Nobody Explained It. So I Learned to Ask

It’s 4 a.m. and fluorescent lights glare down at me.

I’m lying on a gurney in the emergency department. Around me, the place is a hive of activity. Inside me, pain is ripping through my guts.

A young doctor in scrubs perches on the edge of my bed. Calm. Reassuring. I’m going to be OK, I’m told, but this is an emergency, and they need to move quickly. I have a large abscess in my bowel, and it might burst. He inserts a cannula into the back of my hand, and a nurse hooks up an IV line. I’m being prepped for immediate surgery.

That niggling pain that started three days ago? It’s now an animal gnawing at my insides.

The doctor explains that I might wake up with a stoma. They’re starting me on high-dose intravenous antibiotics and painkillers.

I nod. I have no idea what a stoma is.

This was not how I’d planned to spend my 58th birthday.

My daughter was about to fly overseas, and all I could think was that I didn’t want her to delay her flight because of me. I’d been diagnosed with diverticular disease before and given antibiotics to settle the inflammation. But this was different. The speed of it all. The lack of warning. The words flying around me that I didn’t understand. I felt completely overwhelmed, and utterly bewildered about what a stoma was or what would happen to me in surgery.

Then, a stroke of luck.

Another patient took priority in that small country hospital, and my surgery was delayed by 12 hours. Those 12 hours gave the antibiotics time to work. The abscess settled, and I didn’t need surgery after all.

I still spent three days on a surgical ward, where I learned in graphic reality what the results of bowel surgery can look like, and the months of recovery after. And further testing showed that my situation had been far more serious than my GP had first realized.

He had thought it was a kidney stone.

When I later questioned him, he told me it wasn’t a misdiagnosis. He simply hadn’t had all the information at the time.

I’d taken myself to the emergency room when the pain became too much. Just in the nick of time. The hospital doctor told me that if I hadn’t, the abscess could have ruptured, causing a life-threatening infection and possible blood poisoning.

I’d had bowel issues since I was a teenager. They had always been overlooked, and I had always just grinned and put up with the pain. No one had ever really investigated further, and blood tests for Crohn’s disease were inconclusive. “It was just IBS,” they said.

I left that hospital frustrated. Not only with the system, but with myself. With how little I understood about my own body. With how much I’d depended on my GP to have all the answers.

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Fast forward four years.

My mom, a sprightly, energetic 85-year-old, is having a routine test. For years she’s had what she calls “toilet troubles.” Her bowels “didn’t feel right.” She’d been reassured it was just part of getting older.

To be honest, she never would have mentioned it to her doctor if I hadn’t pushed her. She’d also lost a lot of weight in a short time, and her iron levels were very low, which worried me, but not her doctor.

Then came the MRI, which her doctor begrudgingly ordered after I pushed her to request more tests. And the news? She was to be admitted for an emergency bowel resection. They removed two feet of diseased bowel.

It was a shock to all of us.

After the surgery, the pathology results showed she had active Crohn’s disease, much to the doctors’ surprise. She had probably had it for many years, yet she had never been tested for it.
Suddenly, her symptoms made sense. To me, to her, and to her doctor.

And it was hard not to think about how much worse it could have ended.

At least this time, I had my own experience to draw on. I understood more of what was happening, and I could support her through her recovery. But our two experiences left me with a lot of questions about how our health system diagnoses and treats these hidden diseases.

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I’m not blaming the doctors or the medical system. But it made me realize something important.

You have to advocate for yourself.

You have to be informed and do your own research. If I had known more about Crohn’s disease, I might have explained my symptoms to my doctor better. Looking back at Mom’s situation, I would have been more proactive in pushing for further testing sooner.

I needed to ask better questions. To understand how the system works. And to stop relying on my doctor to “catch” the important information that leads to the right diagnosis.

I have a science degree and a master’s degree. I know how to research. And as I talked with friends about their own health and their elderly parents, I kept hearing similar stories.

So I started sharing what I was learning. With my family. With my friends. With my daughter, who was experiencing similar symptoms at a young age and had never made the link herself.

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I’ve had my share of health issues over the years. High cholesterol. Edema. Sleep apnea. Excess weight. Lack of fitness. IBS. Diverticular disease. Hair loss. Post-viral syndrome after COVID-19.

Each time, I’ve done the same thing. I’ve dug in to learn what causes it, how it’s treated, and how to minimize or prevent further symptoms.

That proactive approach has made me the healthiest I’ve been in my adult life.

According to my fitness tracker, my fitness age is 46. I run three times a week. I do strength training three times a week. I can roll around on the ground and really play with my grandkids.
Not bad for a 62-year-old.

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I’m not a doctor. But I am deeply interested in helping you live your best life, whatever your age, and in helping you navigate the complex world of health with more confidence and armed with more knowledge.

That’s what Nerdy Nan is for.

Each week, I’ll share what I uncover: the research, the plain-English explanations, what has worked for me, and, most of all, the right questions to ask when you’re facing your own health challenges.

I’m my own lab experiment, so there are no guarantees. I’m sharing my experience, not medical advice. But I hope that next time you’re sitting across from a doctor, you’ll feel a little less bewildered than I did.

Now I’d love to hear from you.

Have you ever left an appointment more confused than when you went in?