories, and perspective. It’s how I lived it, how I felt it, and how I’m making sense of it now. This is my voice and my story. I’m just telling my side in hopes someone feels a little less alone.