ACDF PCDF WTF
Driving home from the orthopedic clinic today, the claustrophobia of fear, uncertainty, and pain felt suffocating. Have you ever seen a glass teetering on the edge of the counter, being batted by the family cat? The inevitable crash and mess foreshadowed in that scenario is exactly the feeling I’m trying to describe.
I’ve reached the end of the path with a physician where they see how much pain I’m in, and I got the, “Unfortunately there’s nothing else we can do other than surgery or meds,” speech. I’ve been here. I’ve had the surgeries (note the plural form here), and I’ve been on all the meds. That was a dark time, darker than now, when I contemplated my value on this earth and started planning my demise. That was 2015 for me, my first cervical spinal fusion (Anterior Cervical Discectomy & Fusion or ACDF), and then four months later in 2016 to fix the collapse above and below that first fusion with a second ACDF.
Now it’s 2024. Every day is like a flashback to 2015. Losing function of my right arm. Electrical shocks on my face that make me twitch, itch, and feel like spiders are crawling on my face or mosquitos are biting me. I can’t brush my teeth or hold a glass with my right hand anymore.
But, it’s 2024. We live in a world where artificial intelligence is part of daily life now. Electric vehicles are not unusual. Our world survived a pandemic thanks to advanced medical technology. It’s been almost 10 years since my first surgery, and… You’re telling me, there are no better options for me and my spine and my body’s dysfunction than there was back then? THIS SUCKS.
I’m listening and watching the physician as she puts in the referral to a neurosurgeon, provides a list of others within two hours’ drive, because, lucky me, I live in a rural corner of Northwest Arkansas. Oh, and good luck — I’ll need to research this list to find good options, second opinions, if I want them. I’m listening and nodding as she orders more medications to add to my already long list. She mentions gabapentin, and I blurt, “No, no I can’t take gabapentin….” More flashbacks. The last time I was on gabapentin, I remember not remembering to pick my children up from school. Not remembering what day it was. Not knowing how long I’d been in bed or the last time I took a shower or brushed my teeth. “Okay, let’s try Lyrica. Are you sensitive to medications?” Sensitive? That’s an understatement. When I take medications I have to check all the “rare” side effects, because of course I’m always one of the few that have opposite intended effects, or some rare issue with it or I get so nauseous I have to decide which ailment I prefer.
So, here I go. I want to fight, flee, or freeze, and sometimes all at the same time. I’m having an out-of-body experience as I discuss the appointment with my husband who has seen me through all of this in our 28 years together. I never have good news anymore when I get home. Just once, just ONE time, I’d love to come home with good news. I’m sorry, honey. Looks like things aren’t going to get better. Every day that passes was my best day possible. Yesterday may be the best day I will ever have. It’s time to face the music and decide, do I keep fighting? Do I accept the new path to possible surgery, more meds? Do I keep researching? Suck it up? I’m exhausted. I’m so fucking tired. The list of mental issues and other chronic illness makes everything hard already, and my body just continues to break down. I cannot be the wife, mother, and queen bee I want to be. I can never be who I want to be. I can’t even just BE. I cannot rest. I cannot relax. I cannot recover. My stupid brain and pain won’t let me. I can go numb if I want. Those little edibles in the closet or the bottle of vodka can help temporarily. But reality always comes back to slap me in my hurting, twitchy face.
Some part of the good in my world holds my hand and grounds me in the present. He gives me a hug, and I feel safe and comforted for the moment. I remember I’m grateful. I’m grateful for the body that brought my children into the world. I’m grateful for the body that can still love, hug, laugh and cry for another day. And it will be okay, for this grain of sand in my hourglass. As much as I hurt, there are others who hurt more. I have a body that can listen to them with compassion and empathy. I can be more than a photo in a frame. I can keep going, if I can just remember.
