Home From the Hospital: The Good, the Bad, and Everything in Between

Hello, friend.Welcome back to Radiant Rise.I’m recording this episode from home.And honestly, even saying those words out loud feels emotional.Because the last time I spoke to you, I was sitting in a hospital bed in the middle of the night. It was around four in the morning. I had just been awakened for another round of bloodwork, and I couldn’t fall back asleep.I was exhausted.I was scared.I was frustrated.I was hurting.And I was still waiting for answers.From the very beginning, I promised that Radiant Rise would be real, raw, and unfiltered.I promised that I would share the good, the bad, and everything in between.So today, I’m keeping that promise.This is not going to be a perfectly polished version of what happened. I’m still physically tired, emotionally drained, and trying to process everything.But I am home.I was discharged from the hospital.And I want to talk honestly about what that means, because being discharged does not always mean being healed.It does not mean the pain is gone.It does not mean every question has been answered.It does not mean your body immediately returns to normal the moment you walk through your front door.Sometimes discharge simply means that you are considered stable enough to continue recovering somewhere else.And that is where I am right now.Recovering.Waiting.Following up.Trying to understand my body.And learning, once again, that healing is rarely simple.Before I continue, I want to remind everyone that I am sharing my personal medical experience. I am not giving medical advice, and another person’s symptoms, diagnosis, or treatment may look completely different from mine.This is simply my truth.The last couple of weeks have felt like one long medical emergency, interrupted by very brief attempts to return to normal life.My symptoms became severe.I was experiencing intense abdominal pain, especially in my lower-right abdomen, along with lower-back pain.I had repeated episodes of diarrhea, including bloody diarrhea, and I became weak and lightheaded.At one point, I felt like I might pass out.My body was clearly telling me that something was wrong.I went to the emergency room, where I had bloodwork, imaging, ultrasounds, monitoring, medication, and hours of waiting.Eventually, I was admitted.During that hospital stay, I received medication to help control the pain because it had reached a level I could no longer manage by simply trying to push through it.My blood pressure was also low at times, and my entire body felt depleted.After several days, I was discharged.And like so many people who live with chronic illness, my first instinct was to think about everything waiting for me.Work.Family.Appointments.Responsibilities.Radiant Rise.The podcast.My writing.All the things I wanted—or felt obligated—to return to immediately.But my body had other plans.I was home, but I was not well.The pain continued.The exhaustion continued.The stomach symptoms continued.The medication I had been prescribed made me extremely groggy, so I felt caught between needing relief and needing to remain functional.That is a very difficult position to be in.You want the pain to stop, but you also want to stay awake.You want to rest, but you are thinking about every responsibility you are missing.You want to recover, but you feel pressure to prove that you are ready to return to normal.My body was not ready.Within days, ongoing medical concerns led me back to the hospital.And I was admitted again.I want to begin with the difficult parts, because those are often the things people do not see after someone posts, “I’m finally home.”The bad was the pain.The kind of pain that makes it difficult to think clearly, sleep comfortably, or focus on anything beyond making it through the next hour.The bad was the repeated bloodwork.Being awakened in the middle of the night for more labs.Watching new bruises appear on my arms.Trying to rest while knowing that someone could enter the room at any moment for medication, vital signs, testing, or another round of questions.The bad was the loss of privacy.In the hospital, your body no longer feels entirely like your own.People need to examine you.Ask deeply personal questions.Monitor what you eat and drink.Track your symptoms.And you repeat the same story to nurse after nurse and doctor after doctor, sometimes wondering whether the full picture is actually reaching the next person responsible for your care.The bad was the waiting.Waiting for results.Waiting for a doctor.Waiting for another test.Waiting to learn whether something new had been found.Waiting to know whether I would be discharged.Waiting to understand what I was supposed to do next.The bad was the uncertainty.There is something terrifying about knowing that your body is struggling while not having one clear explanation that ties everything together.People often assume the most difficult part of illness is receiving a diagnosis.But sometimes not having a complete answer is just as frightening.There is another part of this hospital stay that I need to explain more clearly, because this did not begin with a new or unexplained procedure.On May 1, my colorectal surgeon performed hemorrhoid banding because hemorrhoids were believed to be the source of my ongoing bleeding.For a few days after the procedure, the bleeding improved.Then it came back.About two weeks later, I followed up with my colorectal surgeon and explained that I was still bleeding. I was told that some continued bleeding could be normal for up to a month after the procedure.I tried to be patient.I tried to give my body time to heal.But now more than two months have passed, and the bleeding has not stopped.It has continued, and at times it has been heavy.I attempted to get another appointment with my colorectal surgeon, but she did not have availability until August.So I did what I believe any person experiencing ongoing pain and significant bleeding would do.I went to the hospital for help.I was not trying to bypass my surgeon.I was not asking another doctor to take over my long-term treatment plan.I was not demanding that someone repeat or reverse the procedure.I was asking for an evaluation of what was happening to me now—more than two months after the banding—because I was still bleeding, still in pain, and unable to obtain a timely appointment with the specialist who had treated me.During my admission, I experienced an episode of heavy bleeding that hospital staff personally witnessed.This was not something I was only reporting from home.It happened in front of them.They saw it.And even after that episode, I was told that because another surgeon had performed the hemorrhoid banding at a different hospital, no doctor at the hospital where I was currently admitted would “touch me.”Those were the words used.Hearing that was devastating.The procedure had taken place more than two months earlier.The bleeding had returned after only a few days of improvement.The follow-up I needed was not available until August.And I was now sitting inside a hospital, actively bleeding, after going there because I needed help and answers.I was not asking anyone to interfere with another doctor’s work.I was asking someone to evaluate whether what was happening was still an expected part of recovery, whether something had changed, or whether another source of bleeding needed to be considered.Instead, I felt as though the fact that another surgeon had performed a previous procedure became a reason not to meaningfully address the symptoms happening in front of them.I felt trapped between two medical systems.My surgeon was unavailable for a timely appointment, yet the hospital I turned to for immediate help made me feel that my condition belonged to someone else.That experience made me feel abandoned.It made me feel unsafe.It left me wondering what I was supposed to do.Wait until August while continuing to bleed?Return home and hope it did not become worse?Wait until I became unstable before someone felt able or willing to intervene?Those questions have stayed with me.I understand that hospitals have different specialists, privileges, policies, and relationships with outside physicians.I understand that one doctor may be cautious about interfering with another surgeon’s treatment plan.But there has to be a difference between taking over someone’s long-term surgical care and evaluating a patient who is currently experiencing significant bleeding.From where I was sitting, that difference did not seem to matter.I want to be careful and accurate about how I describe this.I can only speak about what I experienced, what hospital staff witnessed, and what I was told.But I know how it made me feel.Dismissed.Frightened.Powerless.And completely unsure of where I was supposed to turn for help.I did what patients are told to do.I followed up after the procedure.I waited through the expected recovery period.I tried to schedule another appointment.And when the pain and bleeding continued beyond that period, I went to the hospital.I should not have been made to feel that seeking help was the wrong decision.A patient should not feel punished because a previous procedure was performed at another hospital.A patient should not be left without meaningful options because their specialist has no timely availability.And a patient should not feel that active symptoms are someone else’s responsibility simply because another doctor was involved earlier in their care.Sometimes the hardest part of being sick is not only what your body is doing.Sometimes it is doing everything you are supposed to do and still finding yourself caught between doctors, hospitals, and systems while your symptoms continue.The bad was also the emotional weight of everything.I felt afraid.Frustrated.Helpless.Angry.Overwhelmed.And guilty.Guilty because I was missing work.Guilty because other people had to help me.Guilty because I could not keep up with everything I had planned.Guilty because I was tired.Guilty because my body required care.Chronic illness can make you apologize for circumstances you never chose.And I am trying to stop doing that.I did not choose to become sick.I did not choose the pain.I did not choose the bleeding.I did not choose the hospital stays.I did not choose to have my plans interrupted.Needing medical care is not a personal failure.Even with everything that hurt, frightened, and frustrated me, I also promised to share the good.Acknowledging what went wrong does not mean I cannot recognize the people who helped me or the care that did make a difference.Both truths can exist at the same time.The good was receiving pain relief when my body desperately needed it.The good was being monitored when my blood pressure, heart rate, symptoms, and overall condition required attention.The good was having medical professionals continue checking my labs and evaluating parts of what was happening instead of expecting me to endure every part of it alone.The good was the individual nurses, technicians, doctors, and staff members who showed kindness.The people who explained what they were doing.The people who listened.The people who treated me like a human being instead of just another room number.The good was also the people outside the hospital who showed up for me.The people who checked on me.The people who helped with practical things.The people who supported my family.The people who reminded me that I did not have to handle everything by myself.The people who cared about Michelle the person—not only Michelle the employee, author, advocate, creator, partner, mother, or person who always tries to keep everything moving.The good was realizing that I have become stronger at advocating for myself.Not because I never get scared.Not because I always know exactly what to ask.But because I keep speaking.I keep describing what I feel.I keep asking questions.I keep following up.I keep requesting records.I keep trying to make sure that every doctor involved in my care understands what has been happening.The good was being home with the people I love.That means more to me than I can fully express.After days of hospital rooms, alarms, blood draws, interrupted sleep, fear, and uncertainty, being back near the people who make me feel safe has been one of the most meaningful parts of coming home.Being able to hear familiar voices, sit in my own space, and simply be surrounded by love reminded me that home is not only a place.It is the people who help you breathe a little easier when everything feels overwhelming.It is being able to rest without feeling completely alone.It is knowing that even when my body feels weak, I am still held by the people who love me.Being home with my loved ones does not erase the pain, the unanswered questions, or everything that happened in the hospital.But it gives me comfort.It gives me strength.And right now, that means more to me than I can put into words.The good was coming home.Walking out of the hospital.Returning to my own bed.Being around familiar sounds.Having more control over my environment.Not being awakened every few hours for another blood draw or vital check.Those things may seem small until you have spent days wishing for them.And then there is everything in between.The part that does not fit neatly into “good” or “bad.”I am grateful to be home, but I am still recovering.I am relieved to have been discharged, but I remain concerned about my health.I am happy to be out of the hospital, but part of me is afraid the symptoms could become severe again.I want to move forward, but my body is telling me to slow down.I want to feel like myself again, but I am not entirely sure what “myself” looks like immediately after two hospital stays.That is the in-between.It is gratitude mixed with fear.Hope mixed with exhaustion.Relief mixed with uncertainty.Coming home does not erase what happened.Your body remembers.Your nervous system remembers.Your mind continues replaying moments from the hospital.A symptom returns, and you wonder whether it is part of recovery or the beginning of another emergency.You look at the bruises from IVs and blood draws.You see the discharge papers.You review medication instructions.You check upcoming appointments.You try to explain everything to your family, your employer, and your doctors while you are still trying to understand it yourself.That is the part of recovery people do not always talk about.The hospital stay ends.But the medical journey continues.One of the most important things I have learned is that discharge is not a finish line.It is a transition.You leave one form of care and enter another.Now there are follow-up appointments.Records to send.Symptoms to monitor.Questions to ask.Medication effects to manage.Decisions to make.And daily life is still demanding your attention.There can be pressure to immediately return to the person you were before the hospital.But my body has been through a lot.It deserves time.It deserves patience.It deserves gentleness.Recovery is still work, even when it happens quietly at home.Resting is part of recovery.Eating when you are able is part of recovery.Drinking enough fluids is part of recovery.Taking medication as directed is part of recovery.Following up with your doctors is part of recovery.Sleeping is part of recovery.Saying, “I cannot do that today,” can also be part of recovery.I wish I could end this episode by saying that every question was answered.I cannot.There are still things my doctors and I need to discuss.There are still symptoms requiring follow-up.There are still appointments ahead.There are still decisions connected to my ongoing care and my upcoming surgery.And I am still carrying the memory of being told that no doctor there would touch me, even after hospital staff witnessed the bleeding themselves.Being discharged does not erase that.I am trying not to force certainty where it does not yet exist.That is difficult for me.I want a clear answer.A clear plan.A clear reason.A clear timeline.But medicine and chronic illness rarely work that neatly.So right now, I am focusing on the next step—not every step at once.The next appointment.The next conversation.The next question.The next day.Sometimes that is the only way to move through medical uncertainty without becoming completely overwhelmed.This experience reminded me that listening to my body matters.I have spent years pushing through pain, fatigue, and symptoms because I did not want to disappoint anyone.But there are moments when pushing through is not strength.It can become dangerous.Strength can look like going to the emergency room.Strength can look like telling a doctor, “Something is wrong.”Strength can look like asking someone to stay with you.Strength can look like taking time away from work.Strength can look like sleeping all day because your body has nothing left to give.Strength can look like crying.Strength can look like admitting that you are scared.Strength can look like documenting what happened when you felt dismissed.And strength can look like sharing the truth before the story has a perfect ending.To the person listening who recently came home from the hospital:You do not have to prove that you are fully recovered.To the person waiting for answers:Your fear is understandable.To the person who feels guilty for needing care:You are not a burden.To the person whose body has changed their plans:Your worth has not changed.To the person who keeps saying, “At least I’m home,” while quietly struggling:You are allowed to feel grateful and still admit that this is hard.To the person who felt dismissed or abandoned while seeking care:What happened to you matters.You deserve to be heard.You deserve clear communication.You deserve to ask questions.And you deserve to document and discuss your concerns with the appropriate people.Two truths can exist at the same time.You can be thankful and exhausted.Relieved and afraid.Hopeful and uncertain.Strong and hurting.Being honest about the difficult parts does not erase gratitude.It simply tells the whole story.Right now, I am home.I am resting.I am trying to regain some strength.I am reviewing what happened and making sure the appropriate doctors receive my hospital records.I am preparing for follow-up appointments.I am continuing to monitor how I feel.I am trying to understand what comes next.I am taking things slowly, even when part of me wants to jump back into everything all at once.And I am reminding myself that recovery is not laziness.It is not wasted time.It is not something I need to apologize for.My body is asking for care.I am trying to listen.Thank you for giving me the space to share this.Thank you for caring about the good, the bad, and everything in between.Thank you for being patient during the days when I cannot write, record, post, or respond the way I normally would.Radiant Rise was never created to show only the beautiful moments.It was created for the hospital rooms.The sleepless nights.The unanswered questions.The moments when you feel heard.And the moments when you feel dismissed.The difficult recoveries.The days when hope is loud.And the days when hope is barely a whisper.Today, hope looks like being home.It looks like taking the next breath.It looks like accepting help.It looks like being surrounded by the people I love.It looks like speaking honestly about what happened.It looks like allowing my body to rest without treating that rest like failure.I do not know exactly what comes next.But I am still here.I am still advocating.I am still asking questions.I am still healing.And I am still choosing hope—one day at a time.Until next time, please be gentle with yourself.Listen to your body.Speak up when something does not feel right.Give yourself grace for everything you cannot do today.And remember:Being discharged does not always mean being healed. Being dismissed does not mean your experience was not real. And coming home can still be the beginning of the next part of healing.This is Michelle Baldwin, and this is Radiant Rise.Healing. Hope. You.⸻Thank you for listening and for continuing to support me through this difficult medical season. I am home and grateful, especially to be surrounded by the people I love, but recovery, follow-up care, and unanswered questions remain. I may respond more slowly while I rest, attend appointments, share records with my doctors, and prepare for the next steps in my care. Get full access to Radiant Rise | Michelle Baldwin at radiantrisemystory.substack.com/subscribe