Ego Death in the ER: My Battle with Emergency Surgery
It’s been almost three days since I came home from the hospital after learning that my appendix had to be cut out of my body. This was my first (and hopefully last) trip to an emergency room in Georgia. It wasn’t the best experience, but that’s not what I want to write about today.
As someone who prides himself on strength—both physically and mentally—this entire ordeal has been a massive ego death. I’ve always known that fitness is a core part of my identity, and I’ve wondered how I would handle life without it. Now, I’m about to find out.
The Pain That Sent Me to the ER
Waiting in the ER Room
It all started at midnight. I checked into the ER, thinking I had a bad case of constipation. At worst, I assumed some weight gainer protein had clogged up my intestines—an embarrassing but harmless problem. Kash drove us through the rain, the empty back roads stretching before us in eerie silence.
The pain had become unbearable at home. I hadn’t gone to the bathroom in days, and Kash, with her ever-sharp instincts, noticed my stomach was protruding in a weird way. She begged me to go to the ER. I resisted at first—I could barely throw a kick during class earlier that day, but surely my karate skills hadn’t degraded that much. Finally, I gave in. Maybe something was wrong.
After hours of waiting, multiple needles, and a CT scan, the doctors confirmed it: my appendix had to go. Surgery was scheduled for the next morning, around 7-8 AM. Kash and I tried to sleep in the ER room, but she was already running on fumes. She had been awake for way too long, and things only got worse when we were informed that my surgery had been pushed back until 5 PM.
She was pissed. Rightfully so.
I convinced her to go home, rest, and take care of the fur babies.
At 10:30 AM, my short-lived nap was interrupted. The plans had changed—I was suddenly next in line for surgery.
Facing Surgery Alone
Kash wouldn’t make it back in time. I had to go through this alone. I replied to a few texts, signed the paperwork, and braced myself for the reality that, while the odds were in my favor, there was always a chance I wouldn’t wake up.
I called Kash right before they wheeled me in. Her voice cracked. She was crying.
That hit me.
My mindset had been locked in—this was just another fight, another challenge—but that moment poked a hole in my armor. The thought of not going home to her, to our cats, to my students and friends—it was unbearable.
I made a decision: I was waking up. I was coming back.
As I was wheeled into the operating room, I took in every detail, knowing I’d lose consciousness any second. I reminded myself of everything I had built, the people I had impacted, and the lives I had touched.
And then—blackness.
Waking Up to a New Kind of Pain
I didn’t know where I was. I don’t remember who was next to me. I somehow had my phone in my hand and immediately called Kash.
She was all I could think about.
“I’m on my way,” she assured me.
But I was alone. And I was scared.
I felt like I had been shot in the stomach. The pain hit like the moment of impact from a perfectly placed spinning side kick to the abs—except it never faded. Like Darth Maul in his final moments, realization set in: I was completely vulnerable.
I checked Kash’s location on my phone. She was in the parking lot. Why isn’t she here yet?!
I called again. She explained that she had to eat something before coming in. I hated waiting, but I understood.
By the time I was moved to my new hospital room, she came rushing in. The first thing she asked? Why the hell hadn’t I been given any pain medication yet?
That’s why she’s mine. She gets angry on my behalf and makes things happen.
The pain finally began to dull, and I drifted into a much-needed nap.
Family, Friends, and Fighting to Walk Again
My dad and Jacob arrived not long after. Seeing them meant everything. My dad had driven all the way from Florida the second I texted my family about the surgery. Jacob cut his workout short just to be there.
My dad didn’t stay long—just enough to make sure I was okay. It was a six-hour drive back, but he didn’t hesitate to do it. I don’t think I could ever do what he just did. That’s a different kind of strength.
Physically, I felt completely broken.
I couldn’t even sit up on my own. My abdomen felt like it would split open—like the infamous scene from Alien. Kash and Jacob helped me stand so I could start walking.
Laying down for too long allows gas to build up in the body, leading to even more pain. The nurse told me, “The ones who walk more heal faster.”
I hated how weak I felt, but I refused to let it break me.
I walked.
Every step was agony, but I walked.
I had students to teach, front levers to master, jiu-jitsu tournaments to win—if walking was all I could do, I was going to walk as much as possible.
Despite the pain, despite a vomiting episode, I walked over a mile that night.
Going Home—But the Battle Isn't Over
The next morning, I was discharged. Jacob drove me home. He stayed with me all night, he’s a real one.
The ego death wasn’t over.
The real battle begins now.
I’m used to being strong, to being the one who pushes through. But now, I have to rebuild. I have to be patient.
For the next few months, I won’t be able to train the way I want. My body has limits I cannot ignore.
But this isn’t the end.
It’s just another challenge to overcome.
And I will.
