THE RECOVERY -- PART 12

ESSAY BY HEIDI JOHNSON-WRIGHT

I tried everything possible: PT, rest, electrical stimulation, massage, heat, ice, and meditation.

I took Vicodin round the clock.

Nothing worked and nothing mattered, as I grew more morose. 

Each successive pain management doc had a different theory.

I heard: “This was a big surgery; it will take a year to come back from it.” 

Or “It’s only been three (four, five, six, seven) months since the surgery. Be patient.”

On my office wall, I had a photo that my husband had taken of me in the bullring in Ronda, Spain on a trip four years before. 

There I stood in my best cocky matador’s pose, full of life. 

Superimposed over the photo were lyrics from a song by David Sylvian:   

“Life is a bullring for taking risks and flouting rules.”

Now each time I looked at the photo, I fought back tears. 

The woman in the photo seemed like a stranger. I simply could not imagine ever feeling so joyful again. 

RECOVERY ESSAY CONTINUES TOMORROW -- FEBRUARY 13