Told Them Something Was Wrong After Surgery. No One Listened.

Since being discharged from the hospital on June 28, 2025, it’s been a series of unfortunate events (yes, that is my favorite book series).

that hospital is filled with quacks!

It’s wild how you can advocate for yourself—tell nurses, doctors, even surgeons that you don’t feel okay—and still be met with blank stares.

no compassion

The first time I spoke up was right after my gallbladder removal surgery—a laparoscopic cholecystectomy for acute cholecystitis, if we’re being technical. Even post-op, I felt completely off. The pain I’d gone in with? Still there. I was groggy, nauseated, and confused.

I kept calling out, only to be met with silence—or a caseworker asking me how I planned to get home. Mind you, I live in a walk-up with 45 stairs (yes, I counted on my way out the door today). She even looked at me and said, “You’re not going home looking like that.” And yet, home is exactly where I ended up… even though everything in me knew something was still wrong.

They left me alone in that hospital bed—no fluids, barely any water, vomiting endlessly, and served hamburgers and fries right after abdominal surgery. I didn’t see anyone from the surgical team until 6:45 a.m. the next day. And when they did arrive, it was three surgeons not involved in my case, whispering in the hallway before stepping into my room.

I was too weak to question them, too sick to make noise. The techs came in occasionally—mostly to turn off my call button.

“I kept telling them something was wrong. They kept telling me I’d be fine.”

A few days later, I was scheduled for a gallstone removal—an Endoscopic Retrograde Cholangiopancreatography (ERCP). Want to know how I found out? By reading mychart on my cellphone, before any surgeon or doctor even spoke with me to explain what was happening. Let's not forget....they tried to discharge me and state this pain was normal post surgery!

By the time I left Jersey City Medical Center, I promised myself I would never go back.

But the pain didn’t stop.

By July 4th, I was doubled over again—sharp chest pain, stabbing in my right shoulder, vomiting, and difficulty breathing. So I had my fiancé drive me—baby in the backseat—to the Mount Sinai Hospital ER, where I’d had my C-section and had been treated with compassion and actual care.

Within 30 minutes of arriving: pain meds administered, vitals taken, imaging ordered, bloodwork done.

Night and day.

Then came the bombshell.

I had internal bleeding. A hematoma. Right where I’d told the other hospital I was feeling pain.

Let that sink in.

They told me it was “normal.” They told me to go home. Meanwhile, I was literally bleeding into my abdomen. That pool of blood? It could’ve triggered a major infection—sepsis, even.

They immediately started me on a broad-spectrum antibiotic protocol and monitored me closely for days, trying to avoid surgical intervention unless absolutely necessary.

“I wasn’t crazy. I was right. Twice. And ignored both times.”

The hematoma, which I’ve jokingly (but not really) named Bob, is still here. Pressing on nerves in my right shoulder, back, stomach, liver, and pancreas. And unfortunately, it’s too risky to remove surgically—it’s located in a sensitive area surrounded by too many vital organs. So now, we wait and pray my body absorbs it on its own.

Since then, I haven’t been able to eat solids and can barely keep liquids down. The discomfort is constant, and the mystery of why I’m unable to eat is still unsolved. We’re waiting on my latest CT scan and bloodwork to hopefully get some answers.

To think I went in with one problem… and came out with a domino effect of issues I never asked for.

“Real life Grey’s Anatomy—but with a lot less romance and way more gaslighting.”

I’m still in recovery mode—mentally, emotionally, and physically—and trying to keep my head up as I wait for answers. Being a mom, a partner, and a patient all at once? It's exhausting.

This experience has also taught me something I won’t forget: when your body is screaming at you, you have to listen—even if no one else will.

I want to talk about what recovery looks like in real-time when I finally reach that moment and get back to my normal content.

If you’ve ever felt unseen in a hospital room or ignored during a health scare, I see you—and I hope my words make you feel a little less alone.