Day 3 Post-Op: Mock Cars, The Genetic Toll, and The Soggy Sandwich Meltdown
Sunday offered a small reprieve: I actually managed to piece together a bit more sleep than the night before, which gave me a much-needed baseline of energy to face the day.
The morning quickly turned into an intensive rehabilitation gauntlet. Occupational therapy came in first, walking me through the delicate mechanics of how to safely put on my clothes, and maneuver around a kitchen counter without bending or twisting.
From there, physical therapy took the baton and walked me down the hall to Porter’s specialized rehab suite. It’s essentially a life simulator built directly inside the hospital. They have an actual mock passenger car setup where they teach you how to back in, slide your hips across the seat, and swing your legs inside as a solid unit without twisting. Then came the stairs, practicing safe ascending and descending with strict posture. I passed the tests, but the exertion was intense, and by the time they escorted me back to my room, my body was completely spent.
The rest of the morning turned into a long, quiet, miserable slog. I was hurting, utterly exhausted, and had zero desire to do anything but stare at the muted t.v. on the wall.
My sister Sarah and Jeremy arrived just as my dad was heading out. Sarah has been an absolute angel, stepping in to provide that deep maternal, emotional anchor that my sweet mom can no longer offer. Because Sarah has walked through her own version of spinal surgery, she truly understands what I am going through without me having to explain a single thing.
We ended up talking at length about our family genes, a topic that brings me equal parts curiosity and deep frustration. I come from a long, unbroken lineage of terrible spines. For decades, a piece of me knew this day might be inevitable, yet another part of me was stubbornly determined to outrun it through daily yoga, clean nutrition, and functional strength.
In the end, biology won anyway. There was nothing capable of stopping that steep, unforgiving structural collapse once it began. The true catalyst for the whole downward spiral was the exit of estrogen from my body at the onset and throughout the years of perimenopause. Once that hormonal protection vanished, the bone and disc deterioration accelerated at a pace that no amount of clean living or daily practice could out-negotiate.
By evening, Sarah and Jeremy headed home, and Matt arrived to take over the night watch. And that was when my emotional dam finally gave way.
Any parent knows this dynamic intimately: your child goes to school, behaves like an absolute angel all day, holds it together for teachers and peers, and the second they cross the threshold of your front door, they completely fall apart. They throw a tantrum, pick a fight, or burst into tears. They do it because home is the only place that is entirely safe, the one space where they are assured total comfort, zero judgment, and zero fear of rejection.
Last night, Matt was that front door.
I still have zero appetite. After days of nothing sounding appealing and multiple failed attempts to eat hospital food, I thought maybe, just maybe, I could manage a warm steak and cheese sandwich. Sweet Matt, desperate to help me and get some fuel into my body, went out of his way to find one and bring it to my room.
When I finally unwrapped it, the butcher paper was completely waterlogged. The bread was soggy and floppy, the fillings immediately fell out all over my table.
To my exhausted, depleted, hurting brain, that soggy messy sandwich was the absolute straw that broke the camel’s back.
I threw my own little tantrum. I was short, snappy, and completely unfair to Matt, who was sitting there looking utterly miserable and desperate just to see me take one bite. After being short with him, I felt so bad, and I completely lost it. I broke down and cried and cried, letting out days of accumulated fear, surgical shock, and physical frustration.
I forgot all about the sandwich. Matt didn’t get defensive; he just pulled his chair in, sat right beside me, and let me unravel while rubbing my head and wiping my tears. I love him – more than yoga.;)
And then, something miraculous happened. With Matt by my side and the Broncos game playing quietly on the television in the background, my nervous system finally softened. For the first time in five days, I felt actual, genuine drowsiness. I drifted off and dozed intermittently for hours while the game played. And yes, the Broncos pulled off a win, which added a tiny spark of joy to the room and the staff wandering in and out.
Matt eventually went home to try and sleep in his own bed. My heart aches for him right now. He is battling his own agonizing pain between his post-shoulder rehab, a back that seized up from stress, and a flare-up of gout, and he just looks so worn down. I know how much he misses me at home, and I miss him too.
Sunday showed me that my new spine can handle stairs and car doors, but more than that, it reminded me that healing isn’t just physical endurance, it’s having the grace to completely fall apart in the arms of the person who loves you most.
