I was in a cold, sterile room that morning covered in EKG stickers. The nurse laid me down carefully on the operating table and gently grabbed my hand while placing the anesthesia mask on my face. The parade of doctors and nurses made me feel as if I were a poor frog in a biology dissection lab. I guess my nervousness was all too clear because the nurse began asking me silly questions. The assortment of scalpels on the table next to me was hard to ignore, but I met her eyes while counting down from ten multiple times. I can’t remember how many times we counted, but I can clearly remember her soft, gentle voice that soothed me to sleep. As my consciousness faded away, I knew it was time to turn the page to a new chapter in my life. 

Growing up, I was often called an “expensive child”. I wasn’t spoiled, but my medical bills definitely gave me the price tag of one. Staples from slamming my head into a rock, facial reconstruction surgery for a cleft palate caused by hitting my face against a baby crib, and stitches from a scooter accident—I was and still am very clumsy. Regardless of how many times I visited the hospital, I always lived without a care in the world,  free from any burdens, striving to make every moment my best. That is until a sharp pain pierced through my body. 

It was during dance class when I first experienced this pain. I hadn’t fallen or bumped into anything. I was simply reviewing choreography with my friends when I felt something slowly creep up my back and to my shoulder blades. I brushed it off because, whenever we did floor work, all of us complained about how our backs felt like they were going to snap. My friends seemed to continue with no issues, but for me, every movement made the uncomfortable sensation gradually build until it became unbearable. 

Although it was painful, I ignored these troublesome signs because the pain would go away after I finished practice with a good stretch. However, when I went to school, the pain would visit multiple times throughout the day. I was too afraid to tell mom because of her worrisome nature and my history. Yet I knew that I would eventually have to tell her because it wasn’t just a small sprain or a pull of a muscle. When I told her, we immediately went to the hospital and had an X-Ray, not expecting anything too severe. But when the doctor walked in with a worrisome look, we knew it was much worse than what we had thought. I had moderate to severe scoliosis. 

Walking out of the appointment, I shook my head trying to ignore the diagnosis that loomed over me. I rationalized it like getting a bad grade in school—I was upset for three days then forgot about it just as quickly. However, mom took it very differently. Doctors were constantly calling her to explain how to correct my scoliosis. Every word I overheard went in one ear and out the other. Then I suddenly heard the words “back brace” leave her mouth. I froze. Me in a back brace? I let out an awkward chuckle. It’s probably just a last resort, my scoliosis couldn’t be that bad. I closed my eyes and went to sleep in the car somewhat laughing at the absurdity of me in a back brace but life can be quite absurd. 

The doctor had his hands all over my body measuring my torso with a weird medical measuring device. It was an odd sensation because he was drawing all over my body while describing everything that needed to be fixed. Was this a back brace fitting or a plastic surgery consultation? For the first time, I felt self-conscious about my body because of what he said. “Your shoulder blades are popping out.” “Your waist is uneven.” “Your shoulder is so droopy.” Mom sat close, watching me carefully while holding a thick binder full of all the different designs I could choose from. She tried her best to cheer me up by flipping through the swatches of colors, pointing out all the pretty designs. The doctor eventually finished all of his measurements and began explaining what life with a brace would be like while rubbing off the pen marks on my body. I didn’t listen to a word he said. I already had an inkling of what my life would soon look like, and I didn’t like what I saw. 

The drive back home was silent and awkward. Mom tried her best to say something to make me feel better, but my responses were short. I was facing the window and I traced circles on the side of the car trying anything I could to keep my mind from drifting back to the idea of the brace. She reached for my hand and suddenly began apologizing, mentioning that it was her fault she didn’t sign me up for the annual school scoliosis check. Every year before, there was not a single problem. Even a few months prior to my diagnosis, my doctor had forgotten to check, and she thought it would be fine. I cried and told her to stop. Nothing was her fault, and she always did the best she possibly could for me. 

About a week later, I found myself back in that dreaded office sitting in front of what looked like a piece of garbage fished from the ocean. I carefully placed it over my body and immediately cringed. It held my body like handcuffs, restricting every movement I made. I felt pathetic. What did I do to have to live like this? My mind was filled with rage, yet I couldn’t feel anything but hopelessness. I peeked at myself through the mirror and didn’t recognize the person staring back at me. She looked soulless; the glimmer in her eyes dulled. The doctor helped me sit down reassuring me that I would still be able to do normal everyday activities. He promised that I would still be able to go to gym class and, more importantly, to dance practice. To this day, I don’t know if he was lying to keep me from crying or was unaware how wrong he could be. 

I wished he was straightforward; I wished everyone was straightforward that my life would not be the same. In fact, it would take a turn for the worse. Misguided by words of encouragement, I genuinely believed nothing would change. I wish I had known that normalcy would never return, so I could better prepare for the life that awaited me. The first couple of days in the brace were hell. I looked and felt like a mannequin, so I tried everything in my power to hide it. I would wear thick bulky clothing and never take off jackets, and every time I tried to have some patience with my brace, the velcro and plastic creaked so loudly it was impossible to hide. 

After a week, I sat mom down and cried all my anger and humiliation out to her. I needed her to know how much this brace was killing me and that every time I put the brace on it felt as if my heart shattered into pieces. She took me into her arms and began stroking my hair, an action she often performeddone when she tries to calm me down. In her arms, I begged her to let me not wear my brace to school. Mom was conflicted—she wanted my scoliosis to be fixed, but she couldn’t see her daughter constantly going through this suffering. I looked into her eyes and promised that if she let me go to school without a brace I would wear it everywhere else without exception. 

Mom and I now had our own little secret: keep the brace at home and keep both our mouths shut. I was relieved to have finally found some middle ground between me and my scoliosis. Even though I was living a double life, I went to school like a girl who was perfectly healthy. I hid every clue that revealed my scoliosis and kept trying to bury the secret I kept away from everyone in my life. I didn’t want to feel any more different than I already did. 

As the year went on, I formed an unstable relationship with my brace. My brace was a part of me whether I liked it or not and felt like an annoying younger sibling that followed my every move. Vacations or road trips, the brace followed closely behind. I still had monthly doctor's appointments, and ironically, those were the days I looked forward to the most. The doctors told me early on that the brace would merely be temporary due to my young age so each time I walked into the office, I asked myself the same two questions: Would I be getting the brace taken off soon? Do I have to keep it on? Only the appointments would tell.

Mom and I were sitting in the office and giggling about the events that happened at school that day. Mid-laugh the doctor walked in with a face that I easily recognized. It was that same concerned face I saw two years prior. I had forgotten the severity of my situation and believed that everything was eventually going to get better. Well, I was wrong. My scoliosis had gotten almost 15 degrees more severe meaning that surgery would be inevitable. It felt like all of a sudden my hearing switched off and my vision got cloudy. I felt myself travel back to that very day when my heart was broken not by my crush, but by me. At that moment, the only thought in my mind was “had I worn the brace to school, would I  be in this situation right now?” I set the brace down beside me and stared at it. I guess this really was just a piece of garbage. 

The surgery date was set for June 25th, 2021. The doctors reassured me by saying since I was only 15, the recovery shouldn’t take any longer than a month or two. At this point, there had been so many unkept promises that I didn’t know if I should believe them this time. Regardless, I grew up constantly under the needle so I didn’t think of it too seriously. What’s the harm in another small surgery?

Although mom left that appointment with a worried look that wouldn’t leave her face for the next few months, I was happy because the doctor officially stated that I didn’t need to wear the brace anymore. With my shackle removed, I decided to be as carefree as possible—I did everything that my brace prevented me from doing for the past two years. I danced to my heart's content and never hesitated to go out with my friends whenever they asked.

During my leave from my brace, I checked my surgery date over and over until there was only three weeks left. Here I experienced how fickle of a mistress time could be. I wanted more time, but mom and I had to make our way to the doctor's office again for an appointment before my surgery. The appointment was surprisingly short and simple. I met my surgeon, nurses, and other specialists who gave me advice and informed mom what I should be doing the days that preceded my operation. I was given a special soap to bathe in for the next three weeks to make sure my back was as sterile as possible. The soap was a dark pink color and reeked of rubbing alcohol. It made my body so clean I could hear how squeaky I was after I finished showering. It wasn’t as simple as bathing with soap. My doctor gave me specific instructions with a weird sponge that resembled the ones I used to wash the dishes. I felt scared because of the extra preparation but believed that scoliosis surgery was something I could handle.

The day of my surgery was a blur and my strongest memory was the faint sound of a nurse counting in the background. I squinted my eyes and saw pairs of smiling eyes staring and waving at me. I tried to wave back, but my body felt immovable, stiff as a brick. I was disoriented and confused, so I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep.

I woke up a couple of hours later and as soon as my eyes opened, I saw mom by my side with the biggest smile. She gently rubbed my arm and told me everything went well. I could tell she was holding back tears, so I tried to move to comfort her, but again, my body refused to listen. My legs were tingly, and I couldn’t even lift my arms. It was such an odd sensation, but I later learned that since I was under so many different kinds of medication it paralyzed my body to hide the inevitable pain that awaited me.

As time went on, some of the numbness wore off, and feeling gradually came back to my body. I braced myself for the wave of pain to come from my back, but I still couldn’t feel anything. I shuffled around and suddenly felt a stabbing feeling in my legs begin to grow. It was a little stronger than pins and needles, so I kicked my legs around to try and get the circulation back. As hours passed, the pain grew, and I was annoyed that the medication could only numb my back and not my legs. Who would have thought I would be complaining about leg pain after getting my back cut open. 

Hospital life was miserable. I could barely get any sleep with the constant parade of nurses coming in to check on me. What made it worse was I couldn’t do anything alone. I expected I would at least be able to move on my own in the bed, but to my dismay, I quickly learned that for the first couple of days, I would be bedridden, needing help with everything I wanted to do. Mom was always by my side ready to help and despite me growing up a relatively independent child and hating when everyone was all over me, I was grateful to have her there with me.

However, my lack of independence wasn’t the worst part—it was eating. I was always starving, but whenever I tried to eat, it would come right back up, leaving me feeling emptier than I started. I felt pathetic because my body couldn’t even perform simple functions like chewing and swallowing. One of the nurses brought me a cup of ice chips, but even frozen water made the room spin. Eating had become my greatest enemy. 

My mind was in such a dark place that I quickly lost all motivation. Whenever I tried to do anything, my body refused to cooperate, making me frustrated at myself. My mom reminded me that this surgery was the biggest one I’ve ever had and that I needed to recover one day at a time. Relying on her words, I tried to make the smallest amount of progress each day. I walked a little more, ate a little more, and sat in chairs for a few minutes even though sitting up made me feel as if someone was tearing at my spine. It was awful, but the progress I managed felt glorious. 

The day I was finally discharged to go home was the happiest day of my life so far. It felt freeing to know that I could finally be back in my own bed and finally get a good night's sleep without the constant beeping and whirring noises of the nearby machines. I was wheeled down to the car and laid down with the passenger's seat completely reclined. Just as my mom began driving off, I knew the hour-long car ride home wasn’t going to be easy. Every bit of gravel and little pebble mom drove over felt like they were being stabbed into my back. I winced and squirmed the entire ride home. Mom had a look of panic on her face as she tried to drive as slowly as she could, but nothing was working. I barely made it home without passing out, but even with the struggles I had in the car and in the hospital, nothing felt better than being back at home.

My back gradually began to heal, and I was beginning to live life once again. Even though it took significantly longer than the doctor had told me, I made a full recovery and even grew a couple of inches. I had to relearn how to do a lot of the things in my life—putting on clothes, eating, sitting, and even getting out of bed. As much as I wanted to give up and lay in bed all day, I knew the surgery was worth it, and I needed it to live a long and healthy life. The experience was in no way easy, and even though I’m still learning how to deal with some of the more negative consequences, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I learned that people will never fully understand what I went through because they would sometimes slap me on the back, forgetting my operation, or comment on my stiff and proper posture. But their comments and actions were okay because it was a reminder that everything was becoming normal again. Through my experiences, I gained a newfound respect for myself and know that even though I went through hell and back, I came out of it a scoliosis warrior with the coolest battle scar I will proudly show off.