Days 1–3 May-Thurner Syndrome Stent Post-Op: Recovery, Travel, and What I Didn't Expect
I’m sharing this post to capture what the first 72 hours looked like after getting a stent placed for May-Thurner Syndrome. These early days were a mix of slow wins, unexpected symptoms, and the logistical fun (read: stress) of flying home right after surgery. If you’re going through something similar or supporting someone who is, I hope this helps give you some insight into what the immediate post-op phase can look and feel like. I’ll be sharing more soon about my first weekend at home, what May-Thurner Syndrome actually is, and how my body adjusts long-term.
One thing that’s really stood out to me already: sharing this recovery journey has been more meaningful than I ever expected. I’ve had so many people reach out, some saying they’ve experienced similar symptoms, others telling me they’ve been diagnosed with May-Thurner Syndrome, and a few who are now wondering if they should get evaluated. It’s been a powerful reminder of why I started documenting this in the first place.
I’m naturally a pretty private person, so I wasn’t surprised when close friends reached out asking how they had no idea I was even dealing with this. The truth is, when you’re living with chronic pain or an invisible illness, it’s exhausting to talk about. You get tired of hearing yourself explain it or complain about it. It’s not like a broken bone that people can see and immediately understand. You end up caught between feeling like you have to justify your pain while also trying to downplay it.
It messes with your head. You start questioning if maybe you’re just being dramatic, if others could handle it better, or if you should just suck it up and move on. But then there are those days, the undeniable ones, where the pain is so consuming, you can’t ignore how much it’s stolen from your life. It affects everything: your family, your relationships, your mental and physical health.
I still struggle with how much to share. Writing these blogs and posting about it on social media is hard. But every time someone messages me, whether it’s a stranger, a friend, or someone I haven’t talked to in years, just to say “thank you for sharing” or “this is exactly what I’m going through”… it reminds me why I’m doing this.
Reading other people’s stories has helped me more than anything else along this journey. It’s helped me feel less alone, less crazy, and it’s empowered me to keep advocating for myself. I refuse to accept that this is just how life has to feel; that I have to miss out on a casual hike because I know it’ll flare me for weeks.
So I’m pushing through. I’m choosing to be vulnerable. I’m sharing what this really feels like, not just for me, but in hopes it reaches someone else who needs to hear it and feel a little less alone too.
Day 1: Gently Moving, Feeling Grateful, and Wondering What’s Normal
Right out of the gate, my biggest symptoms were bloating, dry mouth, and increasing itchiness throughout the day. But I was also able to lift my left leg again (small but exciting milestone), and overall, I felt like movement was tolerable as long as I didn’t overdo it. I got in three short walks: a slow uphill loop (just under half a mile), a longer 1.2-mile stroll by the water while Andrew ran (which definitely left me sore), and one more post-dinner walk just under a mile. Altogether, I covered around 3.5 miles and added in a bit of stretching at the end of the day.
Pain was manageable overall, though I felt a sharp jolt in my right lower abdomen anytime I stood from a low chair or the toilet. Thankfully, it was very short-lived. Bloating was lighter in the morning and was triggering for me since it has always been a main symptom of my chronic pelvic pain.
The day itself had a pretty good rhythm: breakfast at the hotel, a short walk, a little work and a nap, then more walking and downtime. We had leftovers and fruit for lunch, played games, grabbed a veggie-loaded dinner from Cava, and walked again in the evening. I even fit in a face mask before bed, because, “why not?!”
Still no bowel movement by the end of Day 1, despite Miralax, fiber-rich meals, and extra fiber supplements. Hoping to get off some of the meds soon, both for my gut and for this relentless itching.
Day 2: Rough Night, Hard Choices, and Listening to My Body
The second night was brutal. I couldn’t sleep longer than 30–60 minutes at a time. My skin was intensely itchy, I had waves of nausea for the first half of the night, and by morning, I looked incredibly puffy and bloated, especially in my face, trunk, and arms. I had already skipped my 2 a.m. Tramadol and Tylenol, wondering if the Tramadol was causing the itching. That hunch turned out to be right.
I got up around 8 and took my usual meds (Eliquis, Naproxen, Tylenol) along with my fiber supplements, a protein shake, fruit, and Miralax. But I looked and felt the most bloated I had been since surgery. My abdomen, trunk, chest, arms and face were blotchy and swollen, and my skin felt tight everywhere. I spoke to the nurse practitioner, and we decided to officially stop the Tramadol and add Zyrtec for the allergic reaction. We also brought in Colace to help move things along in the GI department.
I did finally have a small bowel movement, but it wasn’t easy. At this point, I was starting to get sharp, random pains in my lower left abdomen when walking, so I kept activity minimal. We stayed in the hotel room for most of the day; ate breakfast and lunch there, got a little work done, and I let myself rest.
I was disappointed to feel so worn down and limited, but I reminded myself: This is still just Day 2. Healing isn’t linear, and my job was to keep showing up gently, not perfectly.
Day 3: Follow-Up Results, Travel Woes, and Finally, Home
We started the day with a follow-up appointment for post-op imaging. The good news? The 16x150mm stent is right where it should be, and the scan showed no signs of chronic venous insufficiency in my legs. That was a huge relief. So in theory, the pooling of blood in my legs and pelvis should eventually start taking the path of least resistance via the stent in my left iliac vein and inferior vena cava back to my heart. The big question mark remains: what’s causing this level of bloating? The nurse practitioner said she’s only seen one other patient react this strongly, so it’s tough to say. Could be anesthesia, inflammation, slowed GI function, or just my body adjusting to the new blood flow pathway. It might take 6–12 months to know if this intervention really works for me. That uncertainty is hard, but it’s part of the deal.
After another small bowel movement at the clinic (progress!), I added Gas-X to the rotation in hopes of helping the pressure. I managed to nap before we found out our flight home was delayed three hours due to a Southwest IT issue. That set off a bit of a scramble and we ended up rebooking onto a different flight with a layover to get home faster.
Honestly, I was dreading the flight. I was still uncomfortable, pants weren’t ideal, and sitting for long stretches sounded awful. But Andrew helped me into my compression socks and kept things running smoothly. We ended up spending over six hours on planes for what should’ve been a 2.5-hour trip. Our connection was delayed just enough (by chance, the pilot was on our same first flight), and Andrew sprinted through the Salt Lake airport while I made my way slowly down six gates. We barely made it.
I originally requested a wheelchair when I booked the flight but opted out once we arrived at the airport, and looking back, I really wish I had taken it. If I could give one piece of advice to someone flying home right after a stent procedure, it’s this: screw your pride and accept the wheelchair. You can walk if you feel up for it, but having the option would’ve helped me avoid a lot of discomfort and fatigue.
By the time we landed and got picked up by my dad, I was sore, tired, and ready to collapse, but also so ready to see our kids. My mom had let them stay up late so we could snuggle, and that meant everything. Coming home to that kind of love was the best part of the whole day. I also want to shout out my parents because they always show up. Every surgery, every complication, every moment we’ve needed help with the kids, they’ve been there without hesitation. We are incredibly lucky.
What’s Next
That wraps up the immediate post-op chapter and the journey back home. I’ll be sharing more soon, including what the first weekend home looked like, a deeper dive into what May-Thurner Syndrome really is, and how I’m keeping track of progress along the way.
Recovery isn’t just physical. It’s emotional, nonlinear, and packed with decisions that aren’t always straightforward. Some days I feel like I’ve got a handle on things, and others… not so much. But I’m learning that’s part of the process, too.
I also want to take a moment to shout out my husband, Andrew. I truly don’t know how I would’ve managed this without him, from travel logistics to emotional support to just making me laugh when I needed it most. He’s been in this with me every step.
If you’ve made it this far, thanks for following along. Sharing this isn’t always easy, but it feels important and I hope it helps someone else feel a little more prepared, a little more seen.
