My Intestines Flipped Out... Literally.

Hi Friends, Family, and Kindhearted Strangers,

This is a bit hard to write—for a lot of reasons—but here goes: Behn and I are in some serious medical debt due to recent (and some not-so-recent) surgical adventures, and we’ve reached the point where we simply can’t manage it alone anymore. So... let me tell you the story.

The Backstory (a.k.a. “My Intestines Tried to Kill Me, Part I”)

In March 2022, I gave birth to our beautiful daughter Naomi. Almost a year later, in February 2023, I had emergency surgery for something called a cecal volvulus. Sounds fancy, right? In reality, my intestines did a gymnastic floor routine—twisting and flipping on themselves with zero regard for my plans (or snack intake). I thought I had overdone it on Girl Scout cookies. Spoiler: I had not.

Surgeons removed my appendix, cecum, and a few inches of intestine—like a bad roommate, they had to go. I was a stay-at-home mom at the time, still breastfeeding Naomi, so being hospitalized was heartbreaking. I spent six weeks recovering on a strict diet of... sadness (aka: no fiber), and then I was told I was good to go. Great scar. Great story. Onward.

The Sequel (a.k.a. “Revenge of the Small Bowel”)

Fast forward to May 19, 2025. I biked to work, felt totally normal, and then BAM: intense stomach pain out of nowhere. I called Behn to come rescue me -no way could I ride my bike home. He took our daughter to lunch while I collapsed in pain at home. Eventually, I told him to call 911 because I couldn’t get to the car—and I definitely hadn’t eaten any Girl Scout cookies this time.

A team of paramedics (angels, really—shoutout to Nick!) showed up, calmed my daughter (or more so, she calmed them, "just breathe" said my toddler), and got me to the ER. Tests were inconclusive, but my pain was not. I got all the pain meds, which means my memory of the next few days is somewhere between a dream sequence and a deleted scene from Grey’s Anatomy. Eventually, they discovered a bowel obstruction, from adhesions developed from my 2023 surgery.

So, into the OR I went again. They cleared the adhesions and saved my belly button ring (unrequested, but appreciated). Best possible outcome. I woke up feeling relieved—and stitched up like a baseball.

Plot Twist: Another Surgery!

But... I kept getting worse. Days later, my white blood cell count dropped, my heart rate shot up, and I vomited like an exorcism was happening. I needed another emergency surgery.

Turns out, where they’d cut the adhesions, the intestines perforated and decided to leak—lovely. They removed more bowel, left my wound open (yes, open), and inserted yet another NG tube (aka: the devil's drinking straw). I was in rough shape.

The Recovery (aka “When Pain Meds Wore Off, and So Did the Cool Factor”)

I was in the hospital for over two weeks. Multiple IVs. So many bruises. Pain. So. Much. Pain. But also: support. Friends. Family. Incredible nurses. Kind strangers. Naomi, our toddler superhero, kept reminding me to “breathe.” Behn became a wound-care specialist overnight (he now changes my open abdominal wound 1-2xs a day—if that’s not love, I don’t know what is).

We were discharged on June 4. Our at-home plan was... less of a plan and more of a “good luck!” Luckily, a network of angels showed up: a retired nurse, neighbors, friends who parented our daughter, fed us, made us laugh, sat with us, read to us, and reminded us how loved we are. This part of the story is harder to put into words—but I want you all to know, I see you. I love you. Thank you.

Why We’re Asking for Help

Throughout this medical saga, we hit our insurance deductible and out-of-pocket max within days. Well, the bills start comin' (and they don't stop comin', fed to the rules … I can never get that song out of my head, thank you Smash Mouth and Shrek). We’ve already spent thousands and thousands out-of-pocket on past medical costs, wound supplies, follow-up appointments, and more. I hate asking for money—but if you can spare a few dollars, we’d be deeply grateful.

If you can’t donate—no pressure. Truly. Send me a funny text. A homemade card. A dad joke. A meme. A picture of your dog doing something weird. That stuff helps so much.

And if you're into gnarly medical photos, I do have pictures of my wound that looks like I was attacked by a pirate with a vendetta. Chicks dig scars, right?

We’ll keep you posted with updates as they come in. And if I haven’t said it enough: thank you. Thank you for reading. Thank you for being here. Thank you for holding us up when we were falling apart.

With all my love and a very weird-looking stomach,

Molly Gebler