I’ve been diagnosed with severe problems in my cervical spine with a recommendation of surgery to nip in the bud the risk of paralysis. I’ve considered that perhaps this is the long awaited answer to my occasional thought in my adult life that if only something were really wrong it would justify my depression and malaise—living chemically does not always keep these gremlins at bay. But I don’t think spinal cord surgery is what I had in mind. Contemplating it has much too much potential for mushrooming in the mind, even if it is apparently somewhat routine. I can’t say what concretely bad thing would be a good candidate to wake me up permanently to life’s daily songs and roses. It certainly can’t involve my children. Actually, I think this is a close as I want to get to a real worry, and a part of me is still holding out for the doctors at the big university hospital saying, Oh, that was a complete misreading of the MRI; you just need a little more physical therapy; how ridiculous to suggest you might be paralyzed if you ignore this.
