diana cowgill

HOW BEING CROOKED SET ME STRAIGHT

My family doesn’t do histrionics. My father’s a limey, and we learned from his grand tradition to cover up that which displeases us and deal with it later or, ideally, never. But the day that my doctor told me that my back’s curve would have to be surgically prevented from progressing further, I lost it. My mother tried to comfort me, tried to calm my hysterics, but it didn’t work. I was devastated and terrified- the worst case scenario had come to pass and I couldn’t hold back my heartbreak. I wailed until the doctor had to leave the room.

The basic facts are: I am crooked and needed aggressive surgery to prevent me from toppling over. I have severe scoliosis, and when I was thirteen was put into a back brace that didn’t work, so at fifteen was scheduled for spinal fusion surgery.

Once I calmed down a bit after hearing the news, my doctor (who is a renowned genius and who still has a large crush on my mother) came back and asked me what I wanted to do. I had been so upset that he was nervous explaining why, despite the risk, it was important that I go ahead with the surgery. You’ll have progressively worse pain for the rest of your life if you don’t, he told me. Your spine will curve so much that you won’t be able to stand. Your organs could be compromised. You could become an invalid by your fifties.

We were sent home to think about everything, and eventually my parents and I decided to move forward with it. I would go under the knife the wee hours of the morning of Friday, November 9, 2001.

The day before my surgery I had my braces tightened, so my last supper was a bowl of soup. It felt like a landmark. A before/after binary moment. I would have my life up to this point, a childhood with a fully functional body, and an after. I would remember this day, this inferior soup, how much my stupid teeth hurt, for the rest of my life.

The next morning my mother woke me up and drove me to UCLA. We signed in, my father arrived, and we waited to be called in. The two of them had been largely successful in avoiding one another outside of court in the years since their divorce, but their kid was sick so we were a united front as the nurse guided us to pre-op and handed me my hospital gown.

We were cold and anxious when the doctor came in to tell us what to expect. It’d be about eight hours before I’d wake up thirsty, drugged and hopefully still able to walk. He had done hundreds of these surgeries before and he was optimistic about my outcome. The nurse would start my IV drip in a few moments. My parents, whose strength I now marvel at, gave me some final words of encouragement, kissed me, smiled, and watched me fall fast asleep.

The surgery was a wild success. My surgeon is not a flowery man, but he was giddy at the outcome. She’s three inches taller, he told my parents. She’s so boney that we were able to really straighten her out! Best case scenario! I choose to believe that he took especially good care of me because women rarely go for guys who maim their daughters. But whatever the reason, he’d done an amazing job and all we had to do now was focus on recovery.

I spent a week in the hospital after the surgery. They had me up and walking in two days, eating jello in five, and on my way home in seven. I wouldn’t have to wear a back brace, which was a minor miracle, and my day to day life would be barely affected. My non-existent dreams of bungee jumping or riding in a rodeo would have to be retired, but I was as healthy as we could possibly have wished for.

Fifteen years after my back surgery, I still view it as one of the most momentous events of my life. I am always careful with my body, and am keenly aware of the consequences when I do push too far. My back shows my mortality. Reminds me that I’m fragile. But also that I’m supremely fortunate. Both for the exemplary medical care I received and for the love of two deeply devoted parents. They had to watch their youngest child, their little girl, be wheeled away and cut open. All the while calming my fears, easing my doubts- ignoring their own pain until I was out of earshot.

A decade and a half after my freak out in the doctor’s office, I look back on the whole experience with gratitude. Yes, it sucked. No, my body will never be “perfect”. But I survived, and was shown the most incredible bravery and grace by the people that I love. I learned what to do when I’m afraid, and more importantly, how to be there when somebody else is.