I have pushed out four baby boys without the aid of medication. This was painful and I don’t enjoy painful experiences even though I am told I have a high tolerance for pain, whatever that means. Getting older only increased my pain during pregnancy and childbirth. My back seemed to hurt so much more and when I began pushing out my last boy, I didn’t think he was ever going to come out (apparently the doctor didn’t either as he was getting ready to give me an episiotomy). But I did manage to push my baby out and he came to me, weighing in at 9 lbs. 3 oz.; two more pounds than his three older brothers.
 
With my last boy I felt our family was complete and I was happy. But then I had to deal with the other kind of childbirth “pain.” The pain of sleepless nights, while trying to feed, clothe, bathe, launder and taxi my family while I tried to maintain my “happy.” It was during this time of motherhood management that I thought about introducing medication into the equation. However, shortly after I made inquires about the affects of Prozac on breast milk, things began looking up. My last baby may have been difficult for me to push out but his larger tummy had the ability to hold lots of milk which resulted in an infant that slept through the night at three months. Sleep was the drug I needed most and when I got a good dose, I was able to perform my role with greater ease and happiness.

Unfortunately, after my last pregnancy, my back seemed to hurt constantly and I thought that I looked more crooked than usual. I had scoliosis. I was diagnosed with scoliosis when I was 14.
I dealt with its varying degrees of pain up until the point of my last baby. Then I had discomfort every day. I did not like having scoliosis as a teenager; not because I experienced any great amount of pain but because of how it looked. I hated that I was skinny and the only curve I had was a crooked spine.

Every three months I would be measured to see if my 20-degree curve had progressed. If it had, then the dreaded “Milwaukee brace” would be prescribed to outfit my spine. I feared every doctor’s visit, wondering if the outside metal rod would be assigned to my back. I remember reading Judy Blume’s book, Deenie, about a 14- year old girl who was going to be a model but had to postpone her dream (or rather her mother’s dream) when it was discovered she had scoliosis and had to wear the brace that went from her neck to her hips.

“When Deenie sees the brace for the first time, she wants to scream, Forget it...I’m never wearing that thing. Everyone will know. Everyone!”

And that is how I felt. I would never wear a brace and I faithfully did the exercises the physical therapist gave me, every single night, no matter what was going on. I’d go to my room and lie down on the hand-me-down, yellow, shag carpet from my cousin, and time each exercise with a stop watch, all the while praying to God, to please spare me from the ugly metal rod.

I chose the theatre as an escape from my fears. On stage I could forget about my scoliosis and become another character. I could make people laugh, cry and think. I loved the theatre and I loved performing. The theatre gave me a sense of purpose as well. I was able to communicate the importance of “no place like home” by portraying Dorothy Gale from Kansas as well as share the beauty of communication through my portrayal of Helen Keller. I had high aspirations as I entered college as a theatre major and my scoliosis wasn’t a problem until my senior year.
 
In the fall of 1988 I did a play called Ourselves Alone. The show was about the Irish Republican Army and I was given a leading role. But before rehearsals each night, I would visit the chiropractor to try and obtain some relief from the pain that was causing me such trouble on the upper left side of my back. The chiropractor never seemed to help. I did travel the 100 miles from school to the metro-area to see an orthopedic doctor and he gave me a device so I could put my neck in traction. That wasn’t the solution either and I used the “neck stretcher” just once. 
 
By Christmas time the pain had disappeared and didn’t plague me again until a year later after I had graduated. I began doing what all actors do while they wait to land a show; I waited tables. I would visit chiropractors and I guess it would help some. Then I would have a stretch of time where it would all seem fine, like I never had a problem in the first place. This was a pattern that continued until I couldn’t take the pain anymore.

After the birth of my fourth child, I saw a physical therapist who suggested I visit a pediatric/ orthopedic doctor. I made an appointment and saw a doctor who specialized in teenage scoliosis. Looking at my spine on the x-ray, it was startling to see how crooked my spine was and even more startling was the discovery that my 20-degree curve had progressed to 40. At 18 years of age I had been relieved not to have my spine measured anymore because I was done growing. But I guess my spine decided it wasn’t done moving. Now at 36 years of age, I would have to have surgery to have the metal rod inserted inside my back.

I actually thought this would be okay. No one would see the rod, I would be straighter and I could have lots of medications to take away any and all pain.

“How difficult could this be,” I thought? “I’ve delivered four babies without drugs.”

The doctor told me that he could see I was determined to go through with this serious back surgery even though at 40-degrees it was still an option. My husband agreed only because it looked like my curve might still progress in the years to come. When it was finalized that scoliosis surgery would be performed on my spine, I truly had no real understanding of what was about to happen to me. But later I realized I was about to enter a stage that would require me to perform a role that would greatly impact and change my life.

When an individual is accustomed to performing many roles that go with her title of “mother,” it is difficult for that individual to stop and take on a role that requires a loss of control and a dependence on others. In others words, it is difficult for a mother to have major surgery. She must understand that for quite some time she will be unable to take care of herself and her family.

I heard what the doctor and others were saying but I thought, “With my determination, faith, family and friends, accompanied by serious pain killers, I would be different than other mothers. Maybe a week or so I’d be useless but after that I’d be performing again.”

Yes, this is what I believed. But I was wrong.

June 16, 2003, I lay on a stretcher. I watched the anesthesiologist prepare me for my scoliosis surgery. I was to have four rods, screws and hooks installed. A nurse-person was taping wire electrode things to my legs because of course; there is always the possibility of being paralyzed when dealing with this type of back surgery.

When the anesthesiologist man said, “I understand you have four little boys at home,” all I could do was nod and start crying. I looked up at my husband to see tears running down his face as well.

I then said to the man, “I’m scared.”

He assured me, “Well, I’m going to give you something right now that will calm you down.”

And that is the last thing I heard until I woke up nine hours later with a tube up my nose leading down into my stomach and heard a nurse saying, “It’s over Debbie.”

I didn’t open my eyes and I couldn’t talk, but I started to motion with my index finger, pointing to my stomach, hoping the nurse understood I was about to throw up. That is when the pain hit. The doctor had made a 13- inch cut to install the hardware I needed, and that area felt to me like a third-degree burn with knives poking into my flesh. I tried not to pass out as I vomited nothing.

I soon realized that no amount of morphine or any other drug was going to allow me to escape this painful experience. I was in intensive care for two days and then moved to the recovery area where I would deal with a bladder infection, a bacterial stomach infection, and constipation. On day three, I would get my period. I guess when it rains it pours.

I must note that the surgery itself went beautifully. The real drama was spent in the week after the surgery, with me trying to function well enough so I could leave the hospital. It was so hard to eat because I had such stomach cramps. Despite several suppositories up my rear, I never did have a bowel movement before leaving the hospital. When I did leave, I was anemic and weighed 98 pounds. The only thing I managed to consume were cans of Boost energy drinks (beverages I will never touch again).

I was scared to go home. I missed my boys and I hadn’t seen them in ten days, and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to take care of them because I couldn’t take care of myself. I was angry too. Not at God or the doctors, but at myself for putting so much hope and pride in my own abilities and strengths. None of the medications worked for me, they only made me nauseous. And that made me mad. The pain was almost unbearable to me. Valium, it turned out, was not the answer to my physical or emotional pain. The answer was...acceptance. I needed to accept my own weaknesses and reach out and receive the help from the many friends and family members who were there for me. Most importantly, I needed to let go of the expectations I had of myself and others for not doing things the way I thought they should be done. I needed to “let go.” But that was a really difficult thing for me to do when I was so used to “doing” and performing.

Three weeks into my recovery, my dear friend from high school, Shannon, arrived from Minneapolis to visit me. She lay on the bathroom floor with me and stroked my hair after I had thrown up once again and spoke words of comfort and reassurance.

I cried out, tears streaming down my face, “What if I never get better? What if I never can eat again, have a bowel movement, and what if the pain never really goes away?”
 
I was so scared and I hurt. But eventually I did get better; the pain lessened and my attitude improved. I believe much of that relief came from me just letting go and enjoying what I had. I became really thankful for the things I had been given. I now had the time to truly stop and smell the flowers. I stopped focusing on my fears but instead focused on the love I had; the love of my family, my friends and especially the love from God. Every day my boys would gently crawl up on my bed and play games with me, something I rarely seemed to have time for before the surgery. It was our sweet and special time. I heard their stories and their adventures and rarely did I hear their tattling...and that was sweet.

After three months I could not believe how great I felt physically. The pronounced hump on the left side of my back was gone and I discovered I had grown an inch in height. But not only did I have relief from my pain and the way I looked, I had also grown emotionally and spiritually. One morning, as I was opening the freezer to see if there were any more fruit smoothies leftover from when my mother had been at my home caretaking, I noticed the Bible verse magnet that read, “In quietness and in confidence shall be your strength.” And I realized that that was the true key to my recovery. When I was still and quiet, focusing on the blessings in my life, I was at peace.

I also began to have a confidence that there was hope because I began to have a confidence in who I was and what I had to offer my family. I became a better listener and a better receiver. I also received confidence from my hope in God. My faith gave me strength. In accepting who I was I got better at accepting others for who they were. I’m a bit of a” neat nut” and I’ve always had the philosophy, “there is a place for everything and everything has a place.” My mom, without whose help I couldn’t have survived, doesn’t follow this rule the same way I do. Her style is a little more bohemian, so I would become frustrated when the house and laundry weren’t done my way.

As I began to heal however, I saw the beauty of who my mother really was. I saw that we each had our own unique style and my way wasn’t better it was just different.  There is a difference between pride and confidence in oneself and I had been more proud than confident. That attitude changed during my recovery process.  I am not only thankful for a surgery that corrected my spine from a 40-degree curve to a 17-degree one, but I’m also thankful for the work done on me as a person.

I guess it’s true, “What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.” I’m now stronger and feeling really good about life. Of course, I’m only human, and I have days and times where I’m frustrated with my family and with irritating or disappointing circumstances, but I deal with them from a healthier perspective. I appreciate the simple pleasures in life, like being able to have a regular and normal bowel movement. But most of all, I appreciate the beautiful family I have, my supportive and caring friends, and a loving God who gives me strength and confidence. Who would have thought that” being performed on” would end up providing me with lessons and tools so I could go on and give a more true and genuine performance myself?

Six months after my surgery someone asked me, “Having experienced what you did, are you glad you went through with the surgery?”

My answer was, “Yes, most definitely, yes.”