I’m just going to level with you: recovering from gallbladder surgery is trash. Absolute garbage. Zero stars. Would not recommend. Anyone who chirps, “Oh you’ll feel so much better afterward!” is lying straight to your face. Boldly. Confidently. With their whole chest. LIARS.

Listen, I genuinely thought I was dying. Okay, maybe not dying dying… but definitely auditioning for a tragic hospital drama. The pain was unreal. I naïvely assumed this would be like my other two abdominal surgeries — you know, the ones where I bounced back like a slightly dented superhero. Nope. This one said, “Let’s ruin her entire existence.”

Every time I stood up, it felt like someone was trying to rip my right side off like a Velcro patch. And standing up only happened when I absolutely had to — which was basically just bathroom trips. Because walking hurt. Breathing hurt. Coughing hurt. Thinking hurt. I’m pretty sure even my toes hurt. Yes, I’m dramatic. But also yes, it hurt.

Two days after surgery, they sent me home to my new residence: The Recliner of Doom. This recliner became my bed, my dining room, my office, my emotional support furniture. My butt had a new zip code. And let me tell you — if you ever have to sleep in a recliner, get one of those neck travel pillows. I didn’t. I suffered. I regret everything.

The first week was the worst. Every time I stood up, I let out a noise that can only be described as a dying walrus giving birth. I walked hunched over like a gremlin, clutching my side, whimpering all the way to the bathroom and back. It was a whole performance. Oscar‑worthy, honestly.

But — and I hate admitting this — people were right about one thing: you do feel a tiny bit better every day. Annoying, but true.

After about a week and a half, I could stand up without sounding like my organs were falling out. I could walk without holding my side like I’d been stabbed in a medieval tavern. I even stopped making those pathetic little crying noises with every step. Progress!

But I was STILL in that stupid recliner. Dreaming of my bed. My pillow. A night of sleep that didn’t end with my neck screaming for help.

Two weeks in, I was feeling almost normal. Pain was minimal. I made my follow‑up appointment and prepared to go back to work — even though apparently I was supposed to take 6–8 weeks off. Absolutely not. I said “no thanks” and returned to the chaos.

Now I’m four weeks out. I’m back at work. I’m sleeping in my actual bed — even on my right side, which feels like a luxury spa treatment. I still get some mild pain, especially after a 12‑hour shift, but nothing dramatic enough to complain about. (Okay, that’s a lie. I’ll always complain.)

One thing’s for sure: I once considered getting plastic surgery someday. After this? You couldn’t pay me. The only way I’m going under the knife again is if it’s an emergency and I’m unconscious.

Because this girl? Hates. Recovery.

And my gallbladder may be gone, but the trauma lives on.