John’s journey began in December 2024. One night after work, he came home feeling sick with stomach pain. That night, he started going to the bathroom constantly—sometimes even passing blood. That was our wake-up call to go to the emergency room.

After a few days of no improvement and not being able to hold anything in, we went back to the hospital. He was diagnosed with colitis and sent home with antibiotics. But nothing felt right. He wasn’t getting better, and we could tell something more serious was going on. We waited, hoping the meds would kick in, but each day was just as bad as the last. He was mentally and physically exhausted—spending all day and night in the bathroom. That Christmas wasn’t a celebration for any of us.

Days later, we pushed for more answers. At the hospital, a new CT scan showed things had worsened. They sent us to another hospital an hour away for a colonoscopy. So we went—anything to get real answers. He spent New Year’s in a hospital bed, while I slept in a chair beside him. I even drove there late after work on New Year’s Eve just so we could still start the year together.

On January 2nd, he finally had the colonoscopy. It wasn’t cancer—thank God—but he was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis. He was sent home with new treatment, but again, we couldn’t reach a doctor, and he wasn’t reacting well to the meds. Two weeks later, things got worse—he nearly fainted, and we had to call 911.

That’s when they found a perianal abscess with a fistula causing a serious infection. He needed emergency treatment and had his first surgery. He spent a week in the hospital. I juggled work, taking care of our pets, hospital visits, and even spent nights there just to help him—because the nurses weren’t doing enough. I helped clean his wound, helped him move, did what I had to do.

Once he was discharged, we thought we were finally turning a corner. I started cooking for his new diet, researching UC, and trying to plan for the future. But just two days later, he was in unbearable pain again. We tried everything, and when he looked at me and said, “Babe, something’s wrong. Call 911,” I knew it was serious.

Back to the hospital we went. That night, the doctors discovered he was septic. A CT scan showed his colon had perforated. They rushed him into emergency surgery. They said we were lucky—we got there just in time. A few more hours and he wouldn’t have made it.

That night broke us. After staying strong for so long, we finally broke down together. We cried and held each other. When you love someone that much, watching them suffer is unbearable.

Dr. Duffy saved his life that Thursday morning. He had to remove the entire colon. Two surgeries in the same month. We were crushed, but we were grateful—he was still alive. That was our gift from God.

Now, five months later, he’s still recovering. One of the surgery sites is still open. He has an ileostomy bag, and we’ve hit more roadblocks. His job cut off his health insurance when he stopped working in December. We’re drowning in medical bills. Government assistance was denied for no clear reason. We finally got a low-income plan, but it barely covers the care he needs. For months, doctors refused to treat him because of no insurance, even if we tried to pay out of pocket.

He feels powerless—not being able to work, provide, or be the man and husband he wants to be. His body is healing slowly, but emotionally, he’s struggling more each day.

We’re still fighting, but it’s been hard. The system is broken, but we haven’t given up.

Please know that anything donated will help us so much, and my husband and I appreciate it from the bottom of our hearts.