Yob frontman Mike Scheidt has been suffering from a digestive disease called diverticulitis and it has gotten progressively worse since he was diagnosed with it in November 2016. A gofundme page was created along with a benefit show to be held on March 16 in Portland, Oregon. Family, friends, and fans have donated over $16,000 already in support for him to fully recover and payoff the increased medical expenses.

The band shared Scheidt’s gratitude from the amount of donations surpassing 50% of their goal:

“I am completely overwhelmed by the love and support that is being shared with me. I find myself running out of adequate words to express my gratitude, which reaches the sky and back. We’ve achieved over 50% of our goal, in one day, because of you. I promise I will do everything in my power to heal, rebuild, and come back stronger than ever. I will give everything I have in me. I am deeply honored to be a part of our community, and to be in your loving care. Thank you so very, very much.”

Scheidt wrote an extensive essay on Noisey explaining his condition in full detail.

On his disease he stated:

“I could write an entire essay on its details alone, but I do not want to digress from the meat of what I have to say about my experience. Full descriptions of diverticulitis are Google-able and trust me, you do not want it.

He discussed his recovery process when diagnosed in November, recalling the doctor telling him if he had another attack within six months he would have to undergo surgery. It wasn’t until roughly two months later on January 21st when Scheidt had another attack. He mentioned wanting to handle it himself via home remedies to continue with scheduled Yob shows at Saint Vitus Bar and in Austin Texas. However, his pain continued to grow. While getting groceries with his girlfriend the next day, the pain struck him even harder.

Scheidt explained:

When we went to the store, in the deli section to be exact, a bout of pain hit me so hard the entire room spun and I broke out in a cold sweat. I stood there clutching the shopping cart until Kris found me, and I told her we needed to leave, like, now. When we returned home a few minutes later, I called my mother. She’s been working in the healthcare field for 25 years, and has seen a lot, so I asked for her advice. She drove over, picked us up and took us to the ER immediately. We arrived around 3PM.”

He discussed his attempt to toughen up, waiting out the ER for a few hours and considered heading back home. He mentioned the pain returned in waves. By the time he was examined, he couldn’t take off his clothes, needing his mother and girlfriend to assist and describing the pain as:

“Pausing to describe these particular moments of pain, what I can say is this. There was no past, no future, no “me,” no room that I was in, no body that I inhabited, no band, no family, and also no fear or sadness either. It was pure, and I mean pure pain, like being plugged into the light socket of all that is—a raw nerve ending of the universe.”

While going into detail of his surgery process, he reiterated the doctor telling him if he waited one more day, he could have died:

“He did say if I had waited one more day to go to the doctor, which was indeed my original plan, that my organs would have failed within hours, and I would have died.”

As time passed, Scheidt started to regain his strength and unfortunately, another wave of pain hit:

“I told the nurse my pain was returning. Within seconds I went into full-body rigors for what seemed like forever. I rooted my tongue to the bottom of my lower teeth and gums so I wouldn’t bite it. My daughter Maggie was there. She’s four months away from becoming a respiratory therapist. She was at the hospital and about to head home after a clinical she attended earlier. She held me while I shivered and shook uncontrollably, and whispered into my ear that I would be OK.

‘Critical Rapid Response, 7 Floor’ was what my mother heard on the radio in her office; she works as a systems analyst for the hospital I was being treated in. That was about me. As I shook in rigors while my daughter held me, I was so proud of her. I thought, “She’s going to help so many people.” She was steely cool as her own father was seizing. The other thought that crossed my mind was that if I died then and there, at least it would be in the arms of someone I loved. My body temperature went from normal to 103 degrees in two minutes time. I don’t know what they did but somehow, eventually, my body calmed down.”

This was when Scheidt realized he needed surgery very soon resulting in the procedure on January 25th which reminded him of a Carcass song:

“Apparently, it was a real mess inside my abdomen. It was filled with air, the spreading infection, and worse. In essence, I was now a living Carcass song. (I’d like to think it was “Swarming Vulgar Mass Of Infected Virulency”, but I digress). It took them seven hours to clean up my insides, take out the infected part of my sigmoid colon, and sew the healthy parts together.”

Scheidt was a mess for a few days, vomiting meds out of his system and spending hours hallucinating:

“The best hallucination I had was when a large, fat grey cat jumped on the bed purring loudly, walked up with lover eyes and rested on my chest. I held it close while we touched nose to nose. I’m semi-convinced that imaginary spirit cat was some kind of divine intervention, it was so wonderful.

We finally happened upon a golden combo of oral pain meds that worked, and my condition improved.”

He discussed his discharge on January 31st and having a follow-up surgery, involving a (hopefully) shorter hospital stay. He is confident that he will be in the clear after the second run. You can view the full essay on Noisey Vice here.

Over the last few weeks, an overwhelming amount of fans reached out to Scheidt, deeply concerned about his condition.

Last week, he responded on his Facebook:

I’ve been getting asked a lot about how I’m doing, receiving multiple messages of love and support daily. I am very grateful! I am not able to keep up with responding to all of the messages coming in. Please know I value each and every one and that I ever marvel at how lucky and fortunate I am.

Truth is, my energy comes and goes. One minute I’m responding to messages and and texts with gusto. Other times, most times, it’s not unlike a puppy who wants to keep tearing shit up forever. But. I. Just. Can’t. Keep. My. Eyes. Open.

My Clint Eastwood nature does not allow me to acknowledge physical pain gracefully. I am either silent about it, or making bad jokes about it Predator-The Movie style. Anyone who’s seen me in person since my surgery, gets a look on their face like “whoah dude”. I save my best photos for the internet like everyone else, haha. I’m down to between 170 to 173 libs, which is solidly 20 lbs less than the recent Neurosis shows.

The nature of my surgery is considered high on the list of dangerous ones, and when I entered the ER, I was dying, literally. A few more hours, and I would have been beyond help. I don’t mean to harp on this, but I do mean to say my recovery is going to be a while still, and I go in and out of being emotional, loopy, introspective, even depressed for moments. I was warned that latter part might happen. I’m raw and even more sensitive than normal.

I’m also in some ways happier than I’ve ever been, coupled with a strange quickening where my flaws and ignorance are blaring in my face. The observations are real, not Memorex 🙂 I am resolved more than ever to own and learn from my darkness, and allow it a chair on the inner counsel table to speak it’s mind, as sometimes there is wisdom to be found there. It just won’t be at the lead seat.

So once again, if I don’t respond to a text or message, please know I fully intend to get to it when I am on an upswing. I am still doing well, and my recovery plan is on track. I just don’t have quick answers when asked how I’m doing. All the same, I am so grateful for the good energy and love, and know it really matters, to me, and really to world in general. Let’s keep that shit alive together.

With Love,