Creeping Disabling Pain Got Me

Lower back aches erupted beyond their usual level of ignorable annoyance. Wretched pain now blasted down my left leg and up my back when I moved. Like Quasimodo, I dragged my body, hunched over a walker, into and out of doctors’ offices, petulant, moody and angry that my husband, John, threatened to cancel our move.

When I learned that my leg was not the problem, it was not good news. It was worse news. It was my back’ vertebrae sliding out of place. I tried an epidural but the pinched nerve pain continued to make me scream. Arthitis on the L3, L4, L5 and S1 was causing the vertebratae to slip. Surgery was the only option. Without it, I faced a wheel chair future. John threatened that he’d never push me around in one for the rest of our married life, just like I said to him when arthitis attacked his hips. Hip replacements saved our marriage then and now back surgery had to do the same.

Friends loaned me a posh metalic red walker complete with spoked wheels, padded seat, storage compartment, bicycle brakes and streamers at the handle bar ends. It looked better than it functioned. I banged about in our apartment attempting to ride it, not push it. Not a good idea, especially when the bathroom door is too narrow. Picture me leaping from the walker to the toilet grabbing the shower curtain to keep me from collapsing. I lusted for an ADA compliant apartment and surgery.

Like a Determined Little Dumpling (a term of endearment given to me by a best buddy in first grade), I held my ground about the move, refusing to cancel it. We had to find a way forward.

On October 16th, with my power of attorney in hand, John, although aprehensive, flew to Florida to close the deal in the strange land called Florida. It was a hectic two days of last-minute inspections, repairs, walkthroughs, and getting lost trying to find the title company office. Florida rules and roads are very much of its own design. Just imagine how bad it could have been without a GPS! Bless John’s tenacity; he came home with the keys but demanded that we delay the move. To keep plans from totally collapsing, I brokered a one month delay, promising to methodically follow doctor’s orders. I promised, then laid down my demand—that we’d be in our new home together for Christmas, unpacked or not. John, bless his heart, agreed if the doctor agreed. I smiled.

If you want something enough, you can make it your reality. We became an unstoppable force, rescheduling the packing and moving van and all that involved. The toughest piece of the puzzle was our personal logistics. I was facing a 12 week recovery and my husband had to meet the movers in Florida five weeks after my surgery.

My mid-west fresh Georgetown surgeon with spikey red hair went to work on my back November 8th. Luckily, I voted early. Three days later, groggy and barely ambulatory, I was home wearing a neck to butt back brace that kept me from bending. Potent drugs kept pain at bay, and a bone growth stimulator fed my geriatric softening bones every night. Unlike my tendencies for independent action, I became obedient, followng doctor’s orders as I promised. Visions of that wheel chair kept me inline.

Life for the rest of November wasn’t good, but it was survivable by applying the BLT rule—no bending, lifting, or twisting. I hinged instead. By mid-November, I was packing, sitting in a chair or on a stool, keeping the boxes level to my reach. On December 9, we waved to the movers as their rig pulled away from the building that had enprisioned me for the past five weeks. I inhaled the crisp winter air and yelled Mission Accomplished.

The doctor would not release me to travel for at least six weeks after surgery. John transported me to my recuperation location—the home of the same friends who lent me the posh walker. He then boarded Amtrak’s Auto Train, with our car, for the rendezvous with the movers in Florida. 

On December 21st, six weeks to the day after surgery, I was cleared to fly. Of course, I had already bought the ticket (but I hadn’t told him). The next day, I sat in a first class aisle seat thanks to my travel agent friend who made all the arrangements. I was appropriately drugged and mellow, doing a queen worthy wave to snow and sleet as the plane lifted into the Virginia sky. I’d be home for Christmas.

What a joy to sit amid a house full of boxes, toasting to our first Christmas in our Forever Home. It was a Christmas eve with a single candle smoldering over a paper plate dinner. We were where you want to be.