"In sickness and in health."
It seems to me somebody mentioned that proviso when my husband and I got married. But like "for richer or for poorer," it is easy to see which is the best-case scenario.
We had the bad luck to draw the "in sickness" card when back troubles caught up with me, requiring surgery. It wasn't pretty, and neither was I.
I have always feared back trouble. The spine is mysterious and complex and not easily repaired. And back trouble must be epidemic because you are always hearing people complain about it.
Inevitably, baby boomers learn about L4 and L5. These symbols, which refer to vertebrae in the low back, are as familiar to us as "401K," and they represent something as volatile and inadequate as our retirement savings.
Those of us in the newspaper business have a keen sense of tragic irony, and we approach things like surgery differently. Joan Rivers, who died during a simple procedure to restore her famously raspy — and waspish — voice is a good example. We never want to die in a way that makes headline writers happy so we probably over-think things.
For example, I have never had plastic surgery because I am sure I will die on the table and my obituary will read "died during elective surgery," and everybody will know I was having a facelift.
Anyway, I prepared for my surgery by organizing all the important documents in my life and giving my daughter a tour of the file drawer in which I placed them. Deed to the house, advanced directives, will, durable power of attorney. And all my passwords. She burst into tears.
"I am not being morbid," I said, desperately trying to erase her fears. "I am being organized."
My husband asked why I hadn't shared all of this information with him, and I said it was because he would never remember where these documents were. "You don't remember recycling night, and it has been the same for 33 years," I said.
"OK," he said. "But do you have the link for match.com in there? If anything happens, I want to be prepared, too."
Then I created a text message list for Jessie so that she could alert the people who matter when the surgery was safely completed. She asked — for the 13th time — exactly what day and time it was scheduled and when I told her — again — she texted me, "I have a hair appointment then, but I promise I will send a text as soon as I can."
She added, "And NO post-op selfies, OK?"
Some things don't need to be said.
Meanwhile, my husband, who is not a doctor but who slept in a Quality Inn last night, had Googled "spinal fusion" and come to his own conclusions.
"Honey, this isn't brain surgery. It is more like deveining a shrimp. You'll be fine."
Well, I don't want to scare any members of the L4 L5 age cohort out there, but spine surgery is no day at the beach. And I did not look my best for many days afterward.
My kids asked if they should visit but I gently discouraged them. If Jessie burst into tears over file drawers, she wasn't going to hold up well when she got a look at me. And Joe wanted an assessment of "how bad is she" before he was ready to invest the time.
I figured there'd be plenty of time for bedside moments when they were all gathered around to usher me into the next life. For the moment, I was stuck in this one, with a catheter, intravenous pain meds, a tear-away sleeping garment and the worst hair day of my life.
It occurred to me more than once that I was going to have to dress up like Cat Woman to get my husband to ever look at me as more than an intensive care patient.
The other thing I learned during this ordeal is that I do not have nearly enough experience with heavy duty pain medication. Rookies have blood like mountain spring water, apparently, and I managed to add "psychotic episodes" to the list of reactions.
(I have this only by my husband's report. I wasn't actually present for any of them. My Sister the Nurse immediately declared a "medication vacation" and switched me to Tylenol.)
All in all, I am grateful for the support of my husband and children during a difficult couple of months. It wasn't exactly an inspirational experience, but there were a lot of laughs. And isn't that the best medicine?
Susan Reimer's column has returned. She writes on Mondays and Thursdays, and she can be reached at sreimer@baltsun.com and @SusanReimer on Twitter.com.