Weight Loss Journey – Simple Southern Mommy

This post is part of my Health & Healing series. If you’re just joining in, you can catch up on Part 1 and Part 2.

By late 2023, I had more doctors than streaming subscriptions—and just about as many plot twists.

It started in October with a voice. Not just any voice—a Minnie Mouse voice. High-pitched, cartoonish, and completely out of nowhere. I sounded like a helium balloon in a choir loft. My first ENT chalked it up to allergies (as if that diagnosis doesn’t already have a monopoly on my chart). But when it didn’t go away, Holly—my GP and right-hand girl—got me in with a second ENT who took it seriously.

Surprise, surprise—he knew our boys’ ENT. The very same one who had done five surgeries on Small Fry and Big Mac. That connection felt like divine reassurance. I was in good hands.

A stroboscopy in November confirmed it: vocal nodules.

Then came November 8, 2023.

Sparky and I were just sitting on the bed, talking about nothing in particular, when my heart suddenly took off like it was late to a fire. I stood up, grabbed my phone, and calmly told him, “I’m calling 911.”

That shocked him more than the racing heart. After all my years working in healthcare, I don’t throw that phrase around. But I knew. Something was seriously wrong.

Harley, our sweet, non-formally-trained service pup, was already on high alert—pawing at me nonstop, trying to get me to lie down. He knew before I did.

The paramedics arrived and guessed—what else?—anxiety. Because every woman in her 30s must just be “stressed,” right?

Nope. Try 220+ beats per minute. I wasn’t panicking. I wasn’t spiraling. I was clear-eyed and ticking like a time bomb.

At the hospital, they assumed it was a heart attack. They admitted me, ran tests, and slapped me on a low-sodium cardiac diabetic diet… which was a joke, because I’m not diabetic and hadn’t been for a while. I was pre-diabetic before losing over 70 pounds, but I’d long since said goodbye to that label.

They discharged me with a referral to cardiology, but no one really had answers. Just shrugs and guesses—maybe a reaction to the steroids I’d been given for my throat. At the time, it was brushed off as a fluke. A strange blip. Nothing serious.

The cardiologist I saw in the hospital wasn’t a good fit, so I circled back to Holly—my GP and right-hand girl—who helped me get a second opinion with a cardiologist we both trusted more. That move would matter more than I realized, because while we didn’t have the full picture yet, it was the beginning of seeing the truth clearly.

Meanwhile, the scope I had in December—an EGD—revealed silent bile reflux, which helped explain some of the symptoms I’d been living with since my VSG. That discovery led to the decision to revise to an RNY. We submitted the paperwork in early January and—shocker—it was approved the same day. That never happens, but it did. It felt like a sign.

What most didn’t know was that my immune system had already started crumbling earlier that year. Back in summer 2023, I had landed in the hospital with a severe UTI that required IV antibiotics. That wasn’t normal for me—not then. But like a lot of things in this journey, I didn’t yet realize it was a piece of a much bigger puzzle.

I thought I was in the clear.
I was approved for surgery.
I was on the upswing.

And then…

The stone hit.

Tezspire, misdiagnosis, and why David’s birthday ended in surgery

This post is part of my Health & Healing series. If you’re just joining in, you can catch up on Part 1.

After months of allergy testing and being told I was basically allergic to everything but air and sarcasm, I finally got approval for Tezspire. I was so relieved to have a plan in place. A sample arrived, I was prepped, and we were finally doing something proactive.

That joy didn’t last long.

I injected it into my thigh like you would with an EpiPen. But the pain was sharp—instant—and I reflexively yanked the injector back like I’d touched a hot burner. The nearly $5,000 dose sprayed everywhere.

The wall.
The sink.
My pride.

There was no time to get another from the doctor’s office. I was days away from surgery, and just like that, I lost it. The shot. My composure. All of it.

From then on, we switched to the abdomen—thanks to surgical nerve damage, I couldn’t feel it anyway. Belly shots are old news when you’ve been through two pregnancies, insulin injections, and more abdominal procedures than I care to count.

I’ve had allergy issues for years. Back in 2018, I thought I was doing everything right: working out, eating clean, oatmeal every morning, lemon water, fresh seasonal fruit.

Except—plot twist—I’m mildly sensitive to almost all of that. Cashews, oats, barley, lemon, peas, watermelon, soy, fish, strawberries…

I was basically eating my way into joint pain and inflammation.

And that’s just the food list. I’m allergic to every tree in our region except the willow. Plus cats, dogs, dust mites, pollen, mold, grasses… basically, my pillow wants me dead.

So while the Tezspire drama was new, the story behind it was old and complicated. Like everything else in my medical file.

That night, the pain hit like a freight train around 10 PM. I knew it wasn’t food poisoning or acid reflux—I was warned before my VSG-to-RNY revision that the gallbladder might be the next to go. They told me six to nine months. Mine didn’t wait that long.

But truth is? My gallbladder had been on the struggle bus for years. The first major attack was in college—Kaiser called it a kidney stone. Another came on Mother’s Day 2017 or 2018. We blamed my ADHD meds. A third one hit just after my original VSG, but still: no stones, no action.

Now here I was in 2024, clutching my side and praying someone would take me seriously.

The ER ran an ultrasound—no stones. They tried to send me home. They floated “maybe it’s a virus.” I floated right back, “Maybe check my liver enzymes and trend my labs.”

And wouldn’t you know it—CT confirmed it: a very sick gallbladder. But the OR was booked, so surgery had to wait until Monday.

While I waited, May 5 arrived. David turned 13. And I was in a gown, hooked up to IVs, in pain.

Cue the mom guilt.

But leave it to Sparky. After work, he swung by In-N-Out and picked up burgers, fries, and root beer floats to celebrate with David. They made the best of it—and now, that meal is David’s birthday tradition. Every year, he wants In-N-Out and floats, because it reminds him we still celebrated. Even if mama was in the hospital.

On May 6, they wheeled me in.

The surgeon later told me they had to enlarge the incision because my gallbladder was so inflamed.

“It should’ve come out years ago,” he said.
(You don’t say.)

Later, my gastric surgeon found out and asked, “Why didn’t you call us? We could’ve had you moved and done it Sunday.”

Sir, I was medicated, horizontal, and already in a hospital gown. That ship had sailed.

At this point, it feels like my gallbladder was just another item checked off the ‘what’s left to remove?’ list.

I wanted to believe this was the fix. But something didn’t sit right. The reflux was worse. I had lost more weight. I was more active, more mobile, more present—but I was still in pain. At 175 pounds, I was technically still overweight, but I had lost 110 pounds total since my highest weight.

Despite all that progress? Something was off.

This wasn’t just gallbladder drama. It wasn’t just another surgery.
Something deeper was wrong.
And my body was about to make that very clear.

“Turns out, the gallbladder was just the opening act. I thought the worst was behind me—bless my heart.”