Imitating the moves of a geriatric ballerina cost me a year of good health. A practiced and willing orangutan could have performed the right-hand to left-toe reach-around hold without injury. Unfortunately, no such orangutans were present on the day my father needed his couch re-situated upon its wooden block risers, so I performed the risky contortion—and I survived the back-wrenching ordeal. The Flying Wallendas could not have been prouder.
Until, that is, the next day, when, like amputated insect legs, my lower limbs felt disconnected from my body. I wasn’t sure which way they were headed. Balance was unpredictable. Numbing weakness and throbbing aches took up residence in my back, legs and ribcage every day since.
My year-long quest for restored health featured x-rays, MRIs, steroids, physical therapy, neurologist nerve-tests, a series of two epidural injections, and six acupuncture sessions. Finally, a neurosurgeon performed what seemed the most elementary of tests: he tapped my elbows, checking for reflexes, and found that there were none. Absolutely none.
A new MRI revealed that the problem all along had been in the thorax, not the lumbar part of my spine. The neurosurgeon’s pronouncement, ”You have significant spinal stenosis and require surgery. This is not an option. Without it, you could become paralyzed.”
Twelve temporary staples now hold my skin together while the underlying backbone heals. Ten fragments of a ruptured disk were removed; while the disk was damaged, it was not destroyed, eliminating the need for fusion screws.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀
Tunneling beneath the skin, long-dormant nerves are now re-awakening, re-uniting with long-separated relatives. And as they celebrate, waves of itching flesh and random shooting pains announce they are ready to party.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀
Welcome home, legs. Welcome home, spine. Welcome home, burning, displaced nerves around my stomach. We are at peace once again.