When you turn up with a walker, after three days in the hospital, friends ask questions. Even acquaintances ask questions. That's okay.
Then come the stories. It seems that everyone you ever met knows someone who had "my problem" and fixed it with Pilates or yoga or losing weight or whatever. There was at least one person I had to avoid because I couldn't listen to any more insistence not to have the surgery. I could have used a simple mention of alternatives. Followed by silence. My family doctor must have guessed how afraid I was. It was hard enough even thinking about having that weird contraption I saw a model of in the surgeon's office being put inside me forever.
I had opinions. I had nerve shots. I had doctors.
It was very, very hard standing on the sidewalk in the dark with my groceries and calling my roommate because I couldn't put any weight on my right leg. My roommate was telling me not to postpone the fusion.
I finally had enough.
The surgery was okay. The rehab could have been more pleasant, but one great PT made me do what I was sure I couldn't do.
Now, on days when the nerves to my legs are still unhappy, I secretly think:
I didn't say "enough!" soon enough.