No Turning Back
Once the decision was made, everything moved quickly — and slowly — at the same time.
If you’re just joining the ride, I recommend starting from the beginning. Each post builds the trail that led me here.
The surgery was scheduled for May 7, 2025. Six weeks out. Enough time to prepare, but not enough to stop thinking about it.
In the days after my appointment with Dr. Schiesow, doubt crept back in. It always did. Was I doing the right thing? Why now? Why me? I replayed the same questions over and over, even as the answer stayed the same. There was no other path left.
Courtney was steady when I wasn’t. She reminded me — gently, repeatedly — that this wasn’t about giving up. It was about survival. About reclaiming something that had been shrinking for years. She took notes when I couldn’t focus, asked questions when I didn’t have the energy, and grounded me when my thoughts started spiraling.
There were still appointments ahead.
I met with the ostomy nurse in late March. That was when the decision truly became physical. The stoma site was marked on my abdomen. I was shown different pouching systems. We talked through daily care, clothing considerations, and the realities of living with a bag.
I told her what mattered most to me.
I wanted to ride my bike. I wanted to be able to crouch, climb, and move without fear. I wanted my life back — even if it looked different.
She listened. She reassured me. She spoke with a calm confidence that made the unfamiliar feel manageable. Still, walking out of that appointment, marker ink on my skin, I felt the weight of what was coming settle in fully.
This was happening.
I was also deliberate about who I told. Only close family and a few friends knew surgery was imminent. I didn’t want opinions. I didn’t want advice. I didn’t want to manage anyone else’s fear on top of my own. As the date approached, I told my siblings but asked them to keep it private. I wasn’t hiding — I was protecting what little energy I had left.
Physically, I continued to decline.
I was waking multiple times a night. Spending much of each day in the bathroom. On more than one occasion, I had to urgently excuse myself just to make it through an appointment or a drive home. Prednisone kept me functioning, but barely.
The waiting was its own kind of suffering.
As Tom Petty put it, the waiting is the hardest part.
But beneath the fear and exhaustion, something unexpected had taken hold.
Acceptance.
Not peace. Not relief. Just a quiet understanding that this was necessary — and that once I crossed this line, there would be no going back.
By the time the final days arrived, I stopped asking if I was doing the right thing.
I already knew the answer.
This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.