February 2026

It has been a long time since I wrote here. Life was going pretty great, there was not much to report on. Until this month. So here’s the update.

February 2026 started with hope.

I had quietly gotten myself back into pretty good shape. Not 36-year-old PR shape (let’s not get delusional), but strong-for-50 shape. I was genuinely excited to see what I could do in the 50–54 age group at the USATF New England 4 Mile Championship on Super Bowl Sunday, February 8th.

I was genuinely excited for the SuperSuperbowlBowl weekend. We were wearing our Patriots gear at school on Friday, February 6th. It was a good day.

And then… I skipped.

Yes. Skipped.

That Friday, I was at school in a good mood. Too good of a mood, apparently. My next class — a sweet group of second graders — was lined up in the hallway. For reasons I cannot defend, I decided to skip across my classroom to greet them.

POP.

I felt it.
I heard it.

My left calf. Gastrocnemius.

It felt like someone snapped a window shade violently upward inside my leg. I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t walk. The pain was immediate and blinding.

But the second graders were coming in.

So I smiled.

“Mrs. Robie is in a little bit of pain right now, so you’re going to need to be extra independent today, okay?”

Lie.

I was in a lot bit of pain.

Ten minutes later, the paraprofessional walked in and found me in tears in my chair. The nurse came. I couldn’t stand. I left school in a wheelchair — which is not how I pictured the final 48 hours before a championship race going.

Urgent care confirmed it: torn calf muscle.

UGH. I had a race in two days. I was so upset. However, one unexpectedly beautiful moment happened at urgent care.

My blood pressure read 118/78. I really do not take my blood pressure anymore. I do not have a need since the successful adrenalectomy. It has been a while since I was curious enough to take a reading. But there I was — albeit injured — with perfect, medication-free blood pressure.

That number felt like a quiet victory.

And then, because the universe sometimes throws you a bone, a winter storm rolled in and postponed that 4 mile Championship race. Panic lifted. I didn’t have to miss it. It simply wasn’t happening.

Silver lining.

Crutches destroyed my armpits, so I upgraded to a knee scooter and went about life like a one-legged pirate. Brooke had a dance competition that weekend. I hobbled around on one leg feeling bad for myself, desperately wanting to run but couldn’t. But I kept telling myself:

You’ve been through worse.

At that time, a simple calf injury was taking me out, but I knew eventually I would be able to start running again. I had no idea what was coming next.

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Tuesday February 17th

Still in “torn calf recovery mode.”

I made dinner like I always do. Pasta. I chopped peppers into the sauce. Jason and I sat down to watch an episode of The Pitt.

And then the stomach pain started.

High. Sharp. Stabbing.

Not nausea. Not cramping. Stabbing.

Gas? I took three Gas-X. No change.

Food poisoning? But Jason ate the same thing. He felt fine.

I went upstairs to bed thinking I’d sleep it off.

but it got worse.

I called for Jason and told him, very calmly at first, that something wasn’t right.

Then, without warning, I threw up. Gross.

Again. And again. I threw up three times at home that night.

After the third time, Jason called 911.

In the ambulance, I threw up again. They suspected norovirus.

In the ER, a CT scan with contrast told the real story:

Small bowel obstruction.

By midnight, I was admitted. An NG tube was inserted down my nose and into my stomach to suction my bowel.

If you have never had an NG tube, let me just say: I would not recommend it.

It was constant gagging. Constant discomfort. No relief from the stabbing pain. I continued to vomit — which is even more disturbing when a tube is already down your throat.

Four days like that.

IV fluids. No food. Suction. Pain. Crying. Hoping.

The doctors suspected adhesions — scar tissue from prior abdominal surgeries – caused the obstruction. The hysterectomy. The adrenalectomy.

Apparently, the body keeps receipts.

By Saturday, February 21st, surgery was impending. It was explained to me that it would be a robotic laparoscopic attempt to relieve the adhesions and thus the obstruction.

The last thing I remember before anesthesia was seeing the operating room and saying, “Oh look, that must be the robot.”

Then darkness.

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Waking Up

The next thing I knew, I was awake.

Strapped to the bed.

Unable to move my arms.

Unable to breathe.

I was gagging for air. Everything was blurry. I could see people in a hallway but they didn’t see me. I have never felt terror like that.

I knocked weakly against the bed rail until someone noticed.

Suddenly there were people everywhere.

“Tammie, you’re in the ICU.”
“You’re okay.”

Apparently there had been difficulty securing my airway. I guess the anesthesiologist couldn’t intubate me normally and had to do a “nasal intubation”. I guess my throat was swollen and they were worried it might close. the thought was that they might need to do a tracheotomy when I came-to. Terrifying.

They kept me sedated after explaining this to me. And then when they ultimately removed that intubation tube, it was the most intense pain I think I have ever experienced. It hurt my whole face and throat. There was blood. Mucus. Suctioning. And through it all, the original NG tube was still taped to my face.

It was chaos.

Eventually, I could talk. I was told that in surgery, the adhesions were removed and a perforation was stitched up. Gross.

I was moved out of ICU on Monday, February 23rd.

The recovery began.

NG tube. IV lines. JP drain. Wires. Machines. Every breath felt like work. I cried more than I would like to admit.

It took a few days, but Wednesday, I was disconnected from the NG tube and IV lines. I could then stand on my own — though I was swollen beyond recognition from fluids. My abdomen was distended and distorted.

The nurses kept telling me how “good” I looked.

I looked in the mirror and saw something else entirely.

Eight days in a hospital bed getting pumped with medication and fluid will do that to you.

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February 28th

I’ve been home two days.

Everything is still swollen. Still so uncomfortable. But I am a little better.

At the beginning of this month, I wanted to see how fast I could run in the 50–54 age group.

Now I just want to walk without pain.

Here’s what I know: I have rebuilt before. I will rebuild again.

But February 2026 is not a month I want to remember.