Back story: A surgical adventure

Robin Schore sCHoRE To pLEAsE

So do you want to hear about my surgery? Of course not. Nobody wants to listen to a symphony of whining, sniveling self-pity.

Too bad. You’re going to hear about it anyway.

When I was told by the orthopedic surgeon that I’d need back surgery or horrible things would happen to me, like not being able to walk, I discovered that everyone I knew either had back surgery or knew someone who did. That shouldn’t have been surprising, since more than 72 million people in this country suffer from chronic lower back pain.

Fellow backache sufferers assured me that following surgery, I’d experience excruciating pain for the first two weeks and serious discomfort for the next four weeks. Stairs would be a challenge, and I’d need P.T., O.T., a walker, a cane, a shower chair and help tying my shoes.

Because I lead an unblemished life and think only the purest thoughts, none of the predictions came true, except that I did have to hire a professional to tie my shoes.

In addition to having my back carved up, I had a “cage” installed to stabilize my bottom two lumbar vertebrae, a metal contraption originally developed to save the life of the great Triple Crown winning racehorse Seattle Slew. One Dr. George Bagby invented the “Bagby Bone Basket” that allowed the horse to be put out to stud rather than to be put out of its misery. (No one ever offered me those choices.)

As my late cousin Louie, the bookie, used to say, “I owe it all to a horse.”

According to family lore, Louie was arrested at his wedding for bookmaking, and had to be bailed out by his new mother-in-law.

Incidentally, the cage installed between my L-4 and L-5 vertebrae is made of titanium, rendering me at one with my bicycle.

During my three nights in the hospital, I enjoyed the spiteful routine of being awakened repeatedly to check my temperature, blood pressure and whether I was safe or sane.

At least once each night I was asked, nurses, I felt outraged at being asked such obvious questions, perhaps a sign that I really was deranged. So on night two I answered, “I am in a lab. I was kidnapped by alien life forms. They have invaded my brain hoping to extract the secret for ruling the universe. And, yes, today is Feezleday.”

The next question was perfectly reasonable and designed to protect people who might otherwise be

At least once each night I was asked, ‘Where are you? Do you know why you are here? Do you know what day it is?’ The purpose of these questions was obvious: Had I gone nuts as a result of the surgery?

“Where are you? Do you know why you are here? Do you know what day it is?”

The purpose of these questions was obvious: Had I gone nuts as a result of the surgery?

The first time, I gave a straight answer. The second time, I couldn’t resist being a wiseass. Rather than reassure the helpless victims: Do you live in a safe environment?

“Safe environment? Are you kidding? My grandchildren leave Hot Wheels and Legos all over the floor. You call that safe?” And the last question, “ Do you think about hurting yourself?”

“No, I don’t think about it, but I hurt myself all the time. I banged my head getting into the car last week. I cracked my shin on the open dishwasher door, and I stabbed my thumb with a screwdriver trying to take apart the Dustbuster.”

When I was finally freed from the hospital, I was told, “No BLTs,” i.e., Bending, Lifting or Twisting. Consequently, I learned to pick things up from the floor with my toes. After four weeks of diligent practice, I was able to hold a banana with one foot and peel it with the other.

I was also told to do lots of walking, as that is the best way of rehabilitating nerves that may have been affected by the surgery or by the original spinal stenosis. I walked compulsively. Initially, I tromped endless loops around the hospital floor.

Once home, my treks ranged from 6 feet to the refrigerator to 7.5 miles around Hopewell Borough and beyond. When I came to railroad crossings with the gates down, I bided my time by counting the train cars as they roared past. Highest number of rolling stock: 88. One of my hikes included the twomile Hopewell-Sourlands Trail, where I encountered two adjacent signs. One read, “Absolutely No Deer Hunting.” And the one next to it: “Hunting in Progress.”

At my first postoperative visit to the surgeon, I fished for positive reinforcement and asked whether my recovery was more dramatic than that of other patients, since so many had told me about their long and uncomfortable recoveries.

The surgeon assured me that I was an “overachiever.” Finally.

Of course, the downside of the surgery is that when people say to me, “Sir, you have no backbone,” I have to agree.