The Check Engine Light is On
I’ve been working really hard on my new lifestyle—eating clean, hitting the gym hard, and pushing toward my goals. Everything was going well. But sometimes you’re cruising through life when something out of nowhere taps the brakes. Not a full-on crash, just a flashing warning light on the dashboard. That was me on Thursday, 9/4/25.
Around 3:00 in the afternoon, I felt this weird hardness in the middle of my belly. At first, I brushed it off—no big deal. By 4:00, I had decided the culprit was constipation. Easy fix, right? My girlfriend and I had dinner plans with my brother in Park City at 6:00, so I told myself I’d tough it out.
On the way up the canyon, the pressure kept building. My belly felt like someone was slowly inflating a balloon inside me. Paramedic training kicked in, and I ran through the checklist as if it were a field call. Breathing? Fine. Bleeding? Nope. Pain location? Center mass, above the belly button. No radiating pain, no obvious quadrant issue. Looked like I had a garden-variety blockage. Granted, I hadn’t been a medic in years, so there was probably some important textbook line I was forgetting. But in my head, the story was simple: I’d just started a high-protein diet—300 grams a day. The pipes weren’t designed to handle that much protein.
We made it to the restaurant, but I was already in the danger zone. I excused myself and bee-lined for the grocery store around the corner like a man on a mission. Aisle five was my promised land: oral laxatives and suppositories. The suppository box promised relief in 15 minutes to an hour—a dream. I’d never used one before, so when I put the box into the shopping basket, it was a clear sign of how desperate things had become.
Back at the restaurant, I debated whether to deploy the “rocket” there. But visions of Dumb and Dumber’s infamous bathroom scene danced through my head. Nope. Not today. I waved the white flag, told my girlfriend we had to leave mid-meal, and let my brother cover the bill. That’s when she gently suggested urgent care. Me? Nah. I was constipated, not dying. Or so I thought.
Then came the kicker: a semi fire had traffic shut down on the main route home. The detour added an extra hour, and there was no way I was going to make it. My brother lived 20 minutes away, so we rerouted our plans.
There I sat in his bathroom, reading the instructions on my new purchase as if it were a NASA launch checklist. I did the deed, parked myself on the toilet, and waited. Fifteen minutes. Thirty minutes. An hour. Nothing. Just me and a growing sense of betrayal.
Traffic cleared, so we finally made it home. At this point, I gave up my stubbornness and listened to my girlfriend: ER time.
I live downtown, and I wasn’t about to waste time at the big trauma center. I picked a smaller hospital I trust. Smart move—they got me in immediately. By now, the pain was at a 9/10, and as they hooked me to the monitors, I started throwing up. To me, that was confirmation. Blockage.
The doctor arrived promptly, ordered a CT scan, and instructed me to drink a liter of contrast fluid first. My nurse, John, pulled grape flavoring from his own lunchbox to help me choke it down. That man deserves a medal.
The scan was over fast, and so was my illusion. The doctor came back and said, “Good news: you don’t have a blockage. Bad news: you have acute appendicitis.” Turns out my appendix was swollen to twice its normal size, my white blood cells were through the roof, and I’d been brewing this problem for a week or two without knowing it.
Appendicitis is basically when your appendix throws a tantrum because something gets stuck, spoils, and infects the whole pocket. If ignored, it ruptures, spreading nastiness all over your abdomen. The doctor told me we were close to that point. They booked my surgery for later the same day.
They moved me into the ICU, pumped me full of fluids and antibiotics, and tried to manage the pain. Around sunrise, I felt a new ripping pain that shot down into my groin. I didn’t know it at the time, but that was the appendix starting to leak.
My brother and mom came to see me that morning. I tried to be present, but truthfully, I was hanging on.
Finally, the anesthesiologist rolled in. He gave me something strong enough to knock the pain down, and I got wheeled into the OR. The next thing I knew, I was waking up groggy and stitched up.
The surgeon explained afterward that the appendix had begun to open and was already leaking into my abdomen. More antibiotics for me. He wanted me to stay another night, but I cut a deal: if I could get up and walk, I could leave. I wasn’t about to spend another night in that hospital bed, so you better believe I dragged myself upright.
What started as a self-diagnosed constipation problem ended with emergency surgery. I’m grateful for the nurses and doctors who stepped in exactly when I needed them. I walked out sore, tired, but alive.
My doctor told me that my recovery will take about four weeks to return to my basic normal, but six to eight weeks until I can start working out in the gym. For me, with big goals to be in top shape by June, this was tough to hear. But a body is built in the kitchen just as much as it is built in the gym. I’m committed to carving my body with a fork until I can carve it out of iron. Between now and when I can hit the gym again, I’m committed to losing 10 pounds of body fat. The goal hasn’t changed—the route just looks different now. And at the end of the day, I’m not going to be making excuses.
