Surgery was not on my radar. It was not something I ever expected to happen to me. We may never know exactly what happened or what went wrong, but the end result is the same. Last week I had back surgery, and I will spend the next four to six weeks recovering. I will eventually get back to a pretty normal life, but I will always have some limitations and I will always have to be more cautious.
The situation deteriorated so rapidly that I didn't really have time to think or to worry. I was in so much pain that I couldn't tell you much of anything that happened the last few weeks. I can only tell you that when I woke up after surgery, alternately numb and sore, that the worst of the pain was gone and I felt relieved. My leg had hurt so much for so long that I worried it would never go away. But that pain was completely gone. All that was left was a little soreness, a little numbness, around the two-inch incision in my back.
And now I have lots of time. Time to think. Time to worry. I am supposed to spend these first few weeks at home simply recovering, letting my back heal from the surgery. I have some restrictions, mostly on lifting, but am generally expected to rest and do very little except walk every few hours.
I am a difficult patient, as my family will quickly tell you. I have never been good at letting others help me, even when I really need it. I am quick to want to do things on my own, and usually push too hard, too fast. I am trying, really trying, not to do that this time. I know how serious a back issue can be. I do not want to regress, or make things worse than they were before.
I am struggling to adapt to my new reality. I have an injured back, one that will heal, but that will never be as strong as it was before. The days of picking up my boys (all over 50 pounds these days) are probably long gone. The days of picking up more than one of them at a time are definitely gone. Things like bouncing on the trampoline with the boys, or water-skiing at the lake, may also be gone. Right now, it's hard to tell.
But I can tell you that I don't like sitting on the sidelines. I hate that the boys have to keep their distance, that their constant bouncing and jumping are too dangerous for me to endure in these early weeks. I hate that I have to assume a defensive posture every time they enter the room, because more often than not they reach out for a big bear hug that smacks right onto my incision scar. I hate that I cannot snuggle with them on their beds just yet, because they are too prone to flopping a leg or arm carelessly over my back and pulling me closer.
I have always been the primary caregiver. That's just who I am. I went back to work for a while after Connor was born, but after the twins came along, I have primarily been the stay-at-home parent. Josh works to provide for us, and I take care of the house and the boys.
Right now, none of that is happening. Josh took off the next two weeks from work since I'm essentially on bed rest with exercise breaks. He is taking care of the house and the boys and me. And I hate it.
Not even one week after the surgery, and I am already restless. I want to jump back down in the floor and play. But I am trying, really trying, to be good. To take the time to heal, so that I can not only get back down to the floor to play, but so that I can stay there for a really, really long time.