Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
Let’s set a moody scene: it’s a dark, muggy night on Mitchell Street, Darwin. I’m at Monsoons for a mate’s farewell. It’s all slightly uncomfortable for a range of reasons. Firstly, because Mitchell Street lends itself to discomfort. It’s one of those streets. Where shit happens.
I used to joke that, if you were ever experiencing a crisis of self-worth, you should take a quick stroll down Mitchell Street any Thursday-Sunday evening because you’d soon feel like you’d just been accepted into an exclusive Phd program at Cambridge, purely for existing.
Think young women with skirts up around their belly button rings holding each other’s hair back as they take turns spewing into the gutter. Think shiny, sweaty bros with sleeve tattoos getting into fisticuffs in the kebab shop. The kebab shop’s a really good place to take in the full spectrum of mixed martial arts actually, because drunk people become incensed when they’re hungry and someone tries to skip the queue.
The second reason that it’s uncomfortable is that boyfriend and I are sober. We’ve sworn off drinking. Which is a pity because we like drinking. A lot.
You know that feeling where your body’s telling you that it needs something? Like when you’re desperate for a glass of water or a concentrated hit of calories? Well I distinctly remember every cell in my body screaming out in unison for a gin and tonic that night as I hovered awkwardly over a tray of formerly hot savouries.
We’d sworn off the booze because I’d been unwell, which rounds out the trifecta of discomfort. 8 weeks earlier I’d had a pretty basic spinal operation, a laminectomy and microdiscectomy to correct a prolapsed disc that had been screaming down my sciatic nerve for the best part of 5 years.
I was 10 kilos heavier than usual, as a result of both my affinity for alcohol and a severely restricted capacity for physical activity, and I was still experiencing quite a bit of pain. Happily, a few weeks of sobriety seemed to be helping.
Needing a brief escape from our small gathering I downed my final sip of soda water, snapped up a soggy dim sim and excused myself from the bar terrace to make a quick call to Mum. She’d been calling and texting for a few days by then and I hadn’t gotten back to her. The texts had been unusually complimentary, which wasn’t like Mum. Not that she’s not lovely and supportive and all the things that Mums are supposed to be, but I’d never known her to randomly text me how brave I was or tell me how well I was handling a situation. It seemed a bit off, not least because being brave and / or level-headed factored absolutely nowhere into my self-perception.
She answered after a few rings and we began to chat. Small talk at first, then we got down to business.
‘Did the MRI report come in?’, I asked.
I’d had another one 8 weeks post-surgery. Mum had been able to order it because she’s a GP and so the report would be sent through to her when complete. I’d had the MRI because, far from things getting better after this operation, they’d gotten a lot worse. As I mentioned, I was still in quite a bit of pain. The sciatica was down both legs now, and something was going on in my hips and lower back, plus there was this really weird phenomenon whereby 5+ minutes of walking would send both legs to sleep.
I’d reported it all to my surgeons in the Big Smoke, I’d even turned up to the emergency department a couple of times before flying back to Darwin, but they said it was all fine. Just swelling and inflammation apparently. All perfectly normal. And no need to have another MRI until the 8-week mark because before then the swelling and inflammation would obscure anything that was happening internally anyway.
‘It did’, said Mum.
‘And what did it say?’
I didn’t ask this with any real expectation of a life-changing response. As much as pain is annoying, I’d been living with it for years. This just seemed like an exacerbation. I needed to nail down the cause (most likely another, more pronounced prolapse had developed, I thought) so that we knew what to do and could start doing it.
‘Well…’, began Mum, cautiously ‘It said that there’s evidence of surgery on the L3/4 level’.
‘L3/4?’, says me, ‘But the prolapse was on L4/5?’
‘Yes. It mentions that’, continued Mum ‘It says that there’s evidence of surgery on the L3/4 level…but that L4/5 remains the same as the last MRI’.
Silence while I digest.
Lots of diagnoses and medical advice are swirling around my brain at this point. I’d spent a lot of time receiving advice, following it, relying on it and structuring my life around it. The advice was what was keeping me going. Keeping me focussed on the light at the end of the tunnel. Because doctors are supposed to know best!
Weeks of frustrated questions came flooding back, all with the same cop-out response.
‘Why am I still experiencing pain when the surgery should have corrected the prolapse?’
‘Swelling and inflammation’
‘The pain’s so severe I’ve had to come back to the ED again’
‘All normal, it will just be swelling and inflammation’
‘It is safe to fly home to Darwin?’
‘Sure! You’ll be fine, it’s been 2 weeks’
‘I was in so much pain I took 5 Endone and still had to stand up the whole way on the flight’
‘That will just be the swelling and inflammation’
‘I couldn’t get my shoes and socks on in the morning. It was too painful’
‘That’s the swelling and inflammation. Can you get someone else to do it?’
‘You said I could go back to the gym after 4 weeks but if I walk for more than 5 minutes my legs go numb’
‘Are your shoes too tight?’
‘No’
‘Then it’s the swelling and inflammation’
‘Today I had to catch a taxi home from work. It’s only a few blocks away so I usually walk, but my legs wouldn’t work any more’
‘Swelling and inflammation’
‘I really think something’s wrong. Can’t I have another MRI to make sure?’
‘Not until 8 weeks post-surgery’
‘Why not?’
‘Swelling and inflammation’
‘So…they’ve done the wrong level?’, I finally ventured.
‘Yes, and honey I just think you’ve been so brave through all this. You’ve handled it so well. I just admire you so much you know?’
‘Oh god, the poor surgeon!’, I blurted out. ‘He’s going to be so upset!’
I felt numb as I wandered back into the bar. Numb like my traumatised legs.
When I got there, I immediately ordered a gin and tonic.
This was the excuse I needed. And believe me, I’d been looking for one.