Ten years ago this month—on Tuesday, May 19th, 2015—I underwent spinal fusion surgery. It was the second major surgery of my life. The first had come nearly a decade earlier, in late 2006, when I had an emergency appendectomy. That experience was frightening, sudden, and over before I had time to process it.
The back surgery was different. It was planned. Anticipated. And terrifying in a whole new way.
From 2011 to 2015, I dealt with constant, gnawing back pain and numbness that crept down my legs. It was relentless. Playing basketball—something I loved—felt like a chore. Even walking up and down stairs was painful. I felt older than I was. Slower. Limited.
After years of trying everything else—physical therapy, stretching, pain management, endless consultations—I reached a point of no return. My doctors and I agreed that surgery was the next logical step. And although I knew it was necessary, I dreaded it.
My first experience under the knife didn’t help. The appendectomy came after I’d worked an overnight shift at a juvenile center. I left work at eight in the morning with stomach pain and tried to sleep it off at home. That didn’t work. The pain worsened. I called my partner (now my wife), and I was convinced to go to the ER.
The rest unfolded quickly: diagnosis, anesthesia, countdown from ten—and then nothing. I woke up, groggy and confused. It was unnerving to lose time like that.
So when the countdown came again in 2015, this time for my spine, I wasn’t at peace. I had time to think. Too much time. But I went through with it anyway.
The surgery went well. Recovery was slow but steady. And once I was healed, it was like stepping into a new body. No more numbness. No more shooting pain. On the court, I felt light again. Quick. Whole.
It was the best version of myself I’d felt in years.
In 2023, eight years after the fusion, the pain started creeping back—not sharp and debilitating like before, but a stiffness and ache I couldn’t ignore. I saw a pain specialist who explained that spinal osteoarthritis had developed around the plate used to fuse my L4 and L5.
The hardware that had saved me was also limiting movement in that part of my spine. Over time, that rigidity caused arthritis.
A couple of steroid injections helped ease the discomfort. And thankfully, it hasn’t returned to what it once was.
Now, a decade after that surgery, I probably won’t spend the day reminiscing about hospital gowns and gas masks. But I will be thankful. Thankful for the relief I gained. Thankful for the chance to keep playing the game I love. Thankful that I can walk up stairs without needing a cane.
Spinal fusion isn’t a perfect solution. Some people avoid it altogether. But for me, it was life-changing. I got nearly ten pain-free years. I got freedom. I got a second chance at the kind of movement most people take for granted.
And that, in every sense, was worth it.
In many ways, that surgery didn’t just help me as an athlete—it helped me as a teacher and a writer, too.
Standing in front of a classroom for hours each day, walking around, leaning in to help students, carrying books from one room to the next—those are things I couldn’t have done before without pain. The fusion gave me the physical freedom to keep showing up fully for my students.
So as I mark ten years since that long day in May, I’m not just reflecting on what I went through—I’m recognizing what it made possible. However, I will also remember that a month after undergoing back surgery, I began writing my first novel, My Invisible Father. It was the beginning of my writing career. The start of back-breaking labor to birth meaningful stories into the world.