I Just Had Surgery Hours Ago (The Unabridged Version)

2024 was possibly the hardest year of my life and not because of surgeries

The holiday break is almost over…

So I am kicking off with some unedited, full-length pieces written about my most recent surgery (just had it)- not shortened down like on Instagram, etc- to go easy on my healing spine and incisions, while still beginning to find my footing in the realm of trying to “Write Almost Everyday”, here.

To review, if you’re new here:

My Substack is where I am able to express myself creatively, share on all sorts of topics (not exclusively sickness) and it helps me to archive this “ongoing legacy” that I HOPE is the continual memoir project I’ve started.

Here, anyone who needs or wants a scholarship gets one… because kind friends help support the writing there, even if it’s just $5.

I write (now) every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday (barring emergency… and sometimes, even then).

Why check out my column on CF News Today every Wednesday?

It’s the place where I write about illness with much less prose, and a lot more clarity. For some, this sort of “to the point” approach to medicine is refreshing when trying to understand a complicated disease, new test results, or any other sort of updates.

But here?

Here is where we (hopefully) get to hang out- imperfections, typos, and all.

Hopefully you enjoy some new words cooked up just for you.

xo

** NOTE: These photos will not be from the surgery I just had (those are to come), as I am trying to be off of my back as much as possible while it heals, so I’m uploading images from the holiday break, and images from the surgery this time last year **

I had my last surgery of 2024… today.

(Yes. I just had surgery hours ago.)

(Yes, I write everything I write days before and just hope for the best.)

If I wrote what I’m feeling on the day OF a major surgery- freshly extubated, throat raw, happy to not be ventilated- it would read like this:

Celskchsbs clibslidve sclzidgdmw.

So… I don’t.

The few times I HAVE written about how medications make me feel while ON those medications that make me feel unlike myself: I get trolled.

In fact, one of the worst social media experiences was writing about prednisone impacts my mind, and then having to mind the meanness of many a strange new commentator writing about how shitty my writing was. Which… well, accidentally proved my point (?) but wasn’t intended to, because I really just didn’t feel well.

It’s hard to write about not feeling well… and even worse to do so while trying to live an in-person, 3D life where you want to be seen with separation from your confessional, Proustian unwell words.

I used to hate “listing surgeries” as a verb.

I took a weird, sadistic, useless pride in being someone who didn’t. A “sick person who doesn’t point out how sick they are”; Aren’t I special. (Can’t you feel how I’m better than you by feeling so much better about being so well about not being all about my own unwellness?)

People get competitive about something that’s awful and it’s so confusing… though I AM competitive against myself with how quickly I can get better. (Which is unwell in its own way.)

I don’t know how many damn surgeries I’ve had by now. Like 30… 40…. Normally 2 to more a year, for the last 13 years or so. That’s a lot of math.

I made a hierarchy within myself, against myself.

But the truth is the following:

I started 2024 in the hospital and I’m ending 2024 in the hospital.

In 2024 I had 6 or 7 (?) major surgeries (meaning: intubated, in the hospital overnight, not-a-procedure). And I had 9 or so hospital stays for complications, infections, treatment needs. Also, Covid again, days after an operation.

But none of the above was really what destroyed me.

I can’t even write about what destroyed me, truthfully, here, and probably never will be able to. For now, I can say with truthfulness that 2024 was possibly the hardest year of my life and not because of the slice and dice.

I’m saying this as someone who’s battled an abuser and worried for her children’s safety (details that shall always remain anonymous, can never be confirmed. Ours alone).

I’m saying this after a decade of thinking I’d never survive losing the company I loved more than I loved myself. The friends I thought loved me for more than just what I provided on a stage - opportunity beyond the opportunities atop the gaff tape.

But I did learn that I lost almost everything… and somehow, I’m still alive?

I almost wasnt alive for reasons that shall always remain anonymous… and somehow, I’m still alive.

I’ve learned that there are some best friends that can suffer hurts and harms and hardships and come out stronger, together. That conflict can lead to better communication with the right people. That being imperfect can make the right people see one another as better for it; That being human isn’t always your downfall. The hill you have to die on. It can be what makes the keloid of your hearts tougher. The vulnerability of your art more honest.

That being honest and losing… is always better than playing a character and coming out “on top”. I am not inspiring. I do not know everything. I have yet another long road ahead…

But my scars are harder earned than ever before.

Somehow, I’m still alive.

---

I just had surgery.

On December 25th this time last year, I had two of the scariest surgeries I’ve ever had, just one day a part. One went through my stomach and one went through my back (a lot).

I’ve written about this a lot before, but I did not expect to be having spine surgery almost a year later to the date: just after the holidaze again.

Something I don’t think I share about openly enough is how sick I was this time last year. I don’t want to trigger anyone - especially my dance friends and all of us with fragile body imagery (so this is your brief warning)- but I was deeply deeply deeply weak at that time, and very very very below strength (which is my preference for how to write about weight so as not to make numbers the ill advised focus).

Something I don’t share about enough in equal measure is this bold statement:

Sick mothers aren’t automatically bad mothers.

I say this because - even though I legit just had surgery and should be updating you on that like a normal hurting human and not writing a defensive thesis online- I cannot say enough how much people buy into this theory. (If they didn’t, I wouldn’t be writing this.)

“I don’t think anyone would understand how fun last Christmas really was,” my youngest daughter said a few days ago, while (weirdly?) looking forward to the thrills of cafeteria food and decorating for nurses this season again.

“Remember the scavenger hunt?” I asked her.

“It was so much fun,” she nodded, meaning every word. “And if it was so damaging… Why does no one worry about how I’m doing ? If having a sick mom was bad growing up - which it wasn’t - Why does my say on the matter not matter?”

It’s a fair point. (She’s a fair person.)

“It’s not easy to deal with,” she sometimes says…“But neither is any other circumstances most family’s have. Some kids deal with divorce. Or passive aggression. Or being military and moving a lot. Or maybe a parent who gets depressed sometimes. Or having too few relatives. Or too many relatives. Or being an only child. Or being with lots of siblings. Or…”

You get the point.

We all should get her point.

No one has a perfect childhood. But in a world with famine and war and abuse actively occurring all the time, we also don’t need to shame any parent who’s doing everything to protect and to survive.

What’s the alternative, you know?

PART ONE.

More tomorrow! They go together- so you’ll definitely want to skim them back-to-back, if you can.

Kindly consider booming a supportive Word Nerd if you’re able (every little bit counts) to help keep this work going…

Or…

Share with you someone you like?