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
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