Day 0 – Go Time: Hot Yoga at Dawn, Moving Arteries, and the Long Night Before the Rods
It is 5:00 AM on Thursday, and I am propped up in a hospital bed at Porter Adventist.
I hurt, of course, but it is a manageable pain—a different kind of pain than the chronic, grinding agony I walked in with. What tested me last night wasn’t the surgical incisions, but a long, frustrating night pinned flat on my back, entirely unable to turn or shift, staring up at the acoustic ceiling tiles in a state of absolute, electrified wakefulness.
For years, throughout a brutal perimenopausal storm, I lived through severe, traumatic insomnia. I would go seven straight days running on zero hours of sleep as my hormonal cocktail and nervous system bottomed out. It was a terrifying trap that didn’t break until I finally crossed into menopause and my body let go. But last night, that exact, haunting feeling came flooding back: wide awake, alert, without a single hint of drowsiness.
When you know that dark space, the panic sets in fast. Anticipating the wall, I asked the night nurse for a Trazodone. Her offhanded reply—“Well… I don’t know. I don’t think we can give you sleep meds tonight,” sent me straight into a tailspin. I didn’t argue, but tears were running silently down my face. She eventually checked with a doctor and brought one in, but true to form with every sleep med I tried during those three lost years, it didn’t even touch the surface. My mind simply held the night shift.
Yet looking back across the last twenty-four hours, getting to this bed was its own triumph.
Two days ago, walking with Kim, I confessed a quiet heartbreak: I hadn’t managed to fit in one final 60-minute hot yoga class before the operating table. For twenty years, that hot room has been my sanctuary, my lifeline, and my deepest physical joy. It is a grueling, humbling practice with 100-plus degree temps, ninety+ percent humidity, demanding absolute precision. While I chose intentionally to spend this past month camping in the dirt with Matt and Rindo rather than driving down to the studio every day, a piece of me still craved moving my native spine through its full depth one last time: full backbends, deep side body openers, strong balances.
After filming with Ella, my lumbar hump was so flared and throbbing that I assumed my window had slammed shut. But yesterday morning, after a day of resting, I decided I wasn’t leaving without it.
I woke up early, swallowed my meds, grabbed my mat, and drove up to Boulder to take Bonnie’s 60-minute class at Yoga Pod. It was absolute magic. Bonnie is so passionately devoted to the hot series; she sang the praises of every posture, beaming, “I just love this practice so much!” Walking out the door afterward, I gave her a wink and said, “I think I might love it just a little bit more than you do.” She laughed and shot back, “I don’t think so!” You only get it if you get it. Knowing I won’t step onto a mat for at least twelve weeks, and that when I do, my fused spine will never twist or fold the same way again, aches a little. But I walked out of that studio completely at peace with the trade.
I showered at the studio, went home, and launched into the clinical protocol: antibacterial wipes, Hibiclens scrubbing, carb-loading drinks, and packing the hospital bag.
Before heading to Porter, Matt and I said goodbye to Rindo and made a quick detour to his chiropractor. Matt has been carrying tremendous physical and emotional weight lately, wrestling the RV setup, moving our new low-profile bed and nightstands, and holding the anxiety of this week. His back and hip seized up so severely he could barely walk or sleep. Fortunately, his doc got him adjusted quickly, and we made it to pre-op with plenty of time to spare.
From there, pre-op became a blur of familiar faces and surgical reality checks. My vascular surgeon, Dr. Kleck, arrived first. Hearing him calmly outline how he would carefully mobilize my aorta and large blood vessels from side to side to clear a safe path to my spine was surreal. Then came the anesthesiology team, the pain management doctors, the residents, and finally Dr. Allison, walking through the anterior plan: going through my abdomen to install the structural titanium cages between L3 and S1.
In the midst of all of this, the curtain pulled back to a surprise visit from my dad and Beth. Seeing my sweet dad standing there wearing his Five Parks Yoga t-shirt – the exact same shirt I had worn that morning, brought immediate tears to my eyes. Beth assured me that an army of friends were holding us in prayer.
We hugged goodbye, I gave Matt a final kiss, and they wheeled me down the hall into the stark, chilly light of the OR. I remember shifting onto that impossibly narrow operating table, and then everything went black.
Waking up on the other side was smooth at first, but between the PACU and my hospital room, violent, deep-body shivers set in. The internal tremors locked up my guarding muscles in a wave of sharp pain. Once the nurses piled on warm blankets and the shaking subsided, the room softened. Sarah and Kim came by for warm hugs and quiet check-ins, and by 7:00 PM, the door closed and the quiet settled in.
Now, morning has arrived. Day 1 is done. In three hours, the team will roll me down for Day 2: the posterior approach. Today is the seven-hour marathon; going through my back to place the rods, pins, and structural screws from T10 into my pelvis to permanently lock it all down.
When Dr. Allison phoned Matt yesterday after finishing the anterior cages, the first thing he said was: “Well, she’s certainly going to be taller!”
Seeing my posture collapse and my height visibly shrink over the past few years has been startling. Hearing those words made my heart leap. I cannot wait to stand up straight.
I just want this behind us, mostly for Matt. He has been carrying so much quiet worry, letting out an occasional tear, and then making me laugh two nights ago when he admitted, in sheer panic, “I’m so worried about how I’m going to shop and feed you.” I told him that between our meal train and keeping things simple, food is the absolute least of his worries. Only three hours left until the final stage. The front foundation is set. Today they place the rods and screws. And soon, I will stand tall on the other side.
