Episode 19: Surprise Surgery & Sofa Confinement: My Gallbladder Tried to Kill Me

In this episode, we’re pausing the freight talk — 

So... this wasn’t the plan.

What was supposed to be a quick visit from my parents and a road trip to Missouri for my nephew’s graduation turned into a full-blown medical plot twist. I landed in the ER on Wednesday night with sharp upper chest and abdominal pain. For anyone who deals with heartburn or acid reflux — how do you survive? If what I felt was even a fraction of that... no thanks. Zero stars. Would not recommend.

By midnight, Trident Hospital had officially admitted me with a fun little surprise: “Your gallbladder is trying to kill you.” Surgery happened the next morning, May 15. Several stones were removed, along with one very angry gallbladder. The surgeon even gave me two of the stones as souvenirs. Thanks, I guess?

Instead of a road trip, I got a week of the recliner, short walks, and strict orders not to bend over — because when you do, the world spins and your body screams. Apparently, pain does have a level 15. I usually manage discomfort pretty well, but yeah… gallbladder pain is a different beast. Note to future me: follow the doctor’s instructions. They actually know stuff.

Luckily, my parents stayed with me for six days and made sure I stuck to the "feet up and do nothing" script. Not how we imagined the visit going, but I’m thankful for the care — and for the reminder that even grown adults need their parents sometimes. Thanks, Mom and Dad. I’m sorry our plans got hijacked by internal organ drama.

🎵 Featuring intro music by Lofi Chill Smooth and outro by Nwhere.

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Transcript

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Episode 19, Gallstones and the Golden Ticket, a recovery I didn't see coming. Hey everyone, welcome back to Holding the Line, a Logistics at a Crossroads podcast. I'm Gia, and today we're leaving behind the loading docks and digital dashboards to talk about something a little more personal. Recovery. The kind of recovery that surprises you, humbles you, and yes, itches in places you didn't expect. What was supposed to be a road trip with my parents to Missouri for my nephew's graduation turned into a full-blown medical plot twist. Wednesday night, sharp chest pain and abdominal burning had me rushing to the ER. Trident Hospital admitted me that night. And Thursday morning, surgery. Diagnosis, your gallbladder's trying to kill you. They ended up removing several gallstones and one very angry gallbladder. I even got souvenirs. Two stones and a tiny plastic jar. Thanks, I guess. So instead of graduation photos and party hats, I got hospital socks, incision glue, and a recliner. So let's go back and tell you what happened. Wednesday morning, I had spaghetti for brunch. And about 30 to 45 minutes later, I started having this ache in my abdomen or in my upper chest. And everybody was like, what'd you eat? And I was like, spaghetti. And they were like, oh, you've got heartburn. Now this was at 10.45 a.m. in the morning. So we tried Tums, we tried Gaviscon, we tried Pepsid, we tried Pepto. And this pain, Did not ease up. So from 10.45 until I finally admitted I can't handle this anymore at 5.30 in the evening on Wednesday night, took me to Trident Hospital, ER. They were like asking me those questions, you know, taking blood. And they're like, oh, you can't sit down. You can't lay down. We don't think it's heartburn. but we're gonna do some images and do a few things. And that happened. And all the while I am hunched over the bed looking like somebody on crack needing a fix of the way that I rocked back and forth. Finally, the ultrasound just came in, said, ooh, they'll let you know in a few minutes after about pressing on my stomach, me jumping off the bed and said, CT will be down to get you. Oh, great. I have to lay down in a machine when it hurts to breathe. I did. It was fine. It was painful. And then they gave me the dye and I felt warm all over, which is never fun. And as I was being maneuvered from the MRI machine back to the bed, the lady goes, I'm not supposed to tell you, but, uh, It looks like you might have a gallstone and a decent sized one. I think they're going to do surgery. What? No, no, we're not doing surgery. Give me the drugs. Let me go home. I have a graduation to get to in Missouri. My parents did not come here for this. I am not making my grandparents, my parents, Mr. Grandson's graduation. We get back to the room and here comes the doc and he goes, you have two choices. I can give you medicine to where you will not feel this pain for at least five days. Okay, that's enough to get my parents there. He goes, but when this stops, you will be back and it will be worse. Or we can admit you tonight and get you surgery in the morning. And everything just exploded inside my heart. My dad died. was with me and he said, you're getting surgery. We're not going to Missouri. You're going to get surgery. So they admitted me Wednesday night. He gave me morphine that left my nose itchy, my tongue itchy, and my body itchy. He said, okay, well, we're not gonna give that to you ever again. And he goes, he gave me something called Dilaudid and I remember nothing. I remember floating and being in no pain after that. So miracle drug, thank you. Got up to my room. The nurse that I had that night was Eric and he was amazing. I did enjoy the every two hour poke and prodded of blood sugar checks, of what's your pain level, and everything of that nature, but I did get some sleep. And then at eight o'clock in the morning, they said, no, you can't have anything. You could have two ice chips. And nurse watched me like a hawk. And they rolled me down to the OR waiting room. And I got to sit there for two hours while they worked me into the schedule. So doctor finally came in right before they were taking me into surgery. And he said, Well, when you get done, you'll feel a lot better. And you've never had any indigestion, heartburn, acid reflux, anything? I was like, no, sir. I've never felt anything like this. I don't know. The only reason I was trying all of the Pepto and all the Tums and everything, and I hate saying um, but those are the words that I just couldn't get out. He said, well... your gallbladder looks very angry on the images. So we're gonna go in, we're just gonna make four little incisions and you'll wake up and be ready to go. You can normally go home the same night. The procedures take 45 minutes to an hour. Okay, so this is on Thursday morning, right? Two and a half hours later, I am finally waking up in recovery. And I said, what time is it? And the lady said, it's a little later because you were a little stronger case than what we thought. Lovely. Okay. We're going to get you back up to your room. We're going to let you rest for a little bit and then they'll come in and talk to you about seven to see how you're feeling. If you feel like you can go home. I didn't think hospitals let people go home. They let me go home at 8.30 at night. I was ecstatic. Let me get back to my bed. With strict instructions of no bending, no running, nothing more than walking around the living room for the first 72 hours and absolutely no shower for 24. I just had surgery. I was sticky. You know, you just feel grimy. No shower for 24 hours. lovely but i got to go home and i have two stones in a plastic jar so let's talk about friday morning wake up could barely get out of bed it was painful but it was the second eldest nephew's birthday and we we i.e me was not going to allow him to be home by himself while the rest of my family was celebrating my nephew's graduation in Missouri, his cousin, who this one was supposed to ride with me and Grandma and Grandpa to Missouri. And I ruined those plans. The doctor said rest, and I said pizza, with permission and a strict two-hour limit from my parents. I took him to DeSalle Andros for a calzone and a dunk and run, and then straight home. No, it wasn't my brightest move, but boy was it worth it. Day two recovery is a first shower post-op. You'd think I'd ran a marathon. I couldn't even wash my hair without sitting on the side of the tub like I was 97. No overhead reaching, just breathing, felt like cardio. Fluffy or not, I do not run marathons. And this felt like one. Day three, bruises. Everywhere. Who did I fight? And a little itching around the incisions started. And side sleeping became a no-go. A fantasy. I tried to roll over once. Never again. I am now sleeping upright with five pillows, a yoga bolster, and a wedge under my knees. I could no longer see my toes from the swelling. Day four. Second shower. It was amazing. Exhausting, but amazing. And the most basic tasks zapped my energy. Pain level was down to a five. But the don't bend over rule stayed firmed. I tested it once and I regretted it deeply. Day five. Bruising started to fade, hallelujah. But the soreness is no joke. And bending is still out loud in my house. Day six. Wednesday. My parents packed up and left me. giving me strict instructions to behave. I'll try, maybe. This whole thing was supposed to end in celebration with family, not hospital gowns and incisions. I'm bummed we missed the graduation, but I'm glad my body is slowly on the mend. And day seven. We hit the burning never endings or waking up part of recovery, or what I call the Freddy Krueger phase. Every couple of hours, if I'm laying down or stretched out on the recliner, it feels like he's slicing my side for about two minutes. It's quick, sharp, and deeply unwelcome. The bruising on my arms is looking better, so I don't completely resemble a crash test dummy anymore. Still swollen, though, and as a side sleeper, I now sleep with 100 pillows, a yoga bolster, and a wedge just to not roll over onto my side, and if I do, my body immediately screams, no, no, hard pass. First of all, to you back sleepers, how do you do it? It's not comfy. Y'all are built different. And it was my follow-up day. Fingers crossed the surgeon overlooks the little redness around my main incision and clears me for work because being stuck at home, feet up and resting, 75% of the day sounds relaxing, unless it's your reality, it's not your vibe. Now, Manchild Jr. did come back over and take me out yesterday for a few hours, so I got to rejoin society, briefly. But when I got home, straight to cold shower, pajamas, and recliner life. He even tried to limit my activity today because we already went out yesterday. Sorry, kiddo, I'm still the boss here. although temporarily grounded, but still the boss. Recovery isn't glamorous. It's slow and inconvenient, filled with awkward aches and excesses of pillows and strange little milestones like sitting up without wincing. This healing phase has been frustrating and uncomfortable, but also full of small wins. And... Day 8. Well... Second part of day seven. At my follow-up, Dr. Thomas gave me the news. Not quite cleared. The Freddy Krueger pain has probably trapped air, but to be safe, five more days of antibiotics. And just so you know, I made his top 10 list for gallstone size. I'm a top tenner, people. A four centimeter and a three centimeter and some bonus stones just for chaos. Apparently, My gallbladder didn't want to exit stage left. Surgery ran a little longer. Drama, even at the organ level. As for my arms, looked like I wrestled a bear or a trident nurse. And when he asked what happened, I answered trident. He nodded and said hydration might help. He has jokes. I'm telling you. And I asked about side sleeping. When can I do it again? He hit me with, if it hurts, don't. Seriously, that's your answer? If it hurts, don't? Okay. He did say I could get in a pool. No oceans or lakes because apparently amoebas are real and chlorinated water is the only safe option. So no cannonballs, just float and slip. And I will say... I've been stir crazy. My original note that he gave me said I couldn't return to work until June 26th. June 26th, not Monday, May 26th. Cue the panic. I marched back into his office and then I put on the biggest, sweetest, please saddest, please fix this face and got it changed. Those nurses are freaking amazing. His team, beyond amazing. I am cleared to return on Monday, no restrictions, with guidelines. No lifting over 25 pounds, ease into it, listen to your body. And guys, I am beyond ready to get back to work. Partially because I miss my coworkers, don't tell them that. And partially because recliner life has lost its sparkle. I have thought that being a stay-at-home person, you could do so much. You can if you're not on restrictions. So, this is a reminder. Recovery is slow. It's uncomfortable. It's filled with unexpected moments, awkward aches, and an absurd number of pillows. But it's also a reminder that even in the middle of healing, there's humor, there's gratitude, and there's always a story. Thanks for listening to this detour from logistics. I promise next week, actually, I promise tomorrow, we'll get back to the freight lanes. But for now, if you've been knocked down lately by life, surgery, or just your own overworked body, know that you're not alone. Rest, hydrate, don't bend, and maybe float a little if you can. And remember, I'll be navigating the crossroads right along with you. I'll catch you next time.