I know a young woman who faced back surgery recently, and I have a lot of sympathy for her because once upon a time, I had back surgery too.

See, when I was born there was a sinus cavity which opened between my spinal column, and the world.

It’s a condition which is similar to spina bifida, except that the cavity doesn’t gape open; it was merely a pinhole, so to speak. It was still an issue, mind you, and apparently it was also pretty gross. I’m glad it was on my lower back, where I couldn’t see it even if I tried.

The summer after kindergarten they decided it was time for it to come out. Before the surgery, though, they had to take a look at my spine. This involved a large machine of some sort (possibly an x-ray, but I’m not sure) and the injection of a dye into my spinal column. It hurt. It hurt a lot. I didn’t cry, though, because they said they’d give me a syringe of my own (a large one and of course lacking a needle, but an awfully cool toy and one I wanted badly) if I didn’t, and anyway if I twisted around a bit I could see the monitor, and that was cool.

I returned home, triumphant, bearing my syringe. And wondering at the surprise expressed by the medical staff in quiet tones that I hadn’t cried. They’d asked me not to, hadn’t they? Alas, I started feeling dizzy, and by the end of the day the doctors had declared that I must spend the next three day laying down. Apparently a three-day bout of falling-down disease was an not-unusual side-effect of the procedure.

Ever tried to stay laying own for three days? Ever done it when you’re five? And I missed the Fourth of July fireworks, too.

Whatever they saw was what they wanted to see, apparently, because they scheduled the surgery without delay. And so to the hospital I went, Children’s Hospital in Philadelphia, which I will highly recommend to anyone in the area. My first memory of the hospital was eating hospital food, which is awful; the second, a doctor who came in to test my range of motion, and used a Grover doll to get me to do things like run across the room, bend over, and stretch upwards. I distinctly remember, at age five, wondering why he didn’t just ask me to do things, and being vaguely annoyed — but also enjoying playing with the doll.

Before the surgery they had to put an IV in my hand. This would be one of the most awful memories of my life if I remembered a bit of it, but it was awful, and to this day the sight of an IV will make me twitch. To distract me the nurse asked what I was going to do when I was all better, and I told her that I planned to jump off of the diving board at my neighbor’s pool. The which I’d never done before; at that point I could barely convince myself to put my face under water. But I figured if I could get through surgery, the diving board would be nothing. Even though it seemed forever to fall before I’d hit the water…

I’m pretty sure I remember them showing me what they’d taken out of my back when I woke up, floating gross and tentacley-looking in a green jar. My mother has assured me that they would on no account have done such a thing, but I know what I saw.

After that my memories are of pain. Those of you who have had back surgery will know whereof I speak when I tell you that to this day, I know precisely how moving any muscle in my body will affect my back, because twitching a toe hurt, blinking hurt, breathing was ongoing white pain and bedpans were the bane of my world. Every muscle in your body is attached, directly or indirectly, to your back. Trust me on this.

I had to keep moving, or I’d stiffen up. And so my dear loving parents stood one on either side of me and took turns talking to me. Politeness dictated that I face the person speaking, and so as my father said something, I would turn my head towards him; and then when my mother spoke, I would turn my head to face her. Each time I turned my head it felt like it took about an hour of screaming agony. I figure it really took me about a minute. But I did it, and did my best to talk sense then it was my turn to say something, and I did not cry.

Which leads to the bedpans. If blinking hurts and turning your head is agony, imagine, just imagine what arching your butt up into the air to get it over a bedpan must feel like. I swore them off forever.

Luckily, I was five. By that evening I’d slid out of bed, hauled myself upright on my IV stand, and painstakingly made my way across the hall on the thing. Across the hall was the nurse’s station, and they were impressed enough that I’d made it that far that they let me sit here for a while. After that, it was the bathroom for me, no matter what they said about the bedpan being closer.

I don’t remember a lot of the rest of my stay there; it’s blurred to bad food, boredom, cards from more people than I’d thought the world held, and intermittently getting caught far away from my room and getting sent back. Going home was lovely though that was about when the incision started to itch abominably — the drawback to the rapid healing of a child. I avoided clawing the stitches out before it was time, but it was a close thing.

And then the stitches finally did come out. It tickled. They asked me as they pulled them out if I was prepared to jump off the diving board — blast! They’d remembered! Of course I was, I told them proudly, head held high. I was stuck with it anyway, so I might as well make the best of it.

Funny; actually jumping off the diving board was the easy part. It’s only about two feet above the water, after all. It just seemed a lot higher than that.