Well, I’m finally home. It’s been 6 days since my surgery and 11 days since I was first admitted to the hospital. What was it like to spend two weeks in the hospital? Frustrating. People always encourage you to get plenty of rest when they hear you’re in the hospital, but it’s almost impossible. I was constantly woken up so that the nurses could take vital signs, give me medicine, administer Heparin shots, replace my TPN, administer IV antibiotics, etc. Once I was woken up, it was hard to go back to sleep because of the pain and discomfort.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start with the day of surgery, which was filled with anxiety. My husband and my parents came to the hospital, and in the hours leading up to the surgery, it was obvious that we were trying to talk about anything other than the fistula in the room. Of course, there was a delay in the OR so that just made us more anxious. When they finally took me back to pre-op, I was surprised by the number of people prepping for surgery. The large room was filled with smaller rooms divided by curtains, each with someone awaiting surgery; it was like horses in a stable.

When the anesthesiologist finally said they were ready for me, the atmosphere around me quickly changed. Up until this point, I was nervous and my family remained calm. But when my husband and my parents gave me a hug before the doctor took me away, they each started tearing up. This time, I was the calm one. I’ve spent the last few months in chronic pain, dodging surgery as if it were reserved for the lost causes. Now, headed to the OR, I was at peace with what needed to happen. I know that God has promised good to me and I put my trust in Him.

Three hours later I woke up, back in the stable, and I immediately asked for my husband. Matt came and held my hand as the nurses gave me pain medicine and monitored my vitals. Eventually my parents were allowed back too, and it was clear that we were all so relieved it was finally over, not just the surgery, but this chapter in our lives. When I was finally coherent enough to notice my surroundings, I realized that I was hooked up to more things than you can imagine. I had two drains coming out of my stomach, a catheter, and antibiotics and TPN attached to my PICC line. Luckily I didn’t end up needing an ileostomy bag, which was my biggest concern. In fact, when I first woke up from surgery, they said I repeatedly asked if I had a bag and they kept reassuring me that I didn’t.

When they took me back to my room, I couldn’t focus on anything but the pain. Every hour I complained to my nurse, so I didn’t get much sleep. The doctor finally prescribed me stronger pain medication and I slept most of the next day. Once they removed the catheter, getting up to go to the bathroom was like untangling a web of tubes and cords. I’m so thankful that Matt stayed with me all weekend to help through those first few challenging nights.

I started my recovery with baby steps, literally. I walked from the bed to the bathroom, then I walked from the bed to the nurses’ station outside my room, and finally I walked the entire floor. Four days after my surgery, I was ready to walk out the door. The staff removed the drains and PICC line and I was no longer physically attached to anything. I won’t describe what it felt like to have a tube pulled out of your stomach, but let’s just say I shouted something incomprehensible.

And now I’m continuing my recovery at home. I can’t lift the girls or drive for two weeks, which is difficult. It’s hard not to be able to get up and go like I used to, but I’m dealing with it. The reality is that I’m blessed to have had a competent surgeon, a successful resection, and so far, a smooth recovery. On discharge day, while I was being wheeled out of the hospital by a nurse to meet my husband, this reality hit me like a ton of bricks. One of the nurses who took care of me all week, who brightened my day with stories of her grandson, who made my bed for me and brought me fresh water to make me more comfortable, and who cheered me on while I slowly walked the hallway, shared with me that she too has Crohn’s disease. She was misdiagnosed for almost 10 years and by the time they correctly diagnosed her, the disease had progressed so much that it almost killed her. She had five surgeries, including one to remove her entire colon, resulting in a permanent colostomy bag. I was stunned. How could this woman take care of me all week and not share this sooner? Why didn’t she remind me that things could always be worse? I don’t have answers to these questions, but I do know this: I’m thankful for her patience and compassion. I’ll continue making baby steps with her in mind.