The X-Ray shows the misalignment of my spine before the operation. (Gloria Chilewa)

“One, two, three…”

I counted until my vision blackened and I slipped into a deep anesthesia-induced slumber. In the hours that followed, I wouldn’t feel or see anything, yet I would awoke as a different person with a brand new spine. 

At the age of 12, I found out on a chilly Tuesday afternoon in October that I had severe scoliosis. I had two spinal curvatures, both exceeding forty degrees. As soon as my doctors showed me my X-rays, chaos erupted in my brain, as this was a lot for me to take in. How did I not know what was happening in my own body? Why do I need to have surgery? Why am I not normal? 

As the month went by, the dreaded surgery date, Nov 8, 2021, loomed in my head. I felt as though I couldn’t think properly. Internally, I was in turmoil, but all anyone saw was my smile and laugh.

“What if something goes wrong during my surgery?” I wondered. 

My Dad kept telling me that the surgery was minor and would be super fast. This completely contradicted what the head surgeon, Dr. Frank Gerow, said when I finally met him. He said that spinal fusion was so complex that it was the longest surgery of the day — that a surgery like this typically takes six to eight hours.

Dr. Gerow explained to me that the curvatures in my spine would be stabilized by spinal instrumentation and bone graft. The instrumentation would include metal rods, screws, and hooks that would hold my spine upright while the bone graft would be packed around the vertebrae to encourage the spine to heal into solid bone.

I felt my head begin to spin when I heard this. The procedure seemed intricate and complicated, far beyond what I could understand. Being in and out of the hospital for pre-surgery preparations was intimidating. I was with patients who were all told that there was something wrong with their bodies that needed to be fixed. At least that’s how I felt.

When surgery day came, I acted as though I were a soldier going into combat. My poker face was on. I had said goodbye to all my friends at school and had no idea how many weeks it would be until I would see them again. Walking into the waiting room, antsy with nerves coursing through my body, I felt the countdown to my final moments before surgery.

My parents and I were finally welcomed into the room where I would wait until being rolled out to the operating room. I put on the hospital gown and the compression socks. A nurse gave me medicine and the nerves went away. Nurses and doctors bustled in and out of the room checking on me, asking me if I was alright, and what flavor of anesthesia I wanted. I chose strawberry, of course.

The time came, and all I saw were my parents’ worried faces as we were separated. The doctors rolled me away to the operating room. I entered the brightly lit room in shock — I’d thought every operating room was supposed to look like a scene from “Grey’s Anatomy.” It was chaos, with people attaching so many things to me that I couldn’t process what was happening. Someone came up to me and told me to count to three. “One, two, three…” My vision darkened.

When I woke up, I was in a different hospital room, my new home for the next five days. My parents told me the surgery had gone really well, and it had taken the surgeons only five hours because I had no complications. I grew an inch and a half in height, and my spine was finally completely straight.

While in the hospital I had to learn how to walk and go up a staircase again. Things that used to be so simple were suddenly challenging. It was overwhelming to say the least. No one could visit me in the hospital, though all I wanted was to see my friends.

When I finally got home, I couldn’t do much, and I needed plenty of help. I was told that for six months I couldn’t carry anything over ten pounds. I couldn’t bend my back for six months and wasn’t allowed to do much physical activity at all. My complete recovery technically wasn’t for a year.

Throughout this process, I had to depend on my friends and family. They would make me laugh when I was overwhelmed and listen to me when I needed to rant. This made me feel safe and seen. My dad would walk with me around the neighborhood so I could get used to walking again. During our walks, he provided many words of wisdom to encourage me: “Recovery takes time, but in the end you will be better than you were before,” he told me. His words empowered me and made me realize that my surgery wasn’t such a horrible experience after all.

If it weren’t for the support system I had, I would’ve been engulfed by anxiety and concern. Speaking about what I was overwhelmed by helped me to process and to heal. Although the journey was long, I made it to the end.