The first, and subsequently only, Pilates session didn’t go well. I was astronomically dumb trying to bend at the waist. The surgeon said I could do anything I wanted, right? Not exactly. The instructor was whoppingly stupid, asking me to bend knowing I’d had fusion spine surgery, but like a good soldier, I did as asked, assuming she must know more than me.

My left ankle turned, launching my body across the pavers. I assured everyone that my back was okay as John flashed brilliant light at my eyes, looking for signs of concussion. OMG! That was a stupid move. I was walking and twisting while throwing pithy comments to friends behind me with great abandon. There was no blood, torn clothes or bruises, only humbling red faced embarrassment. Attempting to laugh it off, I limped to the car but kept silent about my left groin muscle, which felt like a snapped rubber band.

Each day was an unending maze of projects, each scribbled on a yellow Post-it and taped to a kitchen cabinet door, our official to-do list. John continued to open boxes, unwrap mysterious objects, and store them at my direction, hoping we remember where next month. BLT (no bending, lifting or twisting) rules limited me to hours of flattening and folding rumpled paper at the end of the dining room table that wasn’t cluttered with stuff. It was the only way to keep unpacking chaos at bay and, at the end, we gifted it all to folks who needed packing materials. The work restored my upper body flexibility and burned calories (always welcome), but in the evenings I felt like overcooked cold linguine—limp, sticky and knotted. Our progress was sluggish—I was the tortoise in this race. John needed help. I couldn’t keep up. We needed rescuing.

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.