Surgical Interlude

This weekend Dave and I took the dogs on a drive to our favorite little mountain town, Salida. The weather was hot, the sun was bright, and the river was full of happy people enjoying a dip in the icy rushing waters of the Arkansas River.

For me the trip was much like those last few days of summer before school, a last getaway, a chance to enjoy yourself before the hard work begins anew. Because tomorrow we will rise early in the morning and head to the Denver neurosurgical center where I will undergo spinal fusion surgery.

Over the past six months, I've learned that many people know someone who has gone through this surgery. For the most part, with a few exceptions, the patients have been pleased with the results and had positive outcomes. I am hoping for the same.

When I was first told this might be the last option available to relieve years worth of pain, several somewhat legitimate but irrational fears crossed my mind. What if I don't survive the operation? What if I'm paralyzed? I do understand that my fears have little basis in fact. After all, that's what makes them irrational, isn't it? Nevertheless, I indulged them anyway.

Here's why: My family does not have a good track record in terms of longevity. Two of my closest uncles were lost at age 47 and 53. A cousin died at the young age of 52. My eldest brother passed away shortly after his 55th birthday. In secret, I've long told myself that if I could just get through my fifties, I'd be home free. Then along came this problem and it was decision time. What to do?

Dave reminds me that I do not share the same health and lifestyle issues as my uncles, my cousin, or even my brother. Thankfully Dave is more rational and logical than me. Since he gives more credence to science than emotional arguments and--unlike me--is not prone to overly dramatic interpretations of fact, he is usually able to talk me down from the high ledges I seek when I'm afraid.

So off we go as I begin this surgical interlude in my life, a challenging time between the first act--in which I suffered more than was really necessary--and the future scenes yet to be written.

The past few months have put a dent in my journaling. An unpleasant running commentary has taken control of my thoughts and virtually silenced the writer within. However, my inner wordsmith assures me that once the softly lilting intermission music has ended, she stands at the ready, poised to write the second act. And she is prepared to write scenes for an actor not at all in pain.

Stay tuned…

The Color of Pain

Kutsuu--the Japanese symbol for pain

Recently my youngest niece took a nasty spill while snowboarding. The Ski Patrol evacuated her from the mountain to a nearby medical center where they determined she had suffered from badly torn ligaments, an injury that will require reconstructive knee surgery. Julie is a resilient and strong young woman; I have no doubt that she will be a trooper throughout her surgery and therapy, and that she will soon find her way back to the sport she loves.

When I heard of Julie's accident, it took me back to an April evening thirty-three years ago when my life changed. Barely 21, I was on my way to meet a friend for a night of dancing when something went terribly wrong. I had some sort of mysterious seizure while driving, and plowed my beautiful new chocolate-brown Camaro right into a tree.

To this day I have no memory of the accident. It took me several months to even remember the events that preceded my ill-fated trip to the local disco parlor. I regained consciousness in the hospital where I found myself hooked up to multiple tubes, a white gauze turban wrapped around my head, ice packs and bandages on my legs and arms, a pair of hand-wringing parents right by my side.

I must have looked quite a sight but insisted I was fine because it didn't hurt all that much. Morphine, I was told, was keeping the pain at bay. Still, since I felt almost no pain, it couldn't be that bad, right? It was then I was told about the damage my body had endured.

The impact had thrown me forward so that the steering column was thrust into the center of my chest, breaking several ribs. My head broke the windshield and I sustained multiple cuts on my skull, an eyelid, and down one cheek. The ashtray sliced my knee open, requiring nearly 100 stitches. Both my right leg and arm were twisted horribly as my body was then propelled backwards, like a blonde Crash Test Dummy, until it landed in an unnatural position between the bucket seats.

No, I was not wearing a seat belt and yes, I realize I would not have been hurt so badly had I done so. Not only was this in the days before mandatory seat belt usage laws, but I was also 21 and as often happens, thought myself invincible.

After three days in the hospital's intensive care unit, I was moved to a regular room. The morphine was taken away and at last I had to face the pain, a sensation with a hue I can only describe as bright, hot, searing red.

My broken ribs produced the worst misery, aggravated and prolonged by the use of crutches. Eventually, slowly, my body began to heal and I was walking again. But I never felt as though I walked correctly, and my back has never been right. Over the years, each new tinge of pain and odd sensation has been absorbed and made part of my new reality. It may take a few weeks to adapt and then on you go, pushing ever forward.

Once many years ago, a massage therapist told me, "Pain must be a beautiful thing, because we have so much of it in our lives." Maybe she was right, I don't know. Personally I could do quite nicely if I were to lose a big chunk of the pain I have acquired since that dark April night.

A new pain arrived on the scene a few years ago and I finally met my match. After acupuncture and chiropractic treatments, physical and massage therapy, and even electronic nerve stimulation, this is one affliction I find myself incapable of incorporating into my world.

Its color is every bit as bright red as the color of pain I remember experiencing in that hospital room long ago. So I have chosen to undergo a radical elective surgery this summer, hoping that it will provide relief.

Pain, the old saying goes, toughens the soul. What I've decided, however, is that I believe my soul is already tough enough.