twitchy nerves

SuperHubby met with his neurologist on Friday and they both agreed that the neurosurgeon ranking #1 on SuperHubby's list of acceptable doctors to go traipsing through his innards to reach and fix his spine is also the #1 choice of the neurologist. Isn't that handy?

This is good news, despite my snark. SuperHubby has been manfully dealing with major back badness for way too long now. My guy need fixing so his pain level decreases and he can once again do his many manly duties about the house, such as kill the spider on the ceiling so his wife does not stay up all night with lights ablaze for fear the spider will crawl on her face, without it causing such pain that he can barely walk for two days. Not to mention monkey sex, one needs a healthy back for monkey sex.

After a bazillion doctor appointments, X-rays, MRI's, CT Scans and pain pills, the results is 2 ruptured and herniated discs requiring a double disc fusion. Sounds like it should be more fun, doesn't it? Double Disc Fusion. Sorta like a club party, "Come On down to Studio 54 (shut up) for the newest Double Disc Fusion sound and party like it's 1999!" Except it's not, not even close. If he tried to dance now, he'd need traction and IV morphine for a week.

O.K., this isn't life threatening, unless you count the possible permanent spinal nerve damage that is likely to occur if not fixed. I know that it's not cancer, or in that realm of bad things that could have happened, but it has stolen almost three years of quality of life from him. SuperHubby loves coaching little league baseball and each season it's gotten more painful to do so and this last season? Couldn't do it. The pain and restrictive movement prevents him from being able to toss balls to Ace in the backyard. About 6 years ago on vacation, he gleefully climbed Blue Mountain in the Adirondacks one cold, snowy day. This past vacation he couldn't even go on a day hike in the Pocono's. See where I'm going here? My guy wants his life back and he deserves to have it back. So, surgery it is.

The Neurosurgeon has excellent credentials and comes highly recommended. This is important as we're very, very picky about doctors and how well they do their job. It amazes me when people just let a physician call all the shots without asking questions and researching their own illnesses. After many years of needing to know what the hell was going on with various medical issues, we take nothing for granted now and make certain the doctors know they work for us and I'm a bitchy boss.

SuperHubby is extremely confident in this process and the doctor. I suppose that's the most important thing, as it's his body and back that the neurosurgeon will have his fingers on and in and around, literally. Gah. I have faith in the surgeon.....mostly. I don't really trust any physician these days, not completely. Do you suppose he'd take it wrong if I threatened to castrate him if he doesn't take super-duper good care of SuperHubby? I hope to catch up to SuperHubby's sense of confidence in this. I'm not quite there yet. Maybe I'll never get there but I'll pretend so fucking well, I'll convince myself. Isn't that almost the same thing?

In truth? Fear, I haz it. Big stinky, slimy buckets of it, ready to spill down and greedily slide greasy tendrils into my brain at unsuspecting moments. Like when SuperHubby called me on Friday after his neurology consult and told me with complete conviction in his voice that he was going to call the surgeon to get surgery scheduled. I felt my innards liquefy, my skin turn to ice and I swear my heart stuttered & ceased to function for a brief period. Yes, over-reaction, I KNOW.

Here's the thing, 5 years ago my mother had almost the same damn surgery in the same fucking spots. How weird is that? We like to joke that she cursed him. That's a bad joke, unless you've meet my mother, and then you know it's entirely probable. See, thing's didn't go so well that time. Two weeks after her surgery she had MRSA in her incision and spine, which is the infection that does not respond to medication, and it raced through her body like a crack whore on the last fix ever. MRSA went fucking commando in her system and killed her slowly over six months. It was beyond awful.

Rationally I recognize that these two surgeries are completely difference circumstances with different patients, doctors, and hospitals. Her doctor was an raging egocentric fuck head putz who deserves to be slowly eviscerated by Hannibal Lecter and his doctor is a thoughtful, confident and thorough man. SuperHubby is young, predominantly healthy, and committed to getting better. Mom was in her mid 70's, diabetic, overweight, had many health issues and took a shitload of medications for those issues which compromised her immune system. I accept and embrace those very differences, when my rational brain is in charge, of course. When the irrational brain barges in and takes control of the wheel? Holy FUCKNUTS, I'm scared. Spit Drying, Hand Wringing, Eye Twitching, Heart Thumping, Xanax Needing Scared. I think I'll just remain tranquilized until he's safely back home from the hospital.