I have a somewhat unusual perspective on pilonidal cyst surgery recovery. Unfortunately, I had to earn it the hard way.

I’ve undergone pilonidal surgery twice, more than two decades apart. The first time, I was 20 years old and what I expected to be a relatively routine procedure turned into a massive open-wound recovery. The second time, at 43, I underwent a Limberg flap.

The surgeries couldn’t have been more different, and neither could the recoveries. My first involved months of wound packing and what I remember as roughly a year and a half before I considered myself completely healed. My second involved a closed incision and considerably less pain for me, but it also came with a strict sitting restriction that ultimately lasted about ten weeks.

I’ve experienced the gauze, the surgical drain, the awkward bathroom situations, the weird sleeping positions, the standing desk and the fear of looking at the surgical site for the first time. I’ve also experienced the strange realization that once somebody tells you not to sit down, you suddenly discover that practically everything human beings do seems to involve sitting.

That’s a big reason I created Pilonidal Recovery.

When my pilonidal disease returned more than 20 years after my first surgery, I did what most nervous patients probably do: I started researching. I found clinical information, medical articles, diagrams and more surgical videos than I probably needed to watch.

What I had a much harder time finding was someone simply saying, “I’ve actually been through this. Here’s what happened after I got home.”

That’s the story I want to tell here.

I Was 20 and Had No Idea What a Pilonidal Cyst Was

At 20, I was living on my own for the first time. I had two roommates, a job I’d been at for less than a year and a relatively new girlfriend named Crystal. Crystal and I had been dating for about a year and were living together.

Spoiler alert: she eventually became my wife.

Crystal was working as a CNA at the time, which was about to become far more relevant to our relationship than either of us could have imagined.

My first indication that something was wrong was bloody drainage in my underwear. Being 20 years old, I naturally jumped to my own medical conclusions and thought maybe I was bleeding rectally. I did some searching, wondered if I had hemorrhoids or something similar and eventually went to my primary-care doctor.

I didn’t have hemorrhoids. My doctor pretty quickly referred me to a general surgeon, and that’s when I started learning what a pilonidal cyst actually was.

I vaguely remembered my mom mentioning that she’d undergone some kind of cyst surgery when she was younger, but I didn’t know much about it. Once I was diagnosed and started asking questions, I learned that her experience had involved more than one surgery.

That probably should have been my first warning.

The First Surgery Sounded Pretty Routine

By the time I met with the surgeon, I’d already been dealing with the problem for at least a couple of weeks. The area hurt, there was drainage, I was constantly changing gauze and, as I remember it, there was some infection or significant irritation involved. I was placed on strong antibiotics and surgery was scheduled for about a week later.

Here’s what stands out to me all these years later: I was terrified of surgery, but I wasn’t particularly afraid of the recovery.

My understanding was that the surgeon would make an incision, remove the problem, I’d probably have a small drain and I’d be back to normal within a few weeks. I expected maybe two weeks away from work, which mattered because I was new enough at my job that I didn’t qualify for FMLA.

I don’t remember anyone giving me a menu of different surgical approaches. More importantly, I don’t remember understanding that I might wake up with a very large open wound.

In my mind, the plan was simple: go to the hospital, get the cyst removed, recover and move on with my life.

That is not what happened.

My First Real Adult Surgery

The procedure was originally scheduled as outpatient surgery, and Crystal came with me. I was absolutely terrified.

Looking back, there’s something funny about that. I was 20 years old, living on my own, working and doing all the things you’re supposed to do when you’re becoming an independent adult.

And all I wanted was my mom.

She was out of state and couldn’t be there because of other family obligations, so Crystal stayed beside me. More than two decades later, I still remember one ridiculous detail from that afternoon.

I’d been fasting, my surgery wasn’t until later in the day and I was starving. For some reason—I think the hospital may have been celebrating Nurses Week or something similar—people were making ice cream sundaes for employees nearby.

Ice cream has always been one of my favorites. There I was, waiting to have surgery on my backside, unable to eat, watching people make ice cream sundaes and thinking about the scene in Forrest Gump where Forrest is eating ice cream after getting shot in the butt.

Considering where my surgery was happening, it seemed appropriate.

I had no idea how appropriate the comparison was about to become.

I Woke Up and Knew Something Was Wrong

When I woke up from surgery, things didn’t feel like the simple outpatient experience I’d expected. Eventually the surgeon talked to me and explained that the disease had apparently been much more extensive than anticipated.

Instead of the relatively small wound and drain I’d imagined, I had a large open wound.

I remember the surgeon telling me that mine was the largest—or perhaps one of the most complex—pilonidal procedures he’d performed. That’s my memory of a conversation from more than two decades ago, not something I’m claiming from a medical record.

Maybe I still hold the record.

I’d rather not.

What was supposed to be outpatient surgery wasn’t outpatient anymore either. I ended up staying in the hospital for multiple days, and my entire concept of “recovery” changed in a matter of hours.

I Felt Cheated

Cheated is probably the best word for how I felt.

I understood that surgeons sometimes encounter things during an operation that they couldn’t fully appreciate beforehand. What bothered me was how completely unprepared I felt for what happened afterward.

I went into surgery thinking I was facing a relatively straightforward recovery. I woke up with a major open wound that would need extensive care at home, and I had absolutely no idea what that actually meant for daily life.

I was about to find out.

My First Pilonidal Cyst Surgery Recovery Meant Wound Packing

The wound had to be packed with gauze. A lot of gauze.

I remember one nurse saying she’d used an entire roll. I can’t give you accurate measurements of the wound today because too much time has passed, and I’m not going to invent numbers to make the story more dramatic.

I don’t need to.

It was big.

Removing the packing was one of the strangest sensations I’ve ever experienced. It was painful, but it was more than pain. It felt like an endless amount of material was being pulled from somewhere material obviously wasn’t supposed to be.

Then came the bad part.

They had to put the gauze back in.

Crystal Became Part of My Care Team

Eventually, I went home. A home-health nurse came for the first few days and taught Crystal how to pack the wound. My sister learned as a backup.

The home-health service didn’t last very long.

The wound did.

That meant the woman I’d been dating for roughly a year suddenly became responsible for helping care for a massive surgical wound on my backside. If you want to test a young relationship, I can confidently say there are easier methods.

Our routine became something like this: remove the packing, shower, repack the wound and bandage everything again. I remember adhesive pieces around the wound and something that looked to me like medical-grade shoelaces helping hold things together. Even the adhesive became painful because changing it repeatedly irritated my skin.

Then there was the wound itself: the drainage, the smell, the pain and the simple awkwardness of needing another person to physically help expose the area so it could be packed properly.

There’s no dignified way to do any of this. At some point, you stop caring quite so much about dignity and become grateful somebody is willing to help.

The First Time I Saw the Wound

For about the first week, I hadn’t really seen the wound myself. Other people had been looking at it and caring for it, but I hadn’t.

Eventually I decided I needed to know what everybody else was looking at, so I arranged several mirrors in the bathroom and found the right angle.

I looked.

And I was horrified.

That feeling has stayed with me for more than two decades. A medical professional can explain what a wound looks like, but that’s very different from suddenly realizing, that’s my body.

It’s one of the reasons firsthand recovery stories matter to me. There are emotional moments in recovery that don’t fit neatly into a discharge instruction sheet.

Going to the Bathroom Became an Event

I don’t think people talk enough about the bathroom part of pilonidal recovery.

Eventually, you have to poop. When you have a large surgical wound immediately beside that part of your anatomy, the thought can become terrifying.

I was taking stool softeners as directed at the time, but it still took a few days. I remember being worried about straining because I could feel pain shooting through the surgical area.

Then there was cleanup. What if I touched the wound? What if I contaminated something? What if something got into the dressing?

Crystal helped me through that too.

Again, we’d been dating for about a year.

Apparently our relationship skipped a few steps.

I Went Back to Work Long Before I Was Healed

I was out of work for somewhere around two and a half weeks. My boss actually visited me in the hospital, and my coworkers took up a small collection because they knew I’d be away.

I’ve never forgotten those gestures.

But returning to work didn’t mean I was remotely healed. I sat carefully, moved slowly and still occasionally had bleeding from the wound.

One day, halfway through a shift, I realized I was bleeding enough that I became worried it would soak through my pants—or worse, onto my chair. I couldn’t leave work, so I did what any incredibly embarrassed 20-year-old guy would do.

I found a female coworker and asked her for a menstrual pad.

I wanted the floor to swallow me.

But you know what?

It worked.

That’s exactly the kind of thing I wish someone had told me before surgery. Not necessarily “buy menstrual pads,” but simply that recovery gets weird. You improvise, solve whatever problem is in front of you and eventually stop being quite so embarrassed about the realities of recovering.

The Open-Wound Recovery Went on for Months

I can’t reliably tell you exactly how many months the wound had to be packed. My memory is that it may have been somewhere around six months.

What I remember much more clearly is that roughly a year and a half passed before I considered myself completely healed.

Even then, “healed” was relative. I had a large scar, the skin felt tight and every once in a while over the following years, some of that thin scar tissue would split open.

Every time it happened, the same thought returned: Is it back?

Usually, the little opening healed and life went on. Eventually I stopped thinking much about pilonidal disease and assumed I’d already paid my dues.

One and done.

Turns out I was wrong about that too.

More Than 20 Years Later, I Was in an Airport Bathroom

Fast-forward more than two decades and my life looked completely different.

Crystal wasn’t my girlfriend anymore. She was my wife. We had three children, and she had gone on to become a nurse—something she first began realizing she was capable of while helping care for me all those years earlier.

Somewhat ironically, I’d ended up working in healthcare too, although on the business and revenue-cycle side.

Direct patient care?

No thank you.

I had just attended a NAHAM conference in Phoenix, where I’d been a presenter. I was flying home toward Daytona Beach and had spent what felt like an eternity sitting in airplanes and airports.

During my Atlanta connection, I went into the bathroom.

There was drainage.

The area was tender.

And I remember thinking, Oh no. This can’t be good.

I desperately wanted it to be the old scar opening again.

It wasn’t.

I Had Pilonidal Disease Again

I was 43 years old, and despite everything I’d experienced at 20, I hadn’t really understood that I could end up facing another significant pilonidal problem decades later.

This time, though, I approached the situation differently. I worked in healthcare, knew how to research providers and wanted someone who dealt with this particular problem regularly.

I found a colorectal specialist and eventually got established as a new patient.

Then came the news I didn’t want to hear.

I needed surgery again.

I remember sitting there while the doctor talked and suddenly experiencing what I call the Peanuts teacher effect.

Wah wah wah wah wah.

He was talking, but I wasn’t really hearing him anymore. Mentally, I was back in that bathroom in my 20s, staring into a mirror at that huge open wound.

I remembered the packing. The pain. The months of recovery.

And Crystal wasn’t even with me because both of us thought this appointment would probably end with somebody telling me the old scar had simply opened again.

Instead, I went home knowing I was probably headed back to an operating room.

This Time, I Had Options

The second experience was immediately different because I had a much more detailed conversation about how the problem might be treated.

Another open-wound approach came up. A wound VAC was mentioned as something that could potentially become relevant depending on circumstances. We also discussed a flap procedure.

The procedure I eventually chose was a Limberg flap.

I’m intentionally not using this article to tell you which procedure is medically better. I’m not a surgeon, your disease isn’t necessarily like mine, and the decision I made was based on my history, my surgeon’s recommendations and my life circumstances.

What I can tell you is how I thought through the decision.

There was one phrase that nearly killed the flap idea for me immediately:

No sitting.

My understanding was that I could potentially be unable to sit normally for approximately eight weeks.

I worked from home.

I literally got paid to sit on my butt all day.

How exactly was this supposed to work?

Another Open Wound Wasn’t Practical for Our Life Either

At 20, Crystal had two working hands and was a CNA. More than two decades later, she had undergone brain surgery herself and was left with significantly reduced mobility in one hand.

Asking someone to pack a wound like my first one was already an enormous request. Doing something like that effectively one-handed didn’t seem realistic for us.

Life was more complicated in other ways too. We had three kids, my mother lived with us and now we were helping care for Mom. I had a career, a mortgage, financial responsibilities and people depending on me.

At 20, all I wanted was my mom.

In my 40s, I was the dad.

That changed the way I thought about recovery.

I Chose the Limberg Flap—But I Waited

I spent the next couple of weeks researching. I read medical information, watched procedure videos—again, not necessarily something I’d recommend to a squeamish person—and talked with people I trusted, including one of the old roommates who had known me during the first surgery.

I was leaning strongly toward the flap, but the timing was awful.

I was in the middle of trying to land a promotion. In fact, I’d completed one of the interviews remotely while I was in Phoenix.

Eventually I told my surgeon essentially, I want the flap. Just not right now.

We postponed surgery.

Then I got the promotion and started the new role on June 1, 2025.

Fantastic.

Now all I had to do was tell my brand-new boss that I needed major surgery. Fortunately, she was incredibly supportive.

We ultimately scheduled the procedure immediately after Thanksgiving so I could make the best use of my available time off and reduce some of the financial impact.

The date was set: December 3rd, 2025.

Apparently I Was Going on a Cruise

I was still terrified.

Part of me kept wondering what would happen if something went wrong. What if I woke up with another huge open wound?

Apparently my mature adult coping mechanism was making ridiculous jokes.

I showed up at the hospital wearing shorts, flip-flops, a Hawaiian shirt and my best tropical hat. I announced that I was there for the cruise.

When staff asked what procedure I was having, I told them I was getting a Brazilian Butt Lift.

That joke did not land.

In retrospect, when hospital staff are doing everything possible to make sure the correct patient gets the correct procedure on the correct body part, repeatedly claiming you’re there for an entirely different surgery probably isn’t peak comedy.

I thought it was funny.

The staff?

Not so much.

Then I met my anesthesiologist, asked who she was and what she did, and she played along with my cruise theme. Essentially, she was the bartender for the voyage.

Now that was my kind of medical professional.

One Thing I Remember Clearly: We Prayed

Crystal was there with me again.

More than two decades after sitting beside a terrified 20-year-old before his first pilonidal surgery, she was sitting beside a terrified 43-year-old preparing to do it again.

At some point before the procedure, after I’d already received some medication, I led a prayer with members of my care team. I don’t remember exactly what I said, and considering my medicated state, it may have been quite a prayer.

But I remember praying.

I remember feeling like I’d done everything I knew how to do. I’d researched, prepared, chosen a surgeon I trusted and made the decision that seemed right for me.

Now I had to have faith.

Waking Up Was Completely Different the Second Time

When I woke up, I was groggy. Really groggy.

At one point staff members were moving me into a wheelchair and I panicked because the only thought running through my head was, WAIT! I’M SITTING!

They helped me position myself, and eventually I got the answer I desperately wanted.

I didn’t have another enormous open wound.

Later, when I finally saw the surgical site, I couldn’t believe how different it looked from what I remembered after my first operation. There were stitches and an obvious surgical incision, but everything was closed.

After my first experience, that was an enormous emotional relief.

The scar pattern even reminded me a little of the Big Dipper. I’ve joked that perhaps I should eventually get a tattoo to finish the constellation.

Crystal has not exactly endorsed this plan.

My Limberg Flap Recovery Was Surprisingly Manageable at First

The surgical area stayed very numb for the first few days. I had received some type of longer-lasting local anesthetic in addition to the anesthesia used during surgery, but I don’t know exactly what medication was used and don’t want to guess.

As the numbness gradually wore off, I became more aware of the incision. For me, it felt more like an ache and tightness than the intense pain I remembered from the open-wound recovery.

I also had the bizarre feeling that if I simply dropped into a chair, everything might pop open.

So when my surgeon told me not to sit, I took that restriction seriously.

No Sitting Meant No Sitting

For the instructions I received, “no sitting” really meant no sitting.

It didn’t mean I could sit for five minutes. It didn’t mean I could run to the store and lean sideways in the car. For my particular recovery plan, the toilet was essentially the only place I sat.

Yes, I eventually started looking forward to going to the bathroom simply because I got to sit down for a few minutes.

That’s how weird recovery becomes.

Once sitting disappeared, I suddenly realized how many normal activities depended on it. Eating dinner, watching a movie with my kids, driving, working, playing cards, Christmas morning and going to a restaurant all became logistical problems.

I’d prepared for surgery.

I hadn’t fully appreciated that I was also preparing to temporarily change the way I participated in my family.

My Standing Desk Became Command Central

Thank goodness I bought a standing desk.

I used it for work, entertainment, meals, internet browsing and pretty much everything else. The funny part is that Crystal had been telling me for years that I should get one, while I’d always said I’d rather have the opposite—a really comfortable La-Z-Boy.

Fine.

She won.

But standing for hours every day created another problem I hadn’t thought much about before surgery: my feet and legs hurt. I’m a bigger guy, and my body wasn’t accustomed to spending that many hours standing.

I started wearing Crocs around the house because the cushioning helped me.

I’d spent all my time worrying about my butt.

Nobody told me my feet were going to become part of the story.

Then Came the Redneck Engineering

Some of my most useful recovery equipment wasn’t medical equipment at all.

I had a surgical drain, and at first I tried keeping the bulb in my pocket. The problem was that my pockets were deeper than the tubing was long, so the tube could catch or tug against the stitch holding it in place.

I grabbed a little carabiner and clipped the drain to my waistband.

Problem solved.

Then came showering. At first, Crystal literally stood there holding the drain while I showered.

After a couple of days, I decided this was ridiculous. I took an old webbing-style belt, slung it across myself like a bandolier and clipped the drain to it.

Suddenly I could shower more independently.

I looked somewhere between Chewbacca and Worf from Star Trek.

But it worked.

That’s exactly the type of thing I want Pilonidal Recovery to talk about. Sometimes the answer isn’t an expensive specialty product. Sometimes it’s an old belt and a cheap carabiner.

The Emotional Part Wasn’t What I Expected

Physically, my flap recovery was much easier for me than my first open-wound experience.

Emotionally, there were things I hadn’t anticipated.

Christmas was probably the best example. My family has traditions: we look at Christmas lights, sit together, watch movies and gather around while the kids open presents.

That year, I couldn’t go on our Christmas-light outing because riding normally in the car wasn’t compatible with my restriction. On Christmas morning, I couldn’t sit on the couch with everybody.

My two oldest kids helped with some of the Santa duties, and I stood away from the couch watching everyone open gifts.

I remember thinking, I feel like I’m supervising Christmas instead of participating in it.

That probably bothered me more than it bothered anyone else, but it taught me something important.

Surgical restrictions aren’t just physical. They can temporarily change how you participate in your own life.

Then My Drain Stopped Working

Somewhere around Week 3 or 4—and I’m not certain enough about the exact timing to pretend I remember the day—the drain output suddenly changed.

One day there was a decent amount. Then there was essentially nothing.

The area started feeling swollen and tender, so I sent a message through my patient portal. They brought me in the next day.

When the drain was removed, a substantial amount of retained fluid came out.

And I mean came out.

Down my leg.

Onto the floor.

The staff pressed around the area to help more of it drain. My greatest victory during that appointment may have been narrowly saving my Crocs.

More importantly, I felt substantially better afterward.

That experience reinforced something I think matters in any recovery: when something meaningfully changes, your own healthcare team is the place to ask what it means.

I Also Lost My Surgeon During Recovery

One of the stranger parts of the second recovery had nothing to do with my wound.

The surgeon I’d researched carefully and trusted left the healthcare organization while I was recovering. Appointments started getting moved, explanations were vague and nobody would simply tell me what was happening.

Because I work in healthcare, I had a pretty good suspicion.

Eventually, I found my surgeon on LinkedIn and figured out that he’d moved on professionally.

I wasn’t particularly angry with him. I was frustrated with the system.

I’d intentionally selected this specialist because trust mattered to me, and suddenly that relationship disappeared halfway through recovery.

That experience made continuity of care feel much less abstract. Before surgery, I would absolutely want to know not only who my surgeon is, but also who covers postoperative questions and appointments if that person isn’t available.

Eight Weeks Became Ten

Originally, I had about eight weeks in my head as the point when I might be able to sit normally again.

My recovery ultimately stretched closer to ten weeks.

A few stitches opened shortly before one of my follow-up visits, which extended things a little. It wasn’t catastrophic and didn’t turn into anything remotely resembling my original open wound.

But it meant I needed to keep standing and keep waiting.

So I did.

The Day I Finally Sat Down

I will never forget it.

At approximately Week 10, I was finally cleared to begin sitting again. The doctor told me to take it easy.

I remember thinking, Take it easy? What exactly do you think I’ve been doing for the last ten weeks?

My first real sit was in the car on the way home. I used a cushion, settled into the seat and suddenly realized I could see through the windshield normally again.

I could look around. I could watch traffic. I could experience the world from the completely ordinary position I’d taken for granted my entire adult life.

The drive home was about an hour.

It was glorious.

When I got home, I went straight to the couch and sat.

It felt like hours.

It was probably about half an hour.

I didn’t care.

My First Drive Was to Pick Up My Kids

Later that day, I drove again for the first time.

Where did I go?

The school pickup line.

There are very few circumstances under which I would describe sitting in a school pickup line as a beautiful experience.

This was one of them.

Traffic? Don’t care.

Long line? Take your time.

Someone doesn’t understand how the merging pattern works? Whatever.

I was sitting, and I was picking up my kids.

Normal life was coming back.

When Was I Actually Healed?

That’s harder to answer.

Being allowed to sit didn’t mean I immediately went back to everything I’d done before surgery. I gradually increased my normal activities.

By around March, I was getting back into things like rucking and biking. The bike could still create some tension around the scar.

By April or May, I felt pretty close to normal.

Oddly enough, swimming became one of my psychological milestones. Once I could swim again, something clicked in my head.

Okay.

This is finally over.

Today, the incision mostly feels like a scar. I have a few small areas that remain somewhat numb, particularly around where the drain had been, but we’re talking about small areas.

I occasionally readjust how I’m sitting. I sometimes still use a cushion at my office chair, and I still use the standing desk.

But I’m gardening, doing yard work, bending, exercising and living normally.

And if I tried telling Crystal I couldn’t do a household chore today because of my surgery, I’m fairly certain she’d call me out immediately.

Which Surgery Would I Choose Again?

For me personally, there’s no question.

I would choose the flap recovery again.

That does not mean I’m telling you which procedure you should choose.

My surgeries occurred more than 20 years apart, were performed by different surgeons and happened under completely different circumstances. My first operation also became much more extensive than I expected.

This isn’t a controlled scientific comparison.

It’s one man’s experience.

For me, the Limberg flap recovery involved dramatically less pain and far less wound care than my original open-wound experience. The tradeoff was significant because not sitting for roughly ten weeks was extremely difficult.

But if the only question is which of my two personal recovery experiences I’d rather repeat, I’d take the flap recovery again.

What My Two Recoveries Taught Me

If I ever had to prepare for pilonidal surgery again, I’d ask better questions than I knew to ask at 20.

I’d want to understand the procedure being proposed and what the surgeon expects afterward. I’d ask whether the wound is expected to be open or closed, whether a drain might be involved, what kind of help I may need at home and what restrictions could affect sitting, driving, work, bathing and ordinary family life.

I’d also want to know how follow-up works. Who do I call if something changes at night or on a weekend? Who handles my postoperative care if my surgeon isn’t available?

Most importantly, I’d involve the person who’s actually going to help me recover in those conversations.

Surgery happens to the patient.

Recovery often happens to the entire household.

What I’d Tell My 43-Year-Old Self

I’d tell him to have faith, research his surgeon, ask questions and understand the recovery restrictions before surgery day.

I’d tell him to prepare the house, the workplace and the family—not just the hospital bag.

Then I’d remind him that eventually, after asking the questions and making the decision with his care team, he has to trust the process.

What I’d Tell My 20-Year-Old Self

That conversation would be a little different.

I’d tell him the next year or so is going to suck. He’s going to hurt, be embarrassed and need people to do things for him that he never imagined asking another person to do.

He’s going to look in a mirror and be terrified by what he sees.

But then I’d tell him to look around.

He’s surrounded by people who love him.

Let them help.

He’s going to get through it.

And Then There’s Crystal

There is one part of this entire story I wouldn’t change.

Not because my first recovery was good.

It wasn’t.

It was awful.

But something happened during that recovery that changed both of our lives.

That 20-year-old CNA who agreed to help her relatively new boyfriend take care of an enormous wound discovered something about herself. She learned that she could handle more than she’d thought, discovered a passion for nursing and eventually became a nurse.

And I learned something too.

Very early in our relationship, I discovered just how much this woman loved me.

More than two decades later, when I had to go through pilonidal surgery again, guess who was standing beside me?

Crystal.

Again.

Why I Created Pilonidal Recovery

If there’s one thing two surgeries more than 20 years apart taught me, it’s that pilonidal cyst surgery recovery isn’t just about the wound.

It’s about the people around you. It’s about your bathroom, your bedroom, your car, your job, your kids, your holidays, your dignity and all of the weird little problems nobody seems to think about until you’re standing in the middle of them.

At 20, I thought I was an independent adult. Then I found myself lying on my side while my girlfriend packed a wound I could barely bring myself to look at.

At 43, I had a wife, three kids, a career and a mother I helped care for. I thought experience meant I knew exactly what I was getting into the second time.

I still didn’t.

That’s why I created Pilonidal Recovery.

Not to tell you which surgery to have.

Not to replace your surgeon.

And definitely not to show you another surgical video.

Trust me.

There are plenty of those already.

I built this site because somebody should talk about what happens after the operating-room doors close: the bathroom questions, weird sleeping positions, drain hanging from your waistband, Christmas morning when you can’t sit with your kids, products that actually help, expensive products that turn out to be ridiculous and weird homemade solutions that work better than the expensive ones.

And the people who love you enough to help you through all of it.

More than two decades ago, Crystal helped me through one of the worst experiences of my young life.

More than two decades later, she was standing beside me again.

Apparently I’m a slow learner.

But I’m also a pretty lucky guy.

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Frequently Asked Questions

How long did my open-wound pilonidal surgery recovery take?

My memory is that the wound required packing for months—possibly around six months—and that it took roughly a year and a half before I personally considered myself completely healed. This was my unusually extensive wound and my individual experience more than two decades ago, not a recovery timeline anyone else should expect.

How long did my Limberg flap recovery take?

I wasn’t cleared to sit normally until approximately ten weeks after my Limberg flap. After that, I gradually returned to normal activities over the following months. Those restrictions came from my own surgical team and shouldn’t be used as instructions for another patient’s recovery.

Was my Limberg flap recovery painful?

For me, it was considerably less painful than my first open-wound recovery. I experienced aching, tightness and discomfort, but the no-sitting restriction affected my everyday life more than pain did. Someone else’s experience may be very different.

Could I sit on the toilet after my Limberg flap?

Under the instructions I received, the toilet was essentially the only place I sat during the strict no-sitting portion of recovery. That was specific to my postoperative plan, so another patient should ask their own surgical team what their restrictions mean.

Did I work during my Limberg flap recovery?

Yes. Because I worked remotely, my standing desk eventually allowed me to work without sitting. It became one of the most useful pieces of everyday equipment in my recovery.

Would I personally choose the Limberg flap again?

Based only on my two personal experiences, yes. My Limberg flap recovery was dramatically easier for me than the extensive open-wound recovery I’d experienced in my 20s. That is a personal conclusion, not a medical recommendation for another patient.

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A Note About Medical Advice

This article describes my personal experience with pilonidal disease and two surgeries performed more than 20 years apart.

I am not a physician, surgeon or other licensed medical provider, and nothing on Pilonidal Recovery should be treated as individualized medical advice, diagnosis or a recommendation for a specific surgical procedure.

Procedures, wound care, restrictions, medications, complications and recovery timelines can vary considerably. Follow the instructions of your own healthcare team and contact them with questions or concerns about your recovery.