HEY Y’ALL!! It’s Steph! Jess normally writes the Crop Report, but I’m taking over today because boy do I have a story for you. If you follow us on social media, you know I had a bit of a medical emergency in July and I’m finally starting to feel pretty close to myself. Wanna know what happened? Settle in, I’m about to give you the whole enchilada. 

I guess it technically started last September when I was hospitalized for three days after my very first experience with diverticulitis. I had a small perforation in my bowel, but they were able to treat it with antibiotics and send me on my way. In a nutshell, diverticulitis is when small pockets in your colon (called diverticula) get impacted and inflamed, and in more serious situations, cause perforations in your bowl allowing your bile to escape into your abdomen. Not everyone has diverticula and, per the doctor, most people who do either have minor flareups or in some cases never have an issue again.

I was neither of these cases. 

After our annual Flower Fair, Jess and her husband packed up and headed to Biltmore Estate for a long-awaited (like 19 years long) honeymoon. While they were gone, another flare-up hit me out of nowhere, and within hours I rushed to the ER where I could get a CT and antibiotics. I remembered the doctors telling me that if it was caught early, I could avoid a hospital stay, and I was relieved when the CT results made the medical team comfortable with sending me home. “Bullet dodged,” I thought to myself as my husband and I headed to the pharmacy and to get foods appropriate for the low-residue diet I’d be tethered to for the next few weeks.

After a few days in bed, I started to feel better - at least I thought I did. That Sunday, Jess returned from her lavish adventure and brought the kids over for a swim with my best friend, Beth, and her daughter. I had just mowed the yard (because I was feeling better!), and couldn’t want to hear all about her trip. 

“Do you feel ok?” she asked as we stood in the kitchen clucking like hens.

“Yeah, your color looks really off” Beth added.

“YOU’RE GREY,” said Jess. 

I assured them I felt fine because, for the most part, I did. I waved them off and continued my Sunday cleaning routine. 

At 6:30 the next morning, Jess called to check on me. Jess and I usually have a morning chat between 6 am and 8 am every day - it’s a sacred conversation because it’s a time that we can talk about literally anything ahead of our brains getting clogged with whatever that day decides to throw at us. Right as we’re in the middle of talking about who knows what, it happened. A searing pain that took my breath away. 

“I’ll call you right back,” I told her, thinking it was just some kind of cramp - surely it would subside. Until it didn’t. I crumpled to the floor trying to make it to the couch. Maybe I needed to go into the fetal position. Maybe I just needed to lay down. Maybe I needed to poop. 

Ten minutes later the pain hadn’t moved an inch and I felt like I was going to be sick, or worse, pass out with no one scheduled to be home until my husband returned to work that evening. I called Jess back, writhing in pain, barely able to tell her what was happening. Even if I could have told her, I’m not sure I’d know what I would have said. I didn’t know what was happening, I just knew something was very, very wrong. 

“Call an ambulance!” Jess pleaded.

“I’m not calling an ambulance!” I stubbornly replied. Because ambulances were for people who were really sick, and I was just having some kind of reaction to…something? In hindsight, this was dumb. I added my husband to the call because at this point, I was afraid I may actually pass out and I wanted to be sure Jess could tell him I needed help. 

Naturally, he called the ambulance. Because he’s a responsible adult. There’s a reason people like him end up with people like me. 

I had never been in an ambulance as a grown person, but my pain level required a solid dose of fentanyl before they’d even consider moving me so I really can’t tell you much about it. It was a fun ride (I think?) and I had VIP admittance into triage. They did another CT and said they didn’t see any perforations, but my pain levels paired with a fever meant I had to be admitted. 

The next two days were a total blur. All I remember was the constant cycle of shivering and sweating from a fever that wouldn’t let go. I also remember more pain, begging for a nurse if they were even ten minutes behind with my pain medication. Everything hurt and I was getting sicker. 

By Wednesday, I’d had two more CTs, none of which explained why I was so sick, so they called in the surgeon. I knew that surgery was a possibility for extreme diverticulitis cases, but I still refused to believe that I was really “that bad”. The surgeon came in and broke the news that regardless of what the CT said, things were getting dangerous and she needed to see what was going on. I would be having surgery later that day - regardless of OR schedules. 

At 9:30 pm, they wheeled me back to surgery. I was terrified. At this point, I had spent three full days in the hospital in some kind of zombie state and while I knew I was about to go under, I didn’t have the wherewithal to ask what I should expect on the other side. 

Pain was the first thing I found in post-op. So much pain. I felt like something worse had happened, and immediately started to detest all the folks who told me how much better I’d feel when it was over as tears streamed down my face in pre-op. Liars. I didn’t get back to my room until nearly 2 am, so my moment of post-surgery conciseness was short-lived. Thank goodness, that pain was no joke. 

When I woke up the next morning, I was shocked. I had a tube coming out of my nose, I could barely move, and I was SO THIRSTY. Unfortunately, they didn’t want anything on my stomach so I was only allowed ice. 

“But why?” I honestly had no idea what happened. It wasn’t until the doctors came in later that day that I saw it. A 14” incision right down the center of my stomach accompanied by a JP drain on one side, and an ostomy on the other. I was horrified - I wasn’t sure what I was prepared for, but I certainly wasn’t prepared for this. There’s something that happens to you when your body is unexpectedly modified, I’m not even sure I can put it into words, but for me, it resulted in so much crying. 

Apparently, I had a very large perforation in my lower intestine and the section of my colon that contained the diverticula all but disintegrated during the surgery. At least that’s what they told me when they didn’t show up with my colon in a jar as I’d requested. I knew there was a chance they’d have to take out some of my large intestine, but the aftermath seemed so much more intense than I could have ever imagined. 

A few days later, Mom got the courage to ask the surgeon how close I was to going septic. “Oh, she was definitely septic, another 24 hours and this situation would have been a very sad one”. He went on to describe how they spent over an hour flushing out the infection. I was indeed, very sick.

My medical team made sure I survived, but it was now my turn to make some progress and bust out of the sterile confines of the hospital. Five days. That’s how long they said I was in for, which sounded like an eternity. “Do you know what my inbox will look like in five days?” I thought to myself. But everyone assured me that the team had already taken over and the only thing I had to do was recover. 

My gratefulness for my team was paired with an overwhelming sense of guilt. Not just for everything they had to take on, but I knew many of them had planned time off and my sister’s shoulders were about to get crushed with a lot of extra weight. In addition to an already busy life of businesses and kids, someone had to babysit me at the hospital around the clock because I was still too sick to advocate for myself. But it was only for five more days, right?

It took me 15 days of antibiotics and physical therapy to be released. The infection kept lingering just enough to keep me locked up. I was able to have some time unsupervised, but as my physical strength got better, my mental health remained fragile and I still required someone by my side most of the time. I wasn’t going to hurt myself or anything but after a panic attack when my night nurse wasn’t a familiar face (and had a different approach to my care), it was easier to have someone there than to unexpectedly call them in. 

Jess and I bonded over learning -allthethings- about ostomy care, so we knew how to take care of Gabby after I was parolled. Gabby is what I named my stoma. For some reason, personifying the end of my intestine that was tacked to the side of my abdomen made it a bit more bearable. The home health nurse would only be there three days a week and Gabby required constant monitoring so we had to figure out how to deal with her. (We did, too!)

My nurses were amazing and my doctors were outstanding, but I am most grateful for my family. Between the sleepless nights, my endless requests for comfort items, and the constant fielding of texts and phone calls from a worried community, they rallied harder than I hoped they would ever have to. And even now that I’m home, their care hasn’t wavered. My husband is my cheerleader and housekeeper, Jess is my nurse (she is so good at ostomy care!), Mom helped me set up an office in my living room because my desk no longer works, Dad has helped us keep the grass mowed, and my best friend Beth shuffled pans of food across my counter every other day. 

Being home was hard at first. I was happy to be back and even happier to see my dogs, but I had become physically and emotionally reliant on my caretakers. What if something happened? I became more comfortable every day, but then something did happen - I got COVID. After dodging the virus since 2020, it finally got me at the worst time possible. I probably would have been fine if I didn’t have the GI symptoms and at the advice of my doctors, I had to go BACK to the ER until my stomach calmed down. It was only a three-hour stay but truthfully, I wouldn’t have been mad if they admitted me because I was confident I could somehow convince them to take me back to my care team on the surgery floor (they wouldn't have.)

At this point, I’d been down for nearly a month and enough was enough. I had to get some normalcy back. So, I started working. At first, I was infuriated because I could only manage 3-4 hours each day. The small task of sorting through my inbox was exhausting and sitting up for more than an hour at a time caused my still-tender incision to throb. But I had to keep going, and I did. 

Right before the big kablooie, I decided to start a really big project and I continued working on it with every spurt of energy I could muster. Each week I could do a little more and a little more, and I’m happy to say that my project is, for the most part, finished! 

I, with no one’s help, built a new website for Floral Genius. Our old site was pretty but there were two big pieces of feedback that I had to address. The first was that people who weren’t familiar with the farm wanted to buy directly from Floral Genius. The second was that some folks just wanted one flower frog, not the sets we offer at hhfshop.com. I knew I needed to build something that would meet folks where they were. 

I’m very excited to present the brand new floralgenius.com. This site will offer individual pieces for retail and, of course, bulk discounts for approved wholesale accounts. Not to worry, the frogs offered at hhfshop.com will remain so you don’t have to move your account. If you’d prefer to have an account at floralgenius.com, just shoot me an email at stephanie@floralgenius.com and I’ll get you all setup. If you do find yourself at floralgenius.com, be sure to shop our Misfit Hairpin Holder sale, where you buy two get one 50% off, or use coupon code STEPHRULES for 10% off your order. 

Anyway, Gabby and I are doing just fine, I even got her some little flower dresses on Amazon! My incision is all healed, and as of Monday, my home health nurse doesn’t need to come anymore (which is sad because Paula and I became total buds). I have another surgery scheduled for November 11th (right after Virtual Mum Summit!), and will probably be in recovery mode through the holidays. The good news is that they say the next surgery will be a lot easier and I will be able to continue living without Gabby (I will not miss her!) It’s been pretty cool learning about all the folks around me who are quietly accompanied by an ostomy bag, too. They seriously have come out of the woodwork, and I find myself lifting my skirt and shrieking “LOOK AT THE DRESSES I HAVE FOR MINE!” more times than I can count. It’s pretty amazing all the things you find out when things like this happen. How much you’re loved, how much you love, how resilient you and how resilient your circle is, and how your community is bigger than you thought - secretly surrounding you with Gabbys of their own. It’s truly a privilege.