“If you leave, you could be a quadriplegic,” the neurologist said. I had just spent 14 hours in a Boston hospital’s emergency room and was ready to go home. I had lost my ability to walk, but I figured it was a pinched nerve or something common and we could deal with it the next day.

“I’ve been looking at your MRI and CAT scan,” the kind doctor said. “We need to admit you.” And so began the brand new odyssey of my life as I now know it.

Two vertebrae in my neck were mis-aligned and squeezing my spinal cord shut. “Even after surgery,” he said gently, “there’s still a 30% chance you’ll never walk again.”

There were also funny times. I had an open MRI because I’m claustrophobic. This was akin to lying still for an hour under a MACK truck a half inch from my face – one without a muffler. “Don’t open your eyes,” I was told. “Well that’s a peachy idea,” I thought. “That way I’ll think I’m lying on a quiet beach, sipping a Margarita. Hellooo? We all know where we are! It’s sort of impossible to ignore!”

Before surgery, I asked for extra sedation. “It’s not enough,” I told a man standing near me. “And what is your name?” I asked.

“It’s Bob,” my husband said. 

The surgeon removed a disc from my spine and put in a titanium plate to hold my vertebrae together as well as a donor bone graft that’s supposed to grow in a month.

I am filled with emotional gratitude for modern medicine. After surgery, I was wheeled to my room where Bob was anxiously waiting. Believe it or not, I stood up and walked to his arms. I don’t know who was crying more.

How could I ever be so lucky to not just walk again but also to have Bob? I wear a rock-hard neck brace that prohibits sleep. Throughout the night, he hears me crying. How can he take all this? He even (laughingly) helps me steady myself so I can floss my teeth.

Today was my first day out. Bob took me to a brace specialist to find a more comfortable one, to no avail. But as I hobbled along, wearing my Darth Vader torture chamber and holding onto Bob’s arm, a woman walked by us and whispered, “I hope you feel better.” That touched me so.

In the waiting room at the medical supplies place, seats were filled with people all wearing miserable-looking appliances. Everyone kept to themselves, until I turned to the group and said, “Aren’t we a bunch?”

That started laughter and story-telling about what had happened to whom to make us wind up here together. We needed that. I needed that.

And now, I need to think about the future, about hopefully kayaking again and sharing picnics on Sandy Neck with Bob. About the biggest dilemma of the morning being – should we put mayo or horseradish on our sandwiches, rather than – can I make it to the bathroom in time? About my cat purring on my shoulder when the sun comes up and she’s hungry.

I have to think of my blessings. My home, my wobbly legs, my partner who adores me.

We don’t know why this occurred or if I’ll even get better. But I believe I will. It won’t all happen at once, but it will happen. I know that it will.

Someday  . . .  one precious step at a time.