Imagine a world where every step feels like a betrayal, where sitting is a luxury, and even the simplest movements send shivers down your spine. This, my friends, was my reality for a long time. Chronic back pain, a constant companion (more like a twin), had turned my life into a slow, agonizing waltz.
But today, I'm speaking before you, not as a victim, but as a warrior. A warrior who conquered her pain, one step at a time.
My journey began innocently enough --- a desk job, bad posture, daily routine of carrying heavy things, and years of overworking and neglecting my body conspired to create a perfect storm in my back. The first twinge was a mere whisper, easily ignored. But the whispers soon became screams, each sharper than the last, until movement became a battle cry.
Doctors, specialists, therapies, steroids, and pain meds – I tried them all, clinging to the hope of changing my agonizing state. But the truth, harsh as it was, finally dawned on me: there was no magic pill, no quick fix. The only path left was the path I so dread, I didn't even consider it the first time. I was in denial I needed it. But 7 years later, I ended up with the same thing all of my doctors advised me when I was first diagnosed; And that was going under the knife.
For me, surgery was...frightening is an understatement---but you get what I mean. So last April 12, 2023, I embarked on a new journey, one not paved with fear, but with a new-found sense of strength knowing that there's hope after surgery. I remember, staring blankly at the nurse talking to me, soothing me and telling me not to worry as there were a lot of them in the operating room.
The sterile air hung heavy with anticipation as my heart drummed a relentless tattoo against my ribs. Each pounding beat echoed thoughts of uncertainty, "Am I ready?" But before I drowned in fear, I saw my surgeon calmly waving his hands at me - a quick greeting, a reassuring smile, and then...darkness.
When I came back to my senses, I felt an undescribable excruciating pain in my back. It felt like a thousand angry bees continuously stinging the whole of my spine. It was an agony unlike anything I've ever known, like a firestorm consuming my every nerve.
Yet, within that inferno, a curious ember glowed---this wasn't just any pain; it was the searing kiss of healing. The raw ache of my body crying, "We're alive! We're gonna be okay!" I felt the ravaging part whispering a truth my head could only grasp: This agony isn't anymore a curse; but rather a mark of renewal. The pain I was feeling was the baptism of fire, the crucible from which a stronger me would rise.
I may have been lying on a hospital bed, vulnerable, and raw---but within me---a warrior was taking shape, fueled by the very flames that threatened to consume me. I realize this isn't the end; but rather, a painful dawn of genesis---finally, the beginning of my healing journey. So I embraced the fire, knowing that each searing wave of pain, I was slowly inching closer to recovery.
And now---9 months later---I'm walking, able to do things I couldn't do years ago---almost like a normal person. ALMOST. I might still have limitations, but that's okay. Healing isn't overnight and people recover at different rates.
With all that has happened, there are two things I've learned:
I learned to listen to my body and to respect its limitations. I was used to ignoring signs my body sends me whenever it feels like it needs to rest. But now, I have to know subtle cues when my body feels fatigue, discomfort, or impending pain. Like feeling muscle weakness on my thighs, some piercing back on the muscles above my buttocks, shooting pain in the back when walking, and the like.
Learning how to respect your body's limitations may be a little difficult for someone who used to overwork, but you gotta do what you need to do. For me, whenever I feel signs of fatigue, I stop whatever I'm doing and take breaks by lying down flat on the bed---letting my body relax for 30 minutes or longer, depending on the pain I'm feeling.
Doing this really helps not only on the recovery process but even after the spine has fused; That is, you learn to listen to your body and take breaks.
I realized that it is crucial to celebrate victories, no matter how small. Defining wins like completing a short walk, being able to be up and about for more than an hour, or even as mundane as feeling no pain as you wake up isn't something you should just ignore. Celebrating these simple joys allows one to keep moving forward. It helps shift one's focus from limitations to possibilities.
Transitioning from suffering to recovery isn't a simple thing. Remember, my dear, your spine, isn't just a collection of bones, nerves, and muscles; it's an emblem of your strength, your resilience, and your spirit. Therefore, it is your duty to take care of it and protect it.
You are stronger than you think. So, step into your power, embrace every step of the journey, and let this moment of pain and healing be your compass.
This is not just my story, but it's a call to action---to remember that spine health is something that all of us should also prioritize. Let's spread awareness, share our own stories, and inspire each other to become the best versions of ourselves. In the end, the only true cure for pain is not a pill, but a promise --- a promise to listen to our bodies, to honor its needs, and to never give up on our path to health and recovery.
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