Underneath It All...I think I'm Afraid When There's Nothing Wrong

(artist:Cyndi Lauper/song: Fearless)

I skew slightly crazy. My friends and family know this to be true. I am the queen of irrational fear. For example, my fear of flying is not your run-of-the-mill fear of flying. Mine only started after I got engaged and finally had something good happening in my life; I convinced myself something awful would happen before I made it down the aisle. My then-fiancé put it to me best with, "If God hates you so much, why is he taking 200 other people?" Touché. My pretend-mom, who I have to call before every flight, always says, "Al (she calls me Al), is this a rational thought?" NO! But I still can't control the fear.

And that trick is called "Xanax".

So when I was cleared for PT and able to go outside on my own, I was terrified. I just knew I would be violently attacked - most likely with my cane - while I was taking my daily 10-minute walks. I was hyper-aware of my surroundings and suspicious of everyone. They all wanted to maim me. Especially that 4-year-old kid that rides his scooter in front of his dad's bodega. I felt so exposed, vulnerable and weak, and overwhelmingly afraid. So in addition to overcoming the physical limitations of back surgery, I would have to overcome the mental ones. 

During one of my PT sessions, my therapist pointed out that I was walking really stiffly. I told her that I was afraid of doing something that might hurt my back and land me in the hospital again. Then she sat me down and explained that, although we are conditioned to believe that our spines and backs are extremely fragile - whether through adverts for pain meds or stories of woe from our achy friends - they are actually very strong and malleable.  Since it only took about half a session for her to pick up on my brand of crazy, she told me that this was yet another irrational fear and that I should stop walking like a robot. Then she promptly added exercises that forced me to twist and turn my spine.

I was so scared my spine would snap like a twig. It didn't...

And guess what, I didn't break in half. Nor did anyone attack me on on the street in my most physically vulnerable moments. (I've also never been in a plane crash.) Now, if I can apply that same rational thinking to my overall life, the scared girl that wrote this post on her 40th birthday, might be damn near perfect by her 50th. Imagine that. 

If it's on a greeting card, you know it's true.

How Long? Tell Me, How Long?

(song: Wait For Spring To Come/artist: John Butler Trio)



Jan 21, 2016

On the advice of my surgeon at my 3-week follow-up, today I saw neurologist Dr. Dora Leung at Hospital for Special Surgery. The purpose of the visit was to assess the extent of the nerve damage and (hopefully) get some idea of a time frame for my recovery. 

Ready to be (literally) poked and prodded.

After I got dressed in the all-too-familiar hospital gown, Dr. Leung performed a series of tests ranging from banging on my joints with a rubber mallet to test my reflexes, to poking me with a tiny pin EVERYWHERE. She started around my shoulders and gradually worked her way down. Once she got around the area affected by the saddle paresthesia, okay my butt, the pricking became less and less painful until I finally said, "I have no idea where you are."In addition to my numb lady parts, there's still some numbness in my shins. I'm not going to bleed out if I cut myself shaving so it's not all that worrisome.

She really lost me at S5...

And then we did a series of balance and strength tests in the hallway. My balance sucks, I can't lift my toes off the ground or walk on my heals. I can walk on my toes though, so that's a huge post-surgery victory. I'll take it where I can get it.

After I got dressed, she gave me the straight dope:

• The saddle paresthesia is sensory nerve damage, most likely sustained during surgery since "hammers and chisels are involved in order to get the bone off the nerve". And while nerves have the ability to regenerate, apparently sensory nerves are not as "hearty" as motor nerves so this may never completely go away. She recommends I see a urologist since my new-found bladder control superpowers are of concern. On the plus side, painless bikini waxes for life. Cup's half full? 
• The nerves that control my feet are (fortunately) the heartier motor nerves, which can better sustain surgery trauma and are more likely to recover completely. Hooray!
• She recommends continued use of the cane as an indicator to others that, while I may look normal, speed and balance are not on my side so it will serve as a "FALL RISK" prop. And let me tell you something, when you're using a cane, people get the hell out of your way. I feel like Moses on the subway platform.

Cane coming through!

• She tells me that PT (which I started the week before) is the way to go and advises lots of stretching so the Achilles doesn't get too tight and cause compromised walking. She tells me that tonic water, quinine specifically, is good for muscle cramps. She didn't say I shouldn't add gin, so I take this an open invitation to develop a raging drinking habit while I recover.
• She recommends shoes with more ankle support for longer distance walking so I immediately buy these jazzy numbers.

Hip Cripple.

I ask her to ball-park a time-frame, while promising not to sue if she's wrong. She's reluctant to give me what I want so she says things like, "your legs are long and the nerves go all the way down" and "very slow process" and "like watching grass grow". And then she FINALLY says, "You're young and healthy. I think you have potential for a full recovery. Be patient. Give it 12-18 months."

All I heard was "12-18 months"...

This Is Your New Thing Now

(song: New Thing Now/artist: Shawn Colvin)


I had an epiphany of sorts during therapy (psycho, not physical) this week.

In 2011, I got an email from Beachbody®, telling me about an audition two days later for the Brazil Butt Lift® infomercial. Without hesitation, I went, got the job, and one week later I started a three-month intensive that would change my body - and my life - for the better. Had I been able to mull over the decision, knowing how hard it was going to be, I would have been way too scared to do it. Because of the time-sensitivity, I wasn't allowed to let my head talk me out of it.

It was so hard. It hurt a lot. I cried, I cursed, I wanted to quit sometimes. But I didn’t quit. I was focused and determined and disciplined, and I finished. I learned that I’m so much stronger - physically and mentally - than I had ever given myself credit. And I got an unimaginable new lease on life that led to great opportunities and experiences. Being fit became my thing. Five years later, it's still one of my things.

And I've got the Facebook (and Instagram!) page to prove it. 

So as I was chatting with my therapist, I thought out loud, "Perhaps this is a formula that works for someone that overthinks EVERYTHING". Because of the dangers associated with a crushed nerve, I didn’t get to mull over the decision to have back surgery. I just consented and was under the knife 48 hours later. And it sucked. And the work I have to do is so hard. It hurts a lot. I cry. I curse. I want to quit sometimes. But I won’t quit. I’ll stay focused, and determined and disciplined. And just maybe this is the catalyst to another new lease on life, that leads to even greater personal growth and experience. Unlike 2011 me, I already know I'm capable. 

Now recovery is my thing.

Light bulb!

I've Seen This Room And I've Walked This Floor

(song: Hallelujah/ artist: Leonard Cohen)

I started physical therapy on January 14th. Prior to being cleared for PT by my surgeon, my only sanctioned activity was walking for 10 minutes at a time. That usually occurred in and around my apartment while wearing pajamas.

My first photographed PT walk. I was so high on pain meds.

I can go anywhere for PT but because I loved my experience at HSS, I decided it's worth the twice-a-week schlep from Brooklyn to Manhattan's upper east side to stay at the facility "where the world comes to get back in the game". I've been to PT many times before, for back and ankle issues. I knew HSS would have everything and everyone I needed to ensure I come back stronger and better.

See! It's right there on the logo.

When I first started, I couldn't even do a bridge without severe cramping because my poor glutes and hamstrings had been dormant for 6 weeks.  My physical therapist had me do "mini squats" (because there was no way I could press myself up from a real squat) and, oh my god I could not believe how dead my leg muscles were! I was exhausted after one set of 10. (If the Butt Master saw me now, his heart would break. There's no way this ass could pass the pencil test.) I practiced the staircase, and then got sent home with some simple exercises to do between sessions.

Jan 14th, 2015: First day of the rest of  my life.

At home, being the best PT patient ever.

                     

Graduated to Bird Dog by session 5. BOOM!

Because I'm determined to be the best PT patient ever, my 7 sessions of PT have seen me graduate to heavier resistance bands and more advanced leg work. I'm getting stronger. Balance is an issue but that's part of the nerve damage stuff as well as lack of strength. I have to be patient. Which is so damn hard for me.

Pretty much.

I Love The People Of My Village

(song: People of My Village/artist: Rusted Root)


New York City can be a hard place. It's expensive, it's fast, and everyone is busy. I have to schedule my son's play dates weeks in advance to work around the sports/Mandarin/chess lessons of his over scheduled 8-year-old city kid counterparts. When disaster struck without warning and rendered this staffless housewife unable to fulfill her daily duties, there was a slight panic. I don't often find myself wishing I still lived in my hometown, but this was the exception. I needed my pretend-mom, my cousin, my core girls, my people. I needed help.

Pretend-mom and cousin: my go-to girls.

Because I still struggle with the whole self-worth issue, I'm not the kind of person that expects help. In fact, I'm the kind of person that feels weirdly uncomfortable when people do nice things for me. (I know, totally fucked up. Just one of many things I'm working on in therapy.) But then, something incredible happened, people helped. My mother-in-law stayed with my son and husband during the week I spent in the hospital. One sister-in-law took over the pre-Christmas duties; chief among them, taking my son to see Santa. Another sister-in-law took time to come sit with me at the hospital every day, and she advocated for my room change when my first roommate proved to be an epic nightmare. When I came home, friends delivered homemade meals and groceries, parents from my son's school pitched in with pick-up and drop-off, and invited my son for play dates so that the disruption to his life was minimal. Friends and family near and far sent goodies, flowers, books, magazines, DVDs, and loads of supportive and kind messages. I was overwhelmed by the kindness and support.
 

My Georgia girls know that chocolate covered Oreos advance the healing process.

During my first post-hospital week, my husband worked from home. He was incredible; juggling his busy work schedule while caring for our son and helping me do EVERYTHING - dressing me, helping me use the bathroom, standing guard while I showered so I didn't fall, walking me around the block for my doctor-ordered daily movement, and doing the household chores. (I had to teach a 44-year-old man how to use a washing machine, but I'm willing to overlook that given he listened to me weep endlessly. But honey, feel free to run a load or two anytime the mood strikes you.) 

I didn't ask, people just did. And it means the world to me to know that kindness  and selflessness still exist in our increasingly busy and self-entitled world. It inspired me to reevaluate my own behavior and make more time for friends and family whose presence in my life I often take for granted. If these are the values Ted Cruz was talking about, then I am proud to call myself a New Yorker.

Thank you to everyone that called, messaged, visited, sent provisions and gifts, helped my family, helped me.  

Food, flowers and laughs. The perfect recovery trifecta.

Condition: Grounded, But Determined To Try

(song: Learning to Fly/artist: Pink Floyd)



Jan. 5, 2016

Today was my 3-week follow-up with Dr. Rawlins, my surgeon from Hospital for Special Surgery.  You might recall that we didn't have a lot of time to get to know each other as I only met him 48 hours before he sliced into my back, so it was nice to see him under slightly better circumstances. We reminisced about the day we met. He said, "You were essentially paralyzed when you came in." And we laughed and laughed...

A hell of a lot happier and ready to make recovery my bitch.

I update him on my post-surgery progress. Three weeks after surgery:

• I am now able to slide my feet into my shoes all by myself! (Seriously, I couldn't do that for the three weeks prior to surgery.) My toes have feeling and they can mostly grip again. I still can't use my toes to ease my shoes off the back of my foot, but I'll get there. 
• The tops of my feet are no longer numb! Hopefully this is a positive sign that means I didn't sustain permanent nerve damage. Cautiously optimistic. 
• My shins are still numb.
• My lady business is still numb. (If you're a medical professional, this is called saddle paresthesia. If you've ever sat on a bike seat or had a Brazilian bikini wax, it's that whole area...)
• I still have footdrop. Though it's not as pronounced as it was before surgery, it's still there, and that sucks big time. 

Now that I'm used to being asked about my bathroom functions, when that subject comes up, I tell him that while I get the sensation of needing to go to the bathroom, I am now able to sleep through the night without getting up to pee. If you've ever given birth vaginally and/or you're over 40-years-old, you know that's not normal. (In 2008, I was diagnosed with stress incontinence after I peed through my Spanx while dancing to Jump Around at a wedding, so yeah, my newfound ability to go for more than eight hours without peeing raises a flag.) For this and the other remaining numbness, he refers me to a neurologist for further testing of the nerve damage.

He was happy with my progress but warned that "some of the numbness may never go away". And while I do not find this remotely comforting, if it only means a lifetime of pain-free bikini waxes, that's pretty much like gaining a superpower so I can totally live with that outcome.

Then he cleared me for physical therapy! He says, "Getting the strength back in your legs is completely up to you now." No shit. It's going to be so fucking hard and tedious and frustrating and I just wish I could blink myself one year into the future a la "I Dream of Jeannie", but I can't, so I'm going to work my ass off because I hate being like this more than I hate hard work. So...here I go!

Is it 2017 yet?!

I'm Only Sad In A Natural Way

(song: The Paris Match/artist: The Style Council)

I think the most difficult part of this  temporarily (hopefully) life-altering injury and surgery are the extreme emotional swings I'm experiencing.* I'm the first to admit that I skew more dramatic than others; I feel every emotion with my whole self. And man, was my whole self feeling super sad when this nightmare started in November. It was as if my flame had been snuffed out. The 17 days I was in-waiting before my first appointment at Hospital For Special Surgery, were dark days. I simply could not find any joy. I appeared emotionless. I was so scared. I didn't know what was happening to my body and I sunk to an emotional low I hadn't experienced since postpartum depression punched me in the gut after the birth of my son. After the surgery, that sadness persisted but it was different. Whereas the sadness prior to surgery was fear-based, after surgery, I felt like I was grieving a loss. And well, I was. I am. I lost the use of my legs. I lost my ability to run. Though it's better, I still have foot-drop so I walk like a duck. I can't play with my son. I can't walk him to school. I can't hold him on my lap. I couldn't take him to see Santa. I couldn't decorate my house for Christmas, or wrap my son's presents. I couldn't go to the bathroom on my own. I couldn't shower or dress myself without assistance. I am walking with a fucking cane! I'm angry and I'm sad. I'm scared I'll never be the same. 

Chair in the shower. Because I'm a fall risk now.

The first two weeks after surgery were by far the worst. The physical pain and the emotional pain were pretty much equal. I sobbed every day. Multiple times a day. (Never in front of my son.) When I woke up every morning and realized I still couldn't walk, I cried. When my husband had to help me onto the toilet - that feeling of utter helplessness and dependence was crushing to me - I cried. When my friends or family called or came to visit, I cried. I cried a lot.  

Here's the thing, y'all, I've only been fit for the last 5 of my 40 years on this earth. I just got into running in 2013. To go from running my best 5K race to needing a wheelchair in just 10 days, was devastating. And I was just coming out of the fog of my whole mid-life crisis thing. Good things were starting to happen; Work opportunities, exciting projects, and involvement at my son's school. I could see a path. It just felt like everything that makes me happy - outside of my family - was swiftly and violently, taken away. Then the path got foggy again.

November 15. My last race. (For awhile.)

 Listen, I haven't lost perspective. I know I'm not the only person in the world going through a shitty experience. Last year a good friend suffered an unimaginable loss when her husband died tragically, another lost her son,  a fellow neighborhood mom is fighting cancer like a champ (and she came over - with a homemade meal - to comfort me in my hour of need), two of my friends are in horrible custody battles, and my very own dad is battling COPD. So yeah, I get it, IT COULD BE WORSE. But just because I'm not dying doesn't devalue my feelings or my experience. And this is not the worst thing that's ever happened to me. It's the worst thing that's happening to me now and it just sucks. It sucks a lot. And even though this loss may be temporary, it needs to be grieved all-the-same. It doesn't mean I'm not going to work my ass off to get well, it just means I'm going to allow myself to feel what I feel when it comes up. 

My light will come back. I don't just believe that, I know that. Oh great, now I'm crying again.

Oh, sidewalks of Brooklyn, how I miss you.

 

 *For the record, I started writing this two weeks ago but sitting up too long is uncomfortable so my time at the computer is limited. I'm feeling MUCH better now, and I'm happy to report that I use the bathroom and shower all by myself now! And I only cry every other day...

I'm Much Obliged For Such a Pleasant Stay

(song: Ramble On/artist: Led Zeppelin)


If you're just joining us, my last post was all about the events that led to my emergency back surgery. Welcome.


My adventures at Hospital For Special Surgery: December 14 - 19

All smiles before surgery.

On oxy(gen) and Oxy(codone) after surgery.

Continuous leg massage. Heaven.

Timber!

The Bad:
A not uncommon but potentially dangerous complication during surgery meant I was on strict bed rest for 4 days. The first two days, I was on a liquid diet. My husband put a napkin under my face and literally spoon-fed me. Often while singing the Yankee Bean song from that  episode of Seinfeld. He's good that way. 

There was a lot of spit-taking.

I also had to be sponge-bathed (Hey Lidia!), and I sported a catheter all week, so I was totally Porky Pigging it the whole dang time.  And I was hopped up on Oxycodone which made me sweat profusely which then left me freezing while trapped in my saturated linens. 

And, the pain. Good lord, the pain.  Turns out, getting your back muscles sliced open hurts like a bitch. When I was lying on my back it felt like there was a lacrosse ball embedded in my tailbone. Two people had to help turn me because it was excruciating to turn myself.

And then...Marlene moved in. Marlene Rabinowitz* sounded like Harvey Firestein and was practically deaf so her cell phone conversations were always at an 11 and she talked exclusively on speakerphone. The night they wheeled the old bag in, she proceeded to call her pal Tony... at 12:30 in the damn morning, y'all. That was the moment I knew I had died and gone to hell. She screamed at her daughter for not coming to visit her, but the conversation would later reveal that her daughter HAS CANCER and was wildly sick from her chemo treatment. Anyone, I mean any one - she told a flower delivery guy how miserable she was - that passed her bed, got an earful of Marlene. I asked to be moved and was immediately accommodated. On my way out of the room, I heard Marlene say, "Where is she going? She was such a good roommate. So quiet. I hope I don't get a crazy one." Oh, Marlene. Bless your heart.

Ear buds, white noise app and a sleep mask still could not drown Marlene.

My next room had a way better view but the roommate was only slightly better. Andrea Friedman* spoke at a softer volume but her whiny nasally voice made her equal to Marlene on the annoying scale. She sounded like Estelle Costanza  and endlessly complained of pain. From the constant rotation of people she summoned to her bedside, I was able to glean that Andrea was a seasoned pill-popper and not satisfied with the measly strength of the hospital-administered pain meds. Luckily she brought a Ziplock freezer bag full of narcotics from her private collection. "Methadone, Oxy, Xanax", were among some of the names being bandied about. Mercifully, Andrea was moved to another floor and my last night was spent enjoying the silence and soaking in this view.

If you gotta be in the hospital, this doesn't suck.

The good: 
It turns out what the radiologist and the surgeon thought was a cyst was in fact just a part of the ruptured disc. My surgeon said it was one of the worst herniations he had ever seen. But hey, no cyst.

Hospital For Special Surgery was incredible from check-in to discharge. And even though it sucked not being able to lift my head, or pee in a toilet, the staff was wonderful! I had the best nurses and care aids. At the end of every shift, I felt like I had a new friend -- Hey Janet! My girl, Amy! Helga and Carol, I see you. 'Sup, Kryshnann. Lidia gave the most gentle sponge baths and preserved the sliver of dignity I had left as she somehow simultaneously bathed me and changed my sweat-soaked linens. The care I got far outweighed two shitty roommates. If I had to do it again, I'd go right back to HSS.

And I got so much love from family and friends. My sister-in-law, who lives near the hospital, visited every day and she made me stand up for myself when Marlene was driving me to the brink. I had hospital visitors and got flowers and goodies and messages, and all of it made me feel so loved. 

Feeling the love.

Honestly, for a housewife, it was like an all-inclusive vacation. I had a room with river view in a facility where people catered to my needs 24-hours-a-day. And they gave me drugs every three hours. Why would I ever want to go home?

On day 4, I finally got to raise my head. First 30 degrees for a few hours, then 45 degrees! I didn't get a splitting headache so I was cleared to take my first post-surgery steps. 

45 degrees!

A physical therapist guided me on my first walk. With the aid of a walker, I took my first steps toward recovery. As I walked out of my door and towards the nurses station, I began to sob. I felt so small and vulnerable and fragile. Broken. A massive wave of grief struck me when I didn't jump right out of bed and sprint down the hallway. I just kept thinking, "This is going to be so hard."

Cleared for take-off.

And, she's up!

On my last day, I was an emotional wreck. I sobbed intermittently all day. At noon, my friend Marisa walked into my room and it was if an angel had appeared. Marisa is a dancer, fitness model (we met when we did QVC spots for Brazil Butt Lift) AND she's a nurse. If she weren't so nice I would hate her for being so accomplished and so hot. She is also a back surgery survivor and completely understood how devastated I felt. She listened and nodded while I wept, and assured me that what I was feeling was normal and that it would get better. She was exactly who I needed to see on my last day. After she left, I had my last sponge bath - This time sitting up in a chair in the bathroom! - got myself dressed and reentered the real world.

High as a kite, homeward bound and scared shitless.

*Names changed to protect the annoying.

I Knew This Day Was Coming, I Knew It Right From The Start

(song: Illusory Light/artist: Sarah Blasko) 

Well kids, I'm fucked. At least, that's how I feel right now.

If you've seen my recent Facebook posts you know that I just had surgery on my back. Lower back pain is not new to me -- I referenced my battle with lower back pain in this post from 2011. And then again in October of this year when I forfeited a half-marathon I spent the summer training for. I've known since 2003 that I have herniated discs in my back. I've known since 2003 that I was probably going to have to get surgery some day. What I didn't know was how quickly things could go from bad to worse when your body has had enough. 

Let me break down the events for you.

Foreshadowing:

• October 10 - I forfeit my spot in the Rock N Roll half-marathon after months of summer training. I'm just happy my ankle was strong enough to train and I think nothing of my back pain because I know it's temporary and I tell myself I'll roll and stretch and it will be fine, like always.
• November 15 - I run my best 5K race. I feel great. The next day, my back is sore but that's nothing new...
• Nov. 22 - Having just joined in October, I run my first Prospect Park Track Club group run despite my back being super sore after the previous day's 5-mile run. Little did I realize, my first run with PPTC would be my last run for a long time. 

Bad things start to happen:

• Nov. 24 - I notice a weird pain in my glutes. It felt like they were in a vise grip and had been set on fire. Both cheeks. I notice that it goes away when I sit or lie down. Only standing and walking causes pain. This kind of pain was foreign to me.
• Nov. 26 - Thanksgiving Day. My family and I fly to Georgia. I am struggling at JFK but I'm still able to walk to the gate. I tell myself it's stress and that once I'm back in my hometown,  all the pain will melt away. I'm running in a 5K race the next day and I can't wait to see if I can beat or meet my time from 10 days earlier.

Thanksgiving in GA. I remained sitting for most of my trip.

• Nov. 27 - Upon my first step out of bed, my ass is engulfed in flames. It also feels as if my legs are super glued into the hip sockets and therefore unable to move back and forth. I burst into tears when I know I can't run the race that morning. I go to the local clinic and get a prescription for prednisone, a steroid that has worked in the past. Unfortunately this time was different and walking continues to become increasingly difficult.
• Nov. 30 - I notice the tops of my feet and shins are very numb. I also cannot grip my toes to slide my feet into my shoes. I'm still taking the steroids but the numbness and glute pain persists. I call my physical therapist and tell him what's happening. We mutually agree it's time for medical attention. While still in Georgia, I call NYC's Hospital For Special Surgery and get the earliest appointment available - December 10 at 3:45. 11 days away. I'm worried now. I spent my trip helping to care for my sick father when ironically, I was having just as much trouble getting around as he was. My spirits are plummeting.

My dad and me in matching wheelchairs waiting for my car. I had to valet my car because I couldn't walk from the parking lot to my dad's doctor's office.

• Dec. 1 - Fly back to New York. The short walk to the terminal at our outbound airport in Florida is so painful that I request a wheelchair at JFK because I know the walk to baggage claim will kill me. I feel defeated as I get wheeled through JFK.
• Dec. 3 - I see my physical therapist. I sob as I hobble to the table where he checks my strength - I can barley lift my toes. It's as if I can't make my feet work with my brain. I am so depressed at this point. All I do is drive my son to and from school and stay on my sofa all day. I can't stand comfortably for more than 10 minutes at a time. I cry a lot. Later that evening, I fall on a staircase in a restaurant because my legs collapsed when I tried to ascend.
• Dec. 5 & 6 - I forfeit my spot in the Jingle Bell Jog 4-miler - my favorite race of the year. The next day I miss the PPTC Pajama Run. At this point I know I can't run NYRR's Ted Corbitt 15K on Dec. 12. I'm angry and sad. I've reached a level of darkness I had not felt since the postpartum depression I experienced after the birth of my son. 

Shit got real scary, real fast:

December 10, Thursday 

4PM
My first appointment at Hospital For Special Surgery is with with physiatrist Dr. Alex Simotas. I had been instructed to go for x-rays before the appointment so I arrive with my x-ray disc in hand. As I walk into the exam room, he says, "How long have you been walking like that?" I was walking as if walking was new to me. My legs felt numb and weightless, as if I had just had casts removed. They were really wobbly. The firey pain in my glutes and hip-flexors was still present (when I stood or walked). I tell him it's been about two weeks - 17 days to be exact - and give him the rundown of the numbness and pain's progression. He seems shocked that this has been going on for over two weeks. He says, "Jesus, what have you been doing?' I answer honestly with, "Lying on my couch and crying." He checks my reflexes. They're not good, but they're not completely dead. He has me press my feet against his hand one-at-a-time. He is extremely concerned about the weakness and my inability to lift my feet and/or toes upward. He asks me if I have control of my bathroom functions. Why I didn't ask questions, I don't know, but I tell him I'm just fine in the potty department. I then ask him, ever-so-naivley, "So, have I graduated from steroids to a cortisone injection?" He replies with, "You're way past injections. You need surgery." I'm speechless. He tells me I have bilateral foot-drop. He wants to send me for an MRI right away so he has his secretary begin the process of getting an approval from the insurance company for an emergency MRI. He leads me to the sofa in his waiting room, and makes a point of telling me to sit down. He tells me not to walk or stand or do anything beyond what is absolutely necessary from this moment until I get surgery. Stunned and in tears, I call my husband and tell him what's going on and ask him to figure out when and where to get our son who is at a friend's house. My head is spinning. I ask the doctor what the urgency is and he explains that waiting could mean permanent nerve damage. I cry some more. Because I have a recorded history of back issues he is optimistic that it's spine-related but the foot-drop and numbness can also mean things like MS, which he wants to rule out. He actually speaks to a surgeon during our appointment. By 5:30, we have the approval and I am scheduled for an emergency MRI at 10PM.

Oh, my sweet spine, we used to be so good together.

6PM
I decide to go home and get a bite to eat since I had a few hours to kill before my MRI. As fortunate coincidence would have it, one of my friends is married to an orthopedic surgeon. I call her in hysterics and tell her what's going on. She calls her husband, Dr. Michael Gerling who schedules me for 8AM the following morning. I have my 2nd opinion scheduled before my 1st. 

9:45PM
I arrive at East River Medical Imaging for my MRI.  Minutes later I'm freezing my ass off in a giant, clanking metal tube. Half-way through the MRI, I get "contrast" injected into my arm. This ice cold injection makes things like tumors, abnormal growths, disease...all sorts of fun stuff, appear more clearly on the MRI. After it's over, the tech tells me that someone from HSS will call me in the morning with further instructions. I head home at 11PM, exhausted and terrified.
 

10PM MRI party for one

December 11, Friday

8AM
I see Dr. Gerling, my friend's husband, and after he tests my reflexes and foot strength and reviews the MRI results, he agrees that I need surgery right away. A badly herniated disc is pressing a nerve which is why my legs and feet are numb. He also asks me about my bathroom functions. He sees something on the MRI that he thinks could be a cyst but would need a radiology report to confirm. He explains how he would do the procedure and tells me to think about everything after I see the surgeon from HSS. I cry, and thank him, and hug him.

10AM
I have just left my appointment with Dr. Gerling when the secretary from Dr. Simotas' office calls and tells me the surgeon has reviewed my MRI and wants me to come to his office in an hour. I arrive on time and am seen immediately after I finish my paperwork. The surgeon, Dr. Bernard Rawlins sort of looks like James Earl Jones' more handsome younger brother, complete with dreamy British accent. He does the same battery of tests that Dr. Simotas and Dr. Gerling did. He also asks me about my bathroom functions. "Is that a real concern?", I say now that three doctors have asked me. "It's a very real concern," he says. As I understood it, the nerves being crushed by the wildly ruptured disc could also be the nerves that help me control my bathroom functions. He echoes both doctors' call for immediate surgery. He tells me he wants to do it Monday. I agree to the surgery, then I begin to cry. He tells me I am to do nothing over the weekend, except rest. He explains the procedure and outlines potential risk, as he is obliged to do. He also thinks he sees a cyst and tells me he will review it with the radiologist after he sees me. He takes me down the hall to an office shared by his surgical coordinator and office manger  then bids me farewell until Monday. These two incredible ladies are simultaneously badgering my insurance company to approve this emergency surgery by the end of the day, and also scheduling me for all of the tests I need before surgery. After a series of phone calls, they order a wheelchair to take me across the street to the main hospital where my afternoon of pre-op fun begins. 

Dead legs rolling!

I see internist Dr. Joseph Markenson for my medical consult, then I go for blood tests, chest xrays and an EKG. I finish my pre-op at 4:30PM and head home in a state of complete disbelief that what I thought would be taken care of with a injection has escalated to emergency surgery. On the ride home I receive a call from a coordinator at Hospital for Special Surgery. I am officially confirmed for surgery on Monday at 4PM.

Holy shit. 

But I just thought I needed a shot...