A photo journal comprised of my thoughts on motherhood and other life happenings, as well as some of professional work as a photographer. Southern California is home.
I remember a time in college where I was bending over to get something out of my book bag. A guy approached me and asked if I was a gymnast or a dancer. I was shocked, for two reasons really; first and foremost, um, get a new pick up line and, second, how the hell did he know I was a gymnast? He went on to say it was the way I bent over with ease and grace and I continued to be a bit weirded out. I wish I could end this short story with “then that man became my husband” but really, I don’t even remember what he looked like.
The point being, there was a time I moved uninhibitedly.
I was a gymnast, a competitive one at that, for years. I was that girl that would do handstands on walls that enclosed the Grand Canyon. I may have done the splits at a bar after being dared and, of course, after throwing a few back. I could also beat my husband, with ease, in a push up contest.
I’ve always taken pride in my body. Not so much in terms of appearance, but in terms of ability.
None of that changed when I gave birth twice to very large babies. I recovered and I went on doing handstands around the house and so on and so forth.
And then came back surgery. I’m far enough along in recovery now that I can do things. To the naked eye, my life may seem more or less normal. My thoughts, however, are plagued constantly by my aches and pains and limitations. I’ve adapted to not bending by bending instead at my knees. And, now, every time I squat down to pick something up, my knees ache and my thighs burn. My body is failing me, yet it’s not that at all. My body is healing and it feels like it’s taking forever. It feels like I live everyday in the body of an elderly woman. I need breaks, I need to rest in bed, I need to ice, hell, I’m two shakes of a lambs tail from switching from Advil to Alieve which would surely put me in the senior citizen category.
Learning to listen to your body; knowing when to push, when to give up, when to ask for help… It’s all a challenge and it’s all a careful balancing act.
Recovery is still very much a part of my life.
*As a side note, thank you to each of you who have also endured a spinal fusion and have reached out to offer advice or encouragement. It’s your words that keep that light at the end of the tunnel lit.
So that’s a picture of an x-ray of what my back looks like today. It may be shocking to you, but it’s an image I’ve seen for years and years. I was first diagnosed with scoliosis when I was an adolescent. I went for check-ups and knew that, down the line, surgery may be part of my reality.
And now, it is.
The last time I saw a spine surgeon was seven or eight years ago, before I was a mother, a nurse, or a wife. I was told to come back the following year for another x-ray and, well, life started moving as fast as highway signs on the freeway.
I had to go on maternity leave early when I was pregnant with Van. I was in the worst pain ever. I don’t know how much of that was specifically related to my scoliosis, but given the fact I had significant diastasis recti after Hooper, my back had very little abdominal support prior to getting pregnant the second time. And a second 9+ lbs baby didn’t help matters, either.
And so, my spine has kept moving. So much so that I have seen two different well-renowned surgeons that have both told me I need to have surgery.
I’ll be having surgery in the middle of October. It’s a major surgery. I’ll be in the hospital for 7 days and will be on ridiculous bending/lifting/twisting restrictions for a few months. I’ve been told to expect to feel like I’ve been run over by a semi truck. I won’t be allowed to lift anything heavier than a coffee cup for the first few weeks and it will be months before I’m allowed to pick up my littlest loves (which also means it will be months before I lift Van in and out of his crib, high chair, car seat, etc… It’s going to be a rough road). Ho hum.
Life is going to be hard for a bit. I worry not for myself, but for my family. Willy will have a lot on his plate and the boys’ world will be flipped upside down. I’m trying to prepare mentally and physically as best as I can, but it’s hard to know how to plan for things you can’t envision.
I’ve invited a few friends to guest post in my absence. I’m quite behind in posting anyway so it might be a nice time to get caught up. But if it gets quiet around here, you know why. I’ll keep you updated as my surgery date draws nearer, but please send good thoughts my way.
I remember a time in college where I was bending over to get something out of my book bag. A guy approached me and asked if I was a gymnast or a dancer. I was shocked, for two reasons really; first and foremost, um, get a new pick up line and, second, how the hell did he know I was a gymnast? He went on to say it was the way I bent over with ease and grace and I continued to be a bit weirded out. I wish I could end this short story with “then that man became my husband” but really, I don’t even remember what he looked like.
