If you only read one sentence from this article, make it this: don't suffer in silence. Don't think it'll just pass. I thought that for a long time.
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How it all started
I woke up one morning with a backache. I bought some cream from the pharmacy, applied it – and it went away.
Then, about 15 years ago, I started experiencing this weird pain in my legs. Not muscles, skin, or bones – just this weird, internal ache. It was strange. But then it passed. And if it passed, I thought, I can just live with it. School, exams – no time for this.
About 10 years ago, my back started acting up again. I complained to everyone except my doctor.
In 2020, the pain got worse. I finally went to see a therapist, got an MRI. Three herniated discs in my lower back. The treatment helped – temporarily. I was prescribed physical therapy, massage, swimming, and the Kuznetsov cushion. I did it – but irregularly.
Then, in 2023, it started again. I went to see a neurologist, did a course of treatment. It got better – but not completely. The pain would come and go. I got used to it. It became background noise. I stopped looking for a solution, thinking, 'herniated discs are already there, treatment doesn't really help – what's the point now?'
Over the past year, the pain became constant. I kept telling myself, 'it's not that bad', 'it'll pass'. 'Everyone's got back pain – who doesn't?'
But my body doesn't know how to be quiet. It whispers at first, then speaks up, and eventually screams.
I got used to this pain. I thought, 'it's tolerable, so it can't be that serious'. And I kept putting off the doctor's visit. Either I didn't have the money or the time. Just like always.
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When everything changed
In 2024, my body said: 'I've had enough'.
This happened on the street. A sharp, stabbing pain. My leg was numb. I could only make it to the nearest bench and sit down. Getting up from the bench and walking on my own was no longer an option. An ambulance. The hospital. Neurology. Emergency surgery in neurosurgery.
That was it.
Just a week before, I had seen a neurologist, been prescribed treatment, and was getting shots, but as they say, it was already 'too little, too late'.
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Two days before the surgery
I was taken to the neurology department. They made a diagnosis, started treatment. For two days, I lay there, getting shots, and thanks to the painkillers, I felt a bit better, but overall, my situation hadn't changed. I was struggling to walk, and to get to the bathroom at the end of the hall, I was already using a wheelchair. To put it mildly, it wasn't the best time in my life.
They did a CT scan. The recommendation was emergency surgery to remove the herniated disc in my spine.
I won't lie, I didn't want to have surgery. I had a lot of preconceptions about it, and fear was the strongest of all. It seemed like I was willing to do anything, just not have surgery. But when things keep getting worse and worse, and you're left with no choice, you start to realize that you're not in control.
The final straw was when numbness started creeping up my thigh, literally within a few hours. Waking up in the morning, I realized I was a lot worse off. That's when I made my decision. I agreed to the surgery, and they took me to the neurosurgery department that same day.
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How the spine surgery went
I got accepted into the hospital and all the paperwork was sorted out. I asked all the questions that were bothering me. What really had me worried was whether I'd be in pain and what the chances of success were. The doctor told me: 99%. That was enough to calm my nerves.
What they recommended bringing to the hospital for surgery (for some reason, the corset wasn't mentioned)
I showered, put on compression stockings, and slipped into a special 'dressing gown' with ties at the back. I was wheeled into the operating theater.
It was a crazy mix of emotions: anxious, scared, unsure of what was to come. I remember when they started administering the anesthesia, and how I slowly started to drift off. The darkness, everything 'shutting down'.
Then - 'booting up'. I came to, and there were people hovering over me. I was disoriented:
— Who are you?
They introduced themselves.
For some reason, my next question was:
— Were you guys maybe featured on TV by any chance?
To this day, I'm not sure if it was the anesthesia or just a feeling that I'd somehow landed in a TV show.
I was wheeled into my room. I felt surprisingly good, even a bit uplifted - thanks, anesthesia.
I wasn't allowed to sleep for two hours. My roommates were chatting with me, distracting me, helping me stay awake. Thanks to them. Support in those moments is priceless.
The doctor comes in. Asks me to lift my legs one by one.
He says:
— Well, the nerves are shot. What'll recover in six months is what'll recover.
And that's it. He says it all so matter-of-factly.
— How did the surgery go?
— Yeah, everything went well.
Phew. We exhale.
I try to move my leg. It feels like wood. Very heavy. Almost unresponsive. And I didn't feel any pain at all.
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First Few Days After Back Surgery
You think the worst part is the surgery itself, but trust me, it's what comes after that's the real challenge.
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Day 1.
My leg feels like a ton of bricks, and I'm basically using my hands to help it out when I roll onto my side. Food comes in, and I just sleep a lot.
The girls in the ward are cracking up:
— Sasha's sleeping like a bear. You're one lucky person.
I'm actually just zoning out – my body's going into hibernation mode to cope with everything.
I had no idea I could only stay on my back for the first two hours after surgery. After that, it's all about rolling onto my side. And then I had to roll back onto my stomach to get up. I wasn't told that part.
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Day 2.
I'm basically crawling around the bed on all fours. It's awkward, it's hard, and it's kind of funny – if I wasn't feeling so miserable. All I want to do is sleep.
The nurse tells me:
— Get up on all fours, or you'll just end up lounging around.
So, I'm basically crawling.
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Day 3.
Today they're saying I can get up – but not just like that. It's got to be done by the book.
The doctor shows me the drill: first, I put on the corset while lying down. Then, I slowly roll onto all fours. Next, I inch my way towards the edge of the bed, lower my legs down, and only then can I stand up – holding onto something for support, of course. Every movement has to be slow and deliberate.
I stand up. The world feels like it's a mile high, like I shrunk or something while I was lying down.
I'm getting the hang of walking. Three meters to the door and back – that's my current range.
But I'm vertical, and that's a good sign.
The initial shock starts to wear off, and reality sets in. That's the moment when the doctor's words come back to you: 'What takes six months to recover from will take six months to recover from.' Six months? Six months?!
I started reading up on what a foot drop is. The search results were like a cold shower: numbness, incomplete control, the risk of permanent changes. My foot is still swollen and hanging loose.
My mind starts replaying all the what-ifs:
On the sixth day, I was discharged. I took a taxi home. I lay on the backseat at first, then rolled onto my side and rode like that.
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Home
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At home, it's a relief, but new questions arise: how to use the bathroom? How to shower? And many more questions that you'd be better prepared for if the surgery was elective.
I was prescribed medication for a month after discharge, and I took it as instructed.
ImageI had to administer injections and change dressings every other day until the stitches came out. I wore a corset all the time, and I walked for 10 minutes an hour, as recommended by my doctor. I set reminders on my phone to ensure I didn't forget or miss a dose.
I wasn't allowed to sit or bend. At first, I really wanted to sit, but I quickly got used to it, and it didn't seem like a big deal anymore. I just didn't sit and that was it.
Recovery was slower than I expected and hoped for. On my first follow-up appointment after surgery, the neurologist told me that numbness might linger, and full recovery would take around 7-9 months. It's not forever, but I had to get used to the idea that I'd need more time before I could get back to my normal life.
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How to avoid emergency surgery
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1. Regular physical exercises
This is a crucial point. Back pain, especially with herniated discs, shouldn't be taken lightly. I recommend doing physical therapy, swimming, and exercises that strengthen your back muscles. It's not just helpful – it's necessary.
2. Don't neglect preventive treatment courses
Massages, physiotherapy, and sanatorium treatment are all vital. They help not only maintain your spine's condition but also prevent further deterioration.
3. Find a doctor you can trust
It's essential to have a doctor who explains things clearly and simply. Someone who breaks down each step, tells you what a herniated disc is, what treatment you need, and why, rather than leaving you in the dark.
4. Take your diagnosis seriously
Don't be afraid of the diagnosis – it's not a death sentence, but it's not nothing either. It's essential not to panic, but also not to ignore the problem and do what you can for your health.
5. Regular medical check-ups.
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MRIs and other tests can help you catch the problem early and prevent the herniated disc from worsening. And yes, it's better to know than to guess. As they say, the bitter truth is better…
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But let's be real, there's no magic solution that'll make everything okay if you just wait it out.
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The sooner you face reality, the better.
Pain is a signal, but we often ignore it. I ignored it, and I'm not proud of it. The sensations numbed, and so did my awareness.
I spent a lot of time thinking about this, even while I was in the hospital, trying to make sense of things. It's not just my story; many people suffer in silence, hoping things will get better on their own. Is it habit, fear, or something else?
After researching this topic, I identified some common reasons why we put off seeking help:
• Habituation. When pain becomes a constant companion, it becomes the new normal. We learn to live with it, like it's just part of life.
• Denial. Acknowledging the problem means facing change. As long as we deny the signs, everything seems fine.
• Social conditioning. We're often told to 'tough it out', 'be strong', or 'not be a wimp'. We're ashamed of our health issues and hide them, even from ourselves.
• Lack of information. Sometimes we just don't know what to do or where to turn. We might not even believe that there's a solution.
• Trust issues with doctors. One bad experience can make us wary of seeking help again. We hope that 'it'll just go away' on its own.
Have you experienced any of these?
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Emergency surgery is a nightmare.
When you're rushed into emergency surgery, you're thrown into a whirlwind of events without any time to prepare. You feel out of control, without a plan – just a desperate need for action. It's exhausting.
• No time to prepare – not mentally, not physically, not even to read up on what's coming. All you're left with is to go with the flow and hope everything goes smoothly.
• Necessary things are gathered in a rush through family and nurses – compression stockings, a corset, medication. Your head is a blank, everything's like a haze.
• Normal life is cut short – work, appointments, plans. Everything gets cut short in one day, and you need to warn, inform, call people, but you're already in a panic.
• No time to process – what's happened to you, how long it'll last, and what's next.
• Rehabilitation is unexpectedly complex – the regimen, restrictions, weakness. And you're not ready for it at all.
Emergency situations are always tough. So, get checked, take preventive measures, ask your doctors, don't tolerate pain. Because eventually, you'll have to do all this anyway – just under stress, confusion, and forced urgency.
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Things that helped after the operation
Walking aids: not just for walking
The most useful purchase was walking aids. It turns out you can use them not only to move around but also as a support over the toilet. Just make sure to check the size of your toilet when buying.
Set up the walking aids around the toilet – and you'll have reliable handles to hold onto when sitting down and getting up. You can't sit on the toilet for a while, and walking aids really help you 'half-sit-half-stand'.
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Crutches
I've got to say, my go-to shoes are now Crocs. They're a breeze to slip on and off without having to bend down. True, my doc later suggested I switch to shoes with an anatomical insole, but for the period when my foot was in a rougher state, Crocs were a lifesaver.
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Long-handled shoe horn
When I transitioned to wearing Crocs, I found a long-handled shoe horn to be an absolute game-changer. When you can't bend down, it's a total lifesaver. The key is to choose a horn that's comfortable and suits your height – mine's 70 cm.
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Resistance band
This simple device attaches around your foot and gently pulls it upwards, helping to engage the right muscles – even if it's just passively. My foot's had trouble flexing upwards, and this band with loops has been a godsend. It's like a gentle reminder to my body: 'Hey, remember how we used to move?' It's amazing how your brain and muscles can start working together again.
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Knee stool
I actually bought the knee stool a bit later, around 5-6 months after the surgery. It's been a huge help in taking some pressure off my knees when I'm sitting and keeping my spine in a more natural position.
Of course, it's not a magic solution and still requires some caution, but during the recovery phase, it's been a great option for shorter 'sitting' tasks – like eating, writing, or working on my computer.
Important note: be sure to consult with your doctor before using it to avoid any potential harm. I bought it after my neurologist said it was okay.
I tried sitting on a regular chair, but it was super uncomfortable since I'd gotten out of the habit of sitting. So, my doc recommended starting with this stool and then gradually moving to a regular chair.
And yes, it's actually really comfortable 😊
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Wool Socks and Gaiters
When numbness kicks in, especially in the toes, any feeling of warmth and coziness becomes a priority. I found that wool socks and gaiters make a huge difference – my foot feels easier, warmer, and almost 'alive' in them.
I was particularly impressed with the wool socks – they're super warm, and the unpleasant numbness sensation is barely noticeable. I even slept in them, especially in the first few weeks after surgery. Wool socks for numbness are a game-changer.
Gaiters are a lifesaver when you need to add some extra heat above the ankle, especially in the morning or evening. It's a simple thing, but when you're dealing with reduced sensitivity, it's a total lifesaver.
And the last tip I didn't get to use, but I really wish I had.
Grabber (Third Hand)
When you can't bend, picking up stuff from the floor becomes a challenge. In this case, a grabber is a total game-changer.
With it, you can pick up clothes, bags, or anything else – all without bending. I highly recommend getting one of these grabbers ahead of time – it'll make life so much easier and give you more independence during the early stages of recovery.
Life After and What's Next
Seven months have passed since the surgery, and I've been seeing my neurologist regularly, taking all the prescribed meds, and trying not to miss a single detail in my recovery. Slowly but surely, my foot's been feeling better – I can stand on my toes again and walk with more confidence, even if it's not quite the same as before. Unfortunately, the numbness is still there.
The journey's far from over. I'm still waiting for my next appointment and a bunch of small steps that'll get me back to my normal routine.
I wouldn't recommend surgery to anyone. At least, not because I'm not passionate about it. Surgery's like a fire – it's better to prevent it than put it out. I'm all about prevention and taking care of your health in general.
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One last thing to remember
• Pain's not something to be taken lightly. It's a warning sign. Don't ignore it.
• Herniated discs aren't the end of the world, but they're not something to brush off either.
• Emergency surgery's tough. It's way easier and more gentle to take preventative measures.
• You have the right to take care of yourself, even if you're used to 'putting up with it'.
• Timely diagnosis, a good doctor, regular physical activity – that's what self-care is all about.
• You're not alone. If you're going through pain or recovery right now, I get it. Everything can be fixed, one step at a time.
Take care of yourself. Seriously. Your spine's only one, and there's no spare.