Part 2: The Fart Heard ’Round the World

(Or: How Gas Became My Personal Resurrection)

Let’s pick up where we left off—the farts.

Sweet, glorious, magical, air-passing farts.

It might sound ridiculous, but in that hospital bed, bloated and battered and sewn up from sternum to below-the-belt, the moment I passed gas was the moment I knew—

I. Was. Alive.

I remember the nurse walking in, clipboard in hand, all routine-like, and asking,

“How are we doing this morning?”

I cracked a half-dead smile and said proudly:

“I finally passed gas.”

She stopped. Looked at me. And with the enthusiasm of someone who gets it, said:

“You farted!”
Like I’d just won the damn lottery.

It was honestly the best conversation I’d had in weeks.

I immediately begged for food, and she—bless her rule-following heart—said,

“I have to call your doctor. You’re still NPO.”
(Nothing by mouth—the three most evil words in post-op recovery.)

Hours later, a victory tray arrived: a cup of banana purée.
Cue gag reflex.

See, what she didn’t know was that bananas are my arch nemesis.
The smell, the texture, those weird ridges? Absolutely not. I’d rather chew on gauze dipped in hospital antiseptic.

So there I was, finally farting freely, stomach rumbling, and staring down the one food that makes me want to crawl out of my skin. I turned my nose up and leaned all the way into my banana-related drama.

But none of that mattered.
Because you know what did matter?

I didn’t need another surgery.
I didn’t need a colostomy bag.
I had avoided the worst-case scenario.

I was alive, and dammit, I could feel it.

That hospital stay was the tail end of the hell ride I’d been strapped to for months. A gut full of gunk, a body shutting down, and a medical system that made me scream just to be heard. But somehow, through the noise, fear, and narcotics—I felt this fire inside me. A spark that refused to die.

The next day, I begged to go home.
The doctors wanted me to stay another day.
But The Barista had to go back to work, and my mom was with me.
I was stable. Healing. Hungry (minus the banana thing).
And so Dr. Brown—my actual angel on Earth—said yes.

I packed my fear, my healing stitches, and my spark, and I went home.

My kids were still gone for the summer, living their blissful teenage lives, completely unaware their mom had just dodged a death sentence. And I didn’t want to ruin that. They deserved peace. I’d been in chaos long enough for all of us.

Now came the hardest part:
The waiting.

The pathology report.
The official word on what those tumors really were, and whether they planned on sticking around.

I was still screaming my mantra—

“I want to f*cking live.”
—only now it echoed with hope instead of desperation.

I knew I was okay. My body felt lighter, clearer. I could eat real food again. (Okay, mostly cream cicles and berries before surgery—but post-op, the cravings came back in full force. Real food? We were flirting again.)

The week between discharge and that final call dragged like a year in slow motion. I tried to stay busy. I journaled. I deep breathed. I probably Googled way too much.

Then—the call.

The voice on the other end said what I had manifested, prayed for, screamed into the universe:

“You’re going to be okay.”

I cried. Not the scared kind, not the grieving kind.
The I made it kind.

And now—eight years later—I’m still here.
Stronger. Wiser.
Still farting freely.
Still healing.
Still yelling,

“I want to f*cking live.”

Because I do.
And maybe, just maybe, my story will remind you that you can too.

-Beth B. Blissful