Before We Begin

Before I get into what happened, it helps to know that I already live with a pre-existing painful disability and mental health issues - I won't go into detail here, but both of which have shaped how I experience my body, medical care, and recovery. It's part of the backdrop to everything that follows.

How it Started

November 2025, I was rushed to A&E with severe abdomen pain, which was unusual for me (in contrast to my other usual baseline pain). One CT scan and ultrasound, physical examination and blood tests and a catheter later, after waiting for 24 hours in A&E, I was admitted for emergency surgery to remove what had been described to me as an extensive haemoperitoneum (the presence of blood within the abdominal organs and the inner lining of the abdominal wall) with a ruptured corpus luteal cyst (which is a gynecological emergency that occurs when a fluid- or blood-filled sac on the ovary bursts, leaking into the pelvic cavity).

Now you might be wondering, ‘how did the surgery go’, ‘surely it was okay/wasn’t that bad’, and honestly the surgery was fine, it helped a lot, obviously. It’s what came next that was the hard part.

So to provide a small piece of context about my disability I’m a manual wheelchair user with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) affecting both my legs, feet and lower back. Now you may be wondering ‘what does this have to do with a ruptured ovarian cyst’, well technically nothing but its the physical knock-on effect of my abdomen effectively being ‘out of order’. 

As a manual wheelchair user I rely on my abdomen and upper body A LOT. So when I woke up from surgery the pain was preventing me from doing basic tasks like transferring independently, the way I normally would. Instead I had to make use of a banana transfer board (a curved mobility aid to help people with limited mobility safely transfer between two surfaces). Although at first I still required a lot of assistance, I took using the banana board as a win because it meant I could get out of bed and to the toilet (once the catheter had been removed)! 

Moving Forward, Kind of…

Fast forward a week later, I had been moved off of the gynaecology ward and I was a patient in a rehabilitation ward (unknowingly this was where I would spend the next 3 weeks of my life). It was there I achieved using the banana board independently - I remember feeling so proud of myself - one of the health care assistants was there at the time to support me and was doing what felt like cheering me on, which I truly appreciated. 

My independence took a hit in ways I'm only now beginning to recover. It's coming back slowly, and not without effort.

During this time I was also enduring severe back and spine pain which as previously stated you can see is out of the norm for me. I know now this pain is caused by my 7-year old Spinal Cord Stimulator (SCS) implant. An SCS is an implanted medical device that treats chronic nerve pain by managing the pain signals that go to the brain, in my case it is specifically a last-line treatment for the Complex Regional Pain Syndrome that has affected me since I was 9-years old. 

Stuck In The Middle 

Thankfully, I am no longer enduring the abdomen/post-surgery pain, however I am very much still living with severe back pain, alongside the CRPS pain I have also lived with for the majority of my life. 

I am now more limited than ever. I experience burning sensations, inside and outside my body, each time I have to charge up my spinal cord stimulator battery (for those that don’t know, the implant is rechargeable and requires charging each day depending on your program setting). I have received electric shock-like sensations from my implant on several occasions and just overall throbbing pain, soreness and discomfort. 

As a result, I have lost muscle tone in my arms and stomach core from being unable to push myself in my manual wheelchair any further than around my flat. This has had a direct impact on my social life and ability to go out and volunteer. As a result, I have felt very isolated from communities I was slowly becoming a part of. I am very fortunate though that I have had the care and support of my family this entire time, specifically my mum. 

What I Know, What I Don’t, and What I’ve Stopped Asking

The first surgery wasn't something I saw coming. It was an emergency, the kind where decisions got made quickly and I went along with them because I didn't really have a choice. There's an odd mercy in that. No time to think means no time to spiral.

This time has been different. This surgery has been on the horizon for a while. I've had a lot of time to sit with it. Maybe too much.

I know that post-surgery recovery is quieter and slower and lonelier than anyone prepares you for. I know that my body always finds a way to surprise me - not always pleasantly. I know who shows up and who finds it difficult, and I've made a kind of peace with both. I know what I need and I'm not afraid to ask for it this time.

The One I Saw Coming

June 10th 2026, at 17:08, I received a phone call from my surgeon’s team notifying me my old Spinal Cord Stimulator battery will be removed and a new battery will be implanted. My surgery will take place on July 2nd.

This time round it’s a different surgery, a different set of unknowns. And my body isn't the same one that went into the first procedure. Things have changed since then. My health has shifted in ways I didn't anticipate, setbacks I didn't plan for have quietly accumulated.

The biggest unknown isn't the surgery itself. It's the outcome. It's the question I turn over at night and can't quite answer: ‘can I come back from this?’

Still Here

I didn't expect to be in the hospital as long as I was. Looking back, I handled it the best I could, though at the time, that didn't feel like much.

I was very depressed. The medication doses went up. The walls of those wards got very familiar, and there were days when everything felt like too much. I won't go into detail - not because it doesn't matter, but because I'm not sure I have the words for it yet.

What I will say is this: I came home. I kept going. And now, a few months later, I'm facing another surgery with a body that's been through it and a mind that's quietly, stubbornly still here.