Time Travel to July 17, 2017: The Day Everything Changed

 (Part 1 of My Wake-Up Call)

Let’s go back.
July 17, 2017.
A day that slammed into me like a damn freight train. A day I’ll never forget.

I didn’t feel right...hadn’t for a long time. My gut was aching, my belly was bloated like a busted can of biscuits, and I just knew something wasn’t right. So I took myself to urgent care. Alone. Because that’s what strong women do when they’re used to being brushed off.

Blood work.
A few worried faces.
"Possibly appendicitis," they said, and off I went to the ER. Alone again, until I called The Barista (yes, that guy—the one I said I’d never marry, who turned out to be my person). He joined me not long after his shift ended.

Then it got quiet.
Too quiet.

Imaging. Scans. A long pause.
I remember the sound of the doctor’s stool wheels squeaking as he rocked back and forth—like a nervous tick—before he finally said it:

“This is the kind of news I never want to share with anyone...”

Tumors.
Spots.
“Looks like cancer, maybe up to your liver.”

Cancer.
I could barely hear anything after that. The words didn’t sink in, but the fear? It hit deep and fast. My body froze, my brain went numb. Something about a referral. Something about “we’ll be in touch.” Then they let me go home like that. Just… dropped the bomb and walked away.

I had been begging my doctor for months—hell, years—to dig deeper than a PCOS diagnosis. The pain, the fatigue, the irregular, brutal periods… I was a walking symptom and no one wanted to listen.

And now I’m being told this might be it?

I went to bed, ready to face the end.
But I woke up the next morning, stood in front of my bathroom mirror, looked myself dead in the eye and screamed:

“I want to f*cking live.”

That was it. That was the moment.
That’s when the switch flipped.

I decided this wouldn’t be the end. That I wasn’t going down like this. That I would fight, even if I had to punch my way through bureaucracy and bullshit. I started calling doctors, chasing referrals, demanding answers. One of those calls? Vanderbilt. The Vanderbilt—Nashville’s crown jewel of hospitals. I didn’t think I had a chance.

But within hours of sending my scans, they called me back. An appointment. A shot.

Enter: Dr. Brown. The woman who saved my life.

It felt like hours, but it was really weeks—blurred by anxiety and breakdowns and too many bathroom floor cry sessions to count. I met with her team. They confirmed surgery was necessary—fast. Before that, I had a meltdown in front of a nurse who looked me dead in the eyes and said:

“Right now, you fall into suck.”

Didn’t want to believe it.
But yeah—I fell into suck.

Still, I kept screaming:

“I want to f*cking live.”

Pre-op came and went.
Then the day.
The nurse asked what kind of music I liked—I said alternative, she grimaced but hit play anyway. I was vibing until the snobby anesthesiologist killed the mood and turned it off. Lights out.

I woke up in recovery. It was dark. Late. I’d gone in early morning.

I sat up and blurted,

“Did they get it all?!”
The nurse panicked—because, fun fact: when you’ve just been sliced from chest to crotch, you’re not supposed to sit up. Oops.

They wheeled me to another recovery space, bumped a door on the way (10/10 pain, do not recommend). I'd declined the epidural before surgery—regret level = maximum. But the pain was unbearable, and eventually they gave me one after. Thank God.

Then there was The Barista, waiting when I woke again. Still there. Even though I was convinced he’d be gone. They took my uterus. My ovaries. My womanhood—to save my life. That’s a mindfuck.

A blur of residents filled my room, all poking, prodding, observing like med school vampires. I got discharged two days later—without a uterus, without ovaries, and still no poop. So yeah, I shoved in a suppository because THAT'S REAL LIFE.

My mom flew in. The kids were gone for summer. I was on the couch recovering when she decided to cook burgers (??) and I woke up so nauseous. Hours of vomiting and misery followed. The Barista called the emergency line. They called in Zofran. Didn’t help.

So what did we do?
We got in the damn car and drove 45 minutes back to Vanderbilt.

I had an ileus—my intestines had decided to nap. Nothing was moving. Couldn't eat. Couldn't even sip water without puking. I was stuck there through the 4th of July. Fireworks crackled outside my hospital room window while I laid there with a belly full of nothing, grieving the empty space where my womb used to be.

Then—I farted.
All. Night. Long.

Woke The Barista up to celebrate every single one.

Because that meant it was working.
That I was alive.
That I was on my way back.

To be continued…

-Beth B. Blissful