Thought I would share my story since apparently, it’s rare for guys to have SAA's (splenic artery aneurysms). Lucky me—always aiming to be unique. First off, I am 42 and annoyingly healthy (41 at discovery). I perform some type of strenuous physical activity 6 days a week and generally treat my body like a government-issued weapon system, which makes sense because I am in the military. I mention this because each of the six vascular surgeons that guided me on this journey emphasized that being younger and in ‘good shape’ works heavily in your favor when combatting one of these things. One even explained that as you get older, everything dries out and loses elasticity—arteries included. (Yes, this becomes relevant later. Stay tuned for the “moist interior” subplot.)
Now to kick off the story. Throughout my military career, I have had multiple abdominal CT scans. 95% of them occurred because I convinced myself something was wrong. Spoiler: nothing ever was.
Until early March 2025.
I thought I had a hernia on my right side, got another CT, and—shocker—no hernia. But the scan did show something strange. The report basically said, in very intimidating medical language, “could be an adrenal adenoma…or a pseudoaneurysm of the splenic artery.” Naturally, I Googled pseudoaneurysm like a responsible adult and immediately regretted it. That’s the version where only one layer of the artery balloons instead of all three layers—which is basically the “this might explode soon” edition of an aneurysm. So yeah, not good.
As I am in the military and was set to transfer overseas, this raised some red flags and received a ton of attention, as I had already cleared my overseas screening. In short, the full complement of my medical facility was on the case. A dedicated CT scan to the left side of my abdomen showed it wasn’t a pseudoaneurysm, but just a run-of-the-mill splenic artery aneurysm measuring around 2.9 cm at its largest diameter. That number will change constantly depending on which doctor you ask and how they’re holding the ruler that day.
So, an incidental finding of an aneurysm was confirmed. No symptoms. No family history. No explanation. Just…there. Like a surprise guest that refuses to leave. Sheer luck, I might imagine. I was super annoyed/upset/confused that I had it, but also super thankful it was found. I now could monitor it closely and be able to tell someone exactly what the problem was if I ever found myself in excruciating pain in that area. Here is the kicker: the vascular surgeons at Walter Reed Hospital reviewed the new scans and were able to retrieve and review all my previous scans and found the same aneurysm, undiagnosed, dating back to my 2017 scan. They said it was the same size back then as it is now (just under 3.0 cm this time). Same vibe. Just quietly existing for 8 years like it was paying rent. At that point, the plan was simple: monitor it and move on with life. Or so I thought.
While on leave, in between commands, and before I shipped off overseas, I saw another doc at University of Miami Vascular Surgery. Once again confirmed (obviously), sized it at 2.7 cm, and said it did not meet the threshold for repair—but would happily fix it if I wanted. I was in no mood to lose my spleen in a worst-case scenario event at that time, so I passed on the repair procedure with him. Up to this point, I have spoken to or was in regular communication with four vascular surgeons. They all spoke identically on key points regarding my aneurysm: it is just under the threshold for repair (<3 cm), it has been stable for quite some time, it is calcified, and that a repair procedure WILL BE needed at some point in my life. That last point stuck with me. Combine that with still being somewhat young (and allegedly still internally moist), and it started to feel like maybe sooner is better than later.
Fast forward to my overseas transition. I got the clear from the Walter Reed docs to move forward with my transfer, with the requirement that the SAA be monitored. I found a new vascular surgeon at a hospital in my new location. I told him the backstory, got a CT scan, and received a report measuring it at 3.1 cm. If memory serves, around this time I started feeling some pressure in my upper left abdomen. Not pain—just…something. I could not describe it, but I felt it mostly in the gym, like something was sliding or shifting. Was it in my head? Could be. But knowing now, without a shadow of a doubt, that there is an aneurysm in that area made me nervous that it would rupture as I squatted or deadlifted the immense weight that I’m used to throwing around (I actually never stopped working out or changed my workout intensity). This feeling in my abdomen was the primary reason I started considering moving forward with the repair. It also made me extremely curious because, if that sensation was related to the aneurysm, why did I feel it now after 8 years of being asymptomatic? Remember the “older, drier, less moist” part I talked about earlier? Here we revisit it again. Am I more prone to feeling the aneurysm now that I am getting older? I was convinced I was.
My new vascular surgeon then performed an angiogram. An angiogram is a 3D mapping of the SAA using a fancy CT scanner. The images/video from the angiogram basically give us a better picture to see what we are up against and are ultimately used in planning the attack. Much to my displeasure, I was not asleep during this procedure but was merely sedated (more on that shortly). The doc goes through the femoral artery (right side of my groin) with some metal tube that travels to the splenic artery and hangs out around the aneurysm. This metal tube, once in the vicinity of the aneurysm, turns into something like a pit viper and starts spitting out contrast dye. This is happening as you sit above a huge CT scan machine that is constantly whirling around you. This metal tube spitting, this big device scanning and whirling, and a doc digging in your leg—that was the case for like 60 minutes. I am awake during all of this, albeit in la-la land, watching the snake spit contrast and asking the doc, who is digging in my femoral artery with metal tubes, for more drugs. The doctor said no—with attitude. This made me slightly angry, as I think at that time I deserved more. I am fairly sure I was feeling the tubes moving inside me and was not a fan of it.
So, you would think being semi-awake for this I would have been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t that bad. I did not feel much as local anesthetic was also used around the insertion site. What I did feel, though, was the method they used to close/seal the wound once finished. They basically ball up a cloth of some sort until it is as hard as a rock and put pressure on the insertion site—a site which is right next to my most sensitive real estate. For 30 minutes, I repeat, 30 minutes, a 200-pound stocky male nurse put his entire body weight behind jamming this ball against the insertion point. It was absolutely unbearable, even with sedation and anesthetic. I swear I wanted to smash his jaw for this torment he was putting me through. It was by far the most painful part of this procedure and ranks as one of the most unpleasant experiences in my life. It also left bruises galore all over that delicate and sensitive area, which lasted for about 10 days. Absolutely killer! Now I won't bore you with the details of my post-op time in the hospital, as they were pretty standard, but for the next seven days at home once discharged, I battled intense nausea that I am convinced was from the industrial amount of contrast dye that pit viper pumped into me. The soreness and bruising subsided, but that nausea was killer.
Now it is decision time. Angiogram showed everything looked perfect for repair—good access, good positioning, and all systems go. Wonderful! I now have the ammo for the repair procedure on deck for when I make the decision to get it done. I took this angiogram info and went to see another vascular surgeon at another, more renowned hospital (doctor #6). I gave the numerous disks containing all the CT scan images dating back to 2017 to this vascular surgeon (I did the same for the previous doc who performed the angiogram), and he measured the newest one at about 3.2 cm at its largest and said it had grown a bit since the CT scan back in March and 100% has grown since the 2017 image. I found this hard to believe but then, once again, thought about one of the initial vascular surgeons who talked about getting older and drier, and yada yada, and thought, “hey, this might really be the case.” I was still very hesitant to believe it grew that much in such a brief period when it remained the same size for eight years. Either way, this pushed me to my final decision. Get it done!
I showed up at the hospital at 6 AM, got an IV in my hand (one of the more painful things to occur for the procedure), and had some pre-op discussion with anesthesia folks and my vascular surgeon. By 7:30, I am in what is apparently the most expensive room in the hospital—feeling like a celebrity. I was like, sweet! Hope all these expensive gadgets are in tip-top shape. They then gave me the ‘juice’ to go to sleep. I hollered out a “good luck” to everyone in the room, surprised the anesthetist by staying awake a bit longer than the average bear, and then was gone with the wind. Next thing I know, I wake up and hear: “Procedure successful.”
Huge relief, because the alternatives included:
“We couldn’t reach it, this was a waste of time. Let us try this all again soon,” or “It ruptured, so we opened you up with a foot-long incision across your abdomen,”
and finally, “Good news, no more aneurysm, but you no longer have a spleen.”
So yeah… HUUUUGEEE relief!
After all that fun, it was now time for one of the real battles to take place. After the anesthesia effects wore off, they brought me to my room, and I destroyed lunch as I was starving (you must fast before procedure). This is the point when the anesthesia/steroid/pain medication/unknown medication reared their ugly side-effect faces and prompted the constipation to make an appearance.
This was not just some normal constipation; this was tactical-level, mission-disrupting constipation. It was making it hard to breathe, causing massive abdominal pain, and there was nothing I could do about it because the pain occurring at the insertion point while sitting on the toilet was soul-crushing. Bending my leg in that fashion so soon after it was dug into was a 10 out of 10 on the pain scale. I was literally caught between a rock and a hard place.
But finally, after four doses of stool softeners, a coffee, and 40 hours since my last bathroom visit, I achieved victory. I have never been more grateful for basic human functions. Pain from breathing and in my abdomen subsided. I still had pain at the insertion point, but it was manageable, even without meds.
So here we are. Procedure done. Stent in place. Still in the hospital as I write this. I now must take two types of platelet meds (blood thinners). Clopidogrel for only a few months and baby aspirin apparently for the rest of my life—something I am not too thrilled about. The reason for this is to avoid thrombosis (clotting) of the stent, which could lead to a splenectomy. Not an ideal outcome, and it would make the experience of living through those two hundred pounds of pressure and next-level constipation all for nothing.
And that’s the story. A few details are probably missing, but you get the picture. If you find yourself in a similar situation: being young and healthy helps—a lot, monitoring is fine…until it isn’t, angiograms should be done concurrently with the actual procedure (some vascular surgeons will do this and can elaborate more if needed), and the real enemy might be constipation.
I did a ton of research and talked to more vascular surgeons than I think I should have, so I now consider myself a highly unqualified expert. I am happy to answer questions or be a digital shoulder to lean on. I will update as things progress—and hopefully, this stent and I become lifelong friends.
I tried to keep this story light and somewhat playful to show that it’s completely manageable, but it is still a serious situation that requires proper guidance and oversight from vascular surgeons. If it’s caught early, there’s really not much to worry about beyond deciding when and where to have it repaired. Left unchecked, I’m sure it would have grown significantly over time—and the mental strain of living with a ticking time bomb inside my body would have been too tough to handle. If you can address it in a controlled setting of your choosing, it is leaps and bounds better than figuring it out after a rupture. From what I have read, the pain from a rupture is absolutely horrendous and can even cause you to faint. Take it slowly, get the right guidance, and manage it on your terms.
Good luck!