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dangerous surgical procedure (If you are a medical professional and would like to dispute this point, kindly send your concerns to 2145 I Don’t Care Rd., Idiot, PA,. 18017), next to brain surgery, and the doctors made it apparent that there was no guarantee I would thrive after the procedure (read: he might die during the surgery). As you probably know, the spine is a pretty vital part of the human body; it surrounds the precious spinal cord and is surrounded by all of the body’s major organs. In a complete spinal fusion surgery, the surgeon cuts the back open from the neck to the tailbone, bends the spine back into a straight line with brute force, and then nails a metal rod to the spine to keep it straight. All in all, the surgery takes eight to nine hours. Sounds fun, right?
    The doctors assured us that although there was a big risk, they had done this surgery plenty of times and were confident they could perform it successfully on me. We chose to go through with the surgery; it was scheduled for September. My little seven-year-old mind was completely terrified.
    I do not remember much about the day of the surgery because of the shit-ton of anesthesia they gave me. But I do remember lying in a bed watching Sesame Street while they started the IV to knock me out and being mad because I was too old for Sesame Street .
    The surgery went as planned and I did, in fact, not die on the operating table. My parents had a little scare when my surgeon walked out into the waiting room about fifteen minutes into the surgery, much too soon for the surgery to be finished. He handed them a cup with one of my teeth in it. Apparently, he had removed it because it was loose and I could have choked on it if the tubes that were shoved down my throat knocked it out.
    The earliest thing I remember after the surgery is waking up in a bed and being in a pretty decent amount of pain. I was on my side, and a nurse came in to roll me. I thought I was going to die from the lightning bolts of fire that shot through my back when she moved me even the slightest bit. I didn’t want to move ever again. Unfortunately, doctors came in my room shortly after that and cold-heartedly told me I needed to poop so they could make sure my intestines were not damaged. I started crying when they explained that a few nurses would lift me on to the toilet. They didn’t understand how much pain I was in just lying there, and they wanted to pick me up and put all that pressure on my back? I must have passed out because I remember them lifting me and screaming at the top of my lungs, but I don’t remember sitting on the toilet or pooping.

    Sexy.
    My recovery in the hospital was a three-week process. Early on I shared a room with a boy who was about my age. He had been in a severe car accident and his brain was permanently damaged. The nurses told me he had to learn how to do everything over again—eating, talking, walking—and that he would never fully recover. This was the first time I realized I was lucky compared to some people, and although I didn’t fully understand it at the time, I told my dad that I was thankful I only had SMA because it must be so difficult for that kid to relearn how to live.
    One day, I was practicing driving my wheelchair down the hospital hallway, (because the surgery had greatly altered the way I sat in my chair) when I passed by a dark, dreary room with a cage-like crib that contained a little boy who was fast asleep among the wires keeping him alive. There were no balloons or people or stuffed animals in this hospital room, which was the complete opposite of my room. I asked one of my nurses and she told me that he was very sick and didn’t have any family to visit him or bring him balloons. For the duration of my stay at the hospital, my room was filled with friends and family and a constantly replenishing supply of gift baskets, food, toys, and more balloons than I knew what to do with. This little boy had none of that, but the