Yesterday, my fairy godmother (aka my surgeon) turned a pumpkin into a coach (a wheelchair), transformed my rags into a spectacular gown (a beautiful backless hospital gown with coordinating, one size fits all paper knickers) and glamorously laboured over my hair and makeup (injected one of my intervertebral discs with local anaesthetic). Until midnight, when the spell would be broken (the anaesthetic would wear off), I was expecting to be Cinderella. I would be pain free and more mobile. I would prance with the Prince (my dad) and be liberated from my evil stepsisters (my evil intervertebral discs). I would be taken to the ball!
Unfortunately this expectation was a fairytale and fairytales very rarely materialise. My evil stepsisters did have a fleeting lull in their malicious schemes to cause agony. They did, however, replace these noxious strategies with a successful alternative mode of intervention, completely numbing my right leg so that it was rendered totally useless. Yesterday may not have let me shimmy at the shindig or boogie at the ball, but it did at least post me the invitation. It was the final confirmation that the major surgery is the slipper that fits my spine perfectly. My surgeon will be my fairy godmother, although I will have to wait a week and a half for him to wave his magic wand and the ball will be a few months off.