The three month anniversary of my surgery was last week. It was a milestone marked by a visit to my surgeon. He always comes into the examining room with a look of trepidation–what horrors have I wrought on this innocent woman? This time, however, he was almost cheered when I showed off my ability to scratch the top of my head with my right arm and sorta do the same with my left.
January 6 I walked into Cedars Sinai Medical Center expecting a two day stay and about a week till I was on my feet again. Really. This is what the surgeon told me. He probably larded those sentences with qualifiers like “usually” and “typically” and “for most people”, but of course I didn’t pay much attention. The only thing I was even vaguely worried about was that he would sneeze and accidentally sever something crucial in my spinal cord leaving me a parapalegic. (Yes. My imagination runs that way and, in fact, my last words to him in the OR were, “Don’t sneeze” which, frankly, befuddled him.)
However, once I played out what life would be like in a wheelchair, I was okay: I’d still be able to do all the things that make my life meaningful–the writing, the art, the teaching, etc.–because they require the use of arms and hands, not legs. Clearly my dramatic vision didn’t extend to the realm of quadripeligia.
So when I walked into that hospital, my bag was packed for a short stay, but one in which I would be productive, as usual. I took, of course, my iPhone and my iPad, as well as the external backup battery I would certainly need if there wasn’t a plug near my bed. I had work to do, things to write, a second term of the MidLifeBloggers Writers Workshop to plan.
I packed a bathrobe and toiletries and spent some time considering what would be the best makeup to take with me. I remembered from my hospital stay ten years ago that the bed tables had a mirror that swung up and I envisioned applying my makeup so–. Well, I’m not sure what scenario I had in mind, although the mother who has just given birth and is receiving her first visitors comes to mind.
We now know that none of that happened. Instead, the surgery was a success, and I am left to deal with the ravages that the compressed spinal cord caused over the past couple of years. I thought that as soon as they decompressed my spinal cord, everything would go back to the way it was before. It would be as if I had gone to Lourdes. Instead, I’ve gone back to the way I was just before the surgery, when I was dealing with My New Old Age. Now, for an added filip (or fuck you actually), my deltoid muscles have gone on strike.
As long as I am sitting or moseying around my house, I have the illusion that ‘hey Jack, I’m okay.’ But then I go out, and the true extent of my “deficits” is made manifest, and the deltoids are the least of what’s standing between me and where i should be physically. Consequently, for the first time in a long time, I need a datebook to keep track of my engagements. There’s OT and PT and ST, all at Northridge Hospital’s Physical Rehab Department.
A friend asked me the other day how I was feeling, and I answered–determined. I will return to the glorious physical self I never was before. This little adventure has convinced me that my days of lackluster exercise habits are over. For most of my life, my good genes gave me a body that didn’t need much to stay fit and in shape. Even when I tried, I never got to the point where I liked to exercise or, really, be physically active. Now, however, I see what the future holds for me for I don’t devote a significant portion of my energy to working out in one way or another. I have lots of thoughts on aging, and doing it in a way that renders me less of the person I can be is acceptable.
