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It’s time for a Wobbly, isn’t it? Lord. I’m not ready! I’m sitting on the sofa with my back brace laced tight, fuzzed by Norco, and still hurting. It’s hard to imagine the violence done to my body. I’ve been split open in the back, bone cut away, filler packed in, and all stabilized with four rods and four big screws. Granted, the hip and leg that were almost unbearably hurting before no longer hurt. What hurts now is the incision. I expect it to hurt for months. Did I mention I’ll be 80 my next birthday?
I read all I can find about this kind of back surgery, including one thread that included a message that said you can fix all this with careful yoga. Do not have surgery! he pleaded. I’ve heard that before. I can’t imagine the yoga techniques or the meditative practices that might straighten my spine, shrink the nodules that press on nerves, and so on. Frankly, I hate being made to feel guilty for doing what seemed inevitable, necessary. To add guilt to this pain.
Did I make my body? Am I responsible for scoliosis, stenosis, and all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune? And/or what made my brain think it runs this show? I have foolishly weighted myself with responsibility for the entire production.
Another guilt to add: opioids. I hurt. You bet I hurt. There are these pills that soften that pain, but every time I take one, I feel vaguely guilty. The bottle says one every 6-8 hours. I need one every four hours, and so that’s what I’m doing. I appreciate the vigilance of the medical profession, but there are those of us who have to be encouraged to take the pills, not discouraged. I don’t need to feel guilty about taking care of my pain.
I wish I could write anything but this poor report. Poems come up in me like flowers, live their lives entirely in my mind, and pass away again, unseen. I don’t much want to read poems or anything else but novels, a plot I can follow. I have nothing else to do but watch the chickadees and titmice. I have not been out of our apartment since I came home from the hospital a week ago. On that day, I threw up twice and went into a shaking fit for a while. Nerve disruption? Whatever, it stopped.
I keep track of my steps going back and forth from bedroom to kitchen. Today perhaps I’ll walk the outer halls a bit. I’m encouraging myself to make progress. I took a shower yesterday, the first one. No leg shaving because I’m instructed not to bend over. I’m using Jerry’s “grabber” and “sock assist,” nifty gadgets that enable you to pick up things and pull on socks without bending.
At least today I can call Wellness and send back the walker they lent me, and give them the freebee walker the hospital sent me home with. I don’t need those.
The hospital gave Jerry a bad cold. Probably. This is how it goes. We live in community. Speaking of that, I’ve gotten wonderful cards and flowers. Each one makes me smile. Do you ever ask yourself, “Why do people seem to love me?” Surely you’ve wondered when the cards show up. There’s that community thing—we’re all in this together. When we cheer one up, we cheer us all up.