My Pancreatitis Diagnosis

In April 2021, I found myself in the emergency room, holding my stomach and trying to stay ahead of the pain. It had been building for days—constant, sharp, and impossible to ignore. I was convinced it was a bleeding ulcer. An earlier endoscopy had already shown fragile areas in my stomach that bled easily, so it felt like the most logical explanation.

I was sent home with a GI cocktail and told to monitor things. At the time, that felt like enough. I thought I could manage it.

I couldn’t.

Over the next month, everything got worse. The pain intensified, but what scared me more was how quickly my body started to shut down. I stopped eating because it hurt too much. My energy disappeared. Even simple things became difficult.

One day, I tried to take a shower and couldn’t stay standing. I ended up sitting on the floor, realizing I didn’t have the strength to finish. That was the moment I knew something was seriously wrong.

I went back to the ER.

When the doctor came in with my lab results, she didn’t hesitate:
“No wonder you’re in so much pain. You have pancreatitis. We’re admitting you.”

I remember feeling confused more than anything else. I didn’t fit what I thought pancreatitis looked like. I didn’t drink. I didn’t have a gallbladder anymore. None of it made sense.

Like most people do, I started searching for answers. What I found was unsettling—a severe case of acute pancreatitis can carry a mortality rate of around 10%. That got my attention quickly.

The doctors couldn’t find a clear cause. My labs didn’t point to the usual triggers. They mentioned steroids since I had recently been on high doses for an MS relapse, but even that didn’t fully explain it.

I kept coming back to one thing: my Multiple Sclerosis medication, Copaxone.

Every time I injected it, I felt this deep, intense stomach pain afterward—something I had tried to push through and ignore. But now it felt relevant.

I brought it up to the doctors, but they told me there were no known cases linking Copaxone to pancreatitis.

That didn’t sit right with me.

So I called the manufacturer directly. What they told me changed everything—there was a 1.8% chance of developing pancreatitis with the medication.

It wasn’t a clear answer, but it was enough to make me trust what my body had been trying to tell me.

From there, treatment was simple, but not easy. I wasn’t allowed to eat. Everything shifted to giving my pancreas time to rest—IV fluids, pain management, and careful monitoring. I was in the hospital for about a week that first time.

But it didn’t end there.

Since then, my pancreas hasn’t fully settled. I was admitted a second time when things flared again, and that stay was even more intense. I spent 10 days in the hospital, and that was when I needed a feeding tube. It was a different level of reality—one where recovery couldn’t be rushed and my body set the pace.

Now, I take pancreatic enzymes with every meal. They help reduce the workload on my pancreas by limiting how much it has to secrete on its own. It’s a small routine, but a constant reminder that this didn’t just pass—it changed something long-term.

What stayed with me most wasn’t just the diagnosis—it was how long I had questioned myself before speaking up. I had felt something was wrong, but I kept trying to explain it away because it didn’t fit the expected pattern.

And that’s not new for me.

It took seven years to be diagnosed with fibromyalgia. Decades to be diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. I already knew what it felt like to live in that space of uncertainty—where something is clearly wrong, but the answers don’t come easily.

But this time was different.

This time, the stakes were immediate. And I could see more clearly what happens when you start to doubt your own body in the middle of something serious.

So this experience didn’t teach me patience or persistence—I already had those.

It reminded me to trust myself sooner.

To speak up earlier.

To not wait for something to “make sense” before taking it seriously.

Because sometimes the most important information you have is what your body is already trying to tell you—even when no one else can explain it yet.

Because the cost of doubting your body is almost always higher than the cost of listening to it.

Editor’s note: The information in this article is presented for educational, informational purposes only. It is not intended as a substitute for the diagnosis, treatment, and advice of a qualified licensed professional.