Spinally Tapped-In
What lumbar disc surgery taught me about body image
Three months ago, I made an appointment to undergo spinal surgery. I knew I’d be forced to confront my fears about what could go wrong when going under the knife, but I was not prepared for the onslaught of fears about body image, able-bodied privilege, and the possible decline of my cultural currency as a female in this world.
For the past fourteen years, I’ve been dealing with three herniated lumbar discs. Some people with herniated discs have small herniations that are manageable or even heal on their own. That was not the case for me. When the neurosurgeon reviewed my first MRI, which I had at age nineteen, she rather gravely said, “I’ve never seen a herniation this big on someone so young.”
Some years, the pain was almost non-existent; others, it ran my life. Rain and snow often left me bed-ridden. One April morning in 2011, after doing nothing of note the day before, I awoke to some next-level pain. A subsequent MRI showed a worsening of my condition, called degenerative disc disease, and I was recommended for immediate surgery by a shady used car-salesman of a neurosurgeon who studied my case for all of five minutes. I’ve always considered myself categorically opposed to the idea of being sliced open and tinkered with by another fallible being, so I told this joker, “Thanks, but no thanks.”
Once I’d left the building and rounded the corner, I dropped the poker face. Fighting a full-on New York cry, I wondered: how could this be my life? What the hell was happening and how was this fair? For years, I had held onto the hope that my discs might heal themselves, like so many others’ had. At thirty years old and with an injury that had sidelined me at nineteen, my dream of being a professional dancer was long over; I had accepted that, but I was not ready to accept that I needed to make a decision about a life-altering surgery.
For twenty-two more months, I soldiered on, my discomfort ever-increasing despite physical therapy and a steady diet of over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. After inescapable pain caused me to break down in tears/massive hysterics one Sunday night, I scheduled another MRI, ready to bring the latest scans to a new surgeon. I had reached my breaking point. This pain was utter bullshit and I was not willing to put up with it anymore. Again, I was recommended for surgery; but this time around, I met with a doctor who spoke with me for nearly an hour, gave thorough explanations, and advised me to think about it for a few weeks and get second and third opinions. Based on this doctor’s demeanor, success rate, professional reputation, and the cutting-edge science behind his surgical technique, I decided the time was right for me to go for it.
I knew I had chosen one of the best surgeons in the world, but when your very first operation is a major procedure on your spine, your mind is going to wander into some pretty dark territory. What if something went wrong and I ended up in worse condition? Could I handle a life of disability? Although for years my movement had already been impaired, I still enjoyed a great deal of able-bodied privilege. What if that was suddenly gone? In addition to the physical/logistical adjustments to my daily life, there would be social adjustments. None of my friends is physically impaired, nor has anyone ever introduced me to a disabled friend. Would their casual ableism mean the end of my social life as I knew it? And who would my new friends be? My whole world could be upended.
I was terrified. I’d never so much as been in a cast before, and now I was going to be knocked out for nine hours, and have my abdomen sliced open, my organs shoved aside, and my three herniated discs removed and replaced with three titanium-and-polymer artificial disc implants. I would then have to live in the hospital for a week, where I would relearn how to walk. I would slowly be reintroduced to solid foods. I would not be allowed to bend or twist for months—this would also mean I couldn’t shave my legs for months. I would have a three-inch scar around my navel.
Hearing about this scar made the impact of what I was about to do sink in. Though my surgeon could convince me his success rate was quite high, he couldn’t assure me that having a big ol’ scar on my midsection would be socially acceptable. A quick flip through a thesaurus yields the following synonyms: (noun) blemish, imperfection, deficiency, flaw, lack, weakness; (verb) to make ugly. I was going to be tarnished, maimed, literally marked as a physically-flawed female. I could already hear other, cruel females on the beach analyzing my body.
Even though my fears were private thoughts existing only in my head, I felt embarrassed for how much weight I had given my own vanity. I would have thought that, as a feminist, I’d be too sharp and analytical to fall prey to such vapid influences. But then I reflected on the culture I’d grown up in and lived in all my life. Western culture impresses upon us that a female’s first duty is to be physically attractive. We’re told our worth is measured against our ability to embody a standard of physical perfection, but no one tells us this standard is unrealistic and impossible. After enhancement by body-contouring makeup and professional lighting, supermodels are still Photoshopped. Even centuries-old children’s fables hint at the impossibility of this standard—the enviably beautiful Cinderella needed a fairy godmother’s help getting right and tight with a corseted gown, an up-do, and a makeover before she had a chance of catching her man’s eye.
As farcical a notion as this is, still I had gone along with the cultural imperative that this impossible ideal should be my aspiration. I’d internalized the male gaze, been complicit in coveting my culture’s physical ideal, and berated myself for not achieving it a hundred percent. Now that I was faced with deviating further from that ideal, I suddenly felt cheated. Where was my gold fucking star for getting as close to perfect as I had?
The day before my surgery, I photographed my scar-free tummy and sent the jpeg to a long-distance lover. I needed someone to join me in silently mourning its passing. I placed both hands on it, gazed upon it and held it with the serenity and pride of an expectant mother. I gave it my love and said my goodbyes: “You’re all right, little stomach. I know I always hated you and thought you were never good enough, but you were good enough. I’m sorry I was never nicer to you.” I thought I would cry, but I didn’t.
The fact is, no one was going to give me that gold star but myself. No one ever would.
Two months after the surgery, all fears of disability have been quelled, I am more concerned with the ongoing rehabilitation than I am with the gnarly purple question-mark around my navel. This is not to say I’ve experienced some paradigm shift and am now completely free from the futile pursuit of feminine perfection. But I’ve begun to understand that scars are proof of a life actually lived. An informal survey of personal friends and Angelina Jolie interviews taught me that most people think scars are cool. More people prefer the battle-worn action figure, complete with cool backstory, to one that can only boast banal, mint-in-box perfection.
The compulsory pursuit of perfection formed my self-image, seducing me onto its endless hamster wheel. Bucked off by a backiotomy, I realized these obsessions weren’t necessarily my obsessions, but the ones I was taught. Choosing to become scarred rather than continue living with chronic pain was easy. Choosing to fight against the cultural tide that tries to drown imperfect women in self-loathing has been decidedly more difficult.
