A week after my two discs exploded, I had my very first spinal surgery.
The surgery was urgently required. When my second disc burst, the extrusion — 4cm — traveled up through my spinal canal, on its way toward my brain. (An extrusion happens when the gelatinous center of the disc bursts through the disc's wall.) Dr. Jones* performed laminectomies at both L4-5 and L5-S1. (A laminectomy is the removal of a piece of bone, on one side of the vertebra, right next to the "spinous process" — that's the thing that sticks out in the middle of the spine.) My morphine allergy was diagnosed when Dr. Jones prescribed it for my post-surgery pain: I vomited repeatedly after every dose. Nothing is worse.
I had a four-inch brand new three day-old surgical incision on my lower spine. The day after surgery, with help, I got out of bed and used the bathroom then shuffled a few yards down the hall and back, with a cane. The surgery seemed to resolve the acute leg pain, though most of my shin was completely numb. Dr. Jones said not to worry, sensation would return though it may take a while.
I remember cold — mid-January — while I waited for my partner to pick me up at the curb outside the hospital. My mom was with me and she knew I was hurting. I remember her holding my hand so firmly, our palms our emotions, unspoken but deeply felt. She understood.
I remember when JT showed up with the 4-door standard black Jetta, and I took one look at the car and said, "No way." It didn't matter the front seat was reclined back as far as it could possibly go, there was no way for me to get into the car. There was a lot of encouragement from my mom. Less from JT. She suggested I sit down right away, like jumping into cold water or ripping off a band-aid. My response to that was something like, Are you serious?! Do you not understand what I am feeling right now?
It took about 25 minutes to get me situated in the passenger seat and I needed JT to drive slowly; every bump and every shift of every gear sent shots of pain into the lower half of my body.
I asked JT to pull over and open the sunroof and she looked at me like I was a nutcase because it was the middle of January. I asked her to open it anyway. I didn't want to stare at the dashboard. Or the glove compartment. Or the seatbelt haphazardly attached to me. I needed to see and feel outside.
JT opened the sunroof and pulled back onto the street. I played a game inside my head: I counted every traffic light, every turn, trying to guess when we'd be home, staring up through the sunroof at the bright, cold sky, taking in deep breaths. Every stop sign or red light was a series of flares. Every start or a green light was a red-hot knife. I wanted to cut off my leg.
I resisted the temptation to strangle Dr. Jones when I went back to see him a few weeks post-op. He gave me a once-over then looked at my incision. "Looks good," he said. "You’ve healed well, for a girl."
The numbness in my shin never went away.
*Doctor names changed for privacy.