Maura’s Letter To Her Younger Self
Dear Maura,
It’s that day, isn’t it? The day after your 5th grade physical. The day after your doctor turned what should have been a boring, regular appointment into the day that would change your life forever. I can hardly remember what that day felt like, I only remember not remembering that word the doctor said: Scoliosis. Of course, I remember it all too well now.
I wish I could tell you the next few years are easy, that you find out you have this condition and you move on with your life, as if none of it had ever happened. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. I don’t want to lie: the next few years, you will face some of the toughest challenges of your life.
In a day or so you’ll find out your curves are pretty severe, that you will need to wear a back brace, for 22 hours a day to help prevent them from getting worse. You’ll spend many mornings traveling to the doctor’s office for your appointments, the only perk was missing school and getting to come back with a sandwich from Subway for lunch. Don’t fret: all your friends and family are supportive, even your 5th grade teacher, who allowed you to present about your brace, so your classmates could know and understand what was going on. You also get to avoid sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor, and instead get to join the teachers in sitting in chairs (a personal favorite perk of the brace).
You continue to swim on swim team and sell girl scout cookies with all your friends. I hope you are happy to learn that you never shy away from your brace, or your scoliosis. As much as some might see it as a burden, you saw it as a character trait, something that made you interesting. You stopped trying to hide your brace, and (forgive my pun, I promise it’s not intended) embraced it. Some of the most meaningful moments you had were a result of this: when other older girls would stop you, and tell you that they had scoliosis and used to wear a brace. It’s always comforting: a hopeful glimpse into your future, that everything would turn out ok, and a sense of community and connection.
Sometime before you start 7th grade, about a year and a half after you start wearing your brace, it happens. You go in for a standard appointment and x-ray with your specialist, and he gives you the news. Good news: you don’t have to wear your brace anymore. Bad news: it’s because your curves have progressed so much, it means it’s not working. You don’t have any options left besides one: surgery. A complicated surgery, in fact. An 8+ hour long procedure in which titanium rods and screws are fused to your spine to correct the current curvature, and prevent it from getting worse as you continue to grow.
The date was set: November 15, 2011. And it fast approaches. You know those “hardest time of you life” I mentioned before? Yeah, unfortunately that’s now. You wake up at 4am that morning, to scrub your back with the benzyl peroxide wash like you were supposed to. You get to the hospital before the sun comes up, and you watch it rise over the city of Chicago. Tons of nurses and doctors come in and out, doing various tasks. Finally, one come in and says those words you will never forget: “It’s go time”. You hug your family; you try to stay strong for all of them, hoping that if you are strong, it will help them. It’s the first time you see your dad cry. Your mom holds your hand and walks with you until she can’t. You get rolled into the ER, there’s nurse and doctors everywhere. One of them is putting your x-rays up on the wall. You see your surgeon, who you have trusted this whole way. Its finally time, the anesthesiologist gives you the mask. She told you it normally takes 3-4 breaths. You don’t make it past 2. First breath in, and out. Your eyelids are feeling heavy. Second breath in. Your eyes shut. And everything changes.
You won’t remember much from waking up. The first thing you try to say is to reassure your parents that you’re ok. You’re alive. You made it. Maybe it’s really to reassure yourself. The next week or so in the hospital are a challenge, unlike anything you have experienced before. You can’t eat for a few days; you need help to sit up, to go to the bathroom, to shower. You have to learn how to walk again. In all honestly, those six days are miserable. There are days full of tears and pain. There are times you don’t think you can do it, that you don’t think things will ever get better or go back to normal.
You finally get to go home. And the difference going home makes is immeasurable. You could barely keep down Gatorade or rice in the hospital. You’re eating ravioli lasagna and garlic bread with caser salad the night you get home. Thus begins the nest part of your journey.
More good news: you don’t have to go to school for 6 weeks. Based on your experience in the hospital, everyone expects you to be sleeping and resting and most definitely not sitting up all day. Little did they know, all it took was watching your first episode of Mythbusters on tv to turn that upside down. Back in the day, we didn’t have smart tvs. In order to watch Netflix, I had to sit up at a table and watch it on the family laptop. Pretty soon, lovingly dubbed “Camp Maura” was set up in the living room.
And progress was slow and steady. After 6 weeks, you got to go back to school. You got a ride to school instead of having to ride the bus. Your friends carried your backpack, so you got to leave all your classes 5 min early. You also got to skip PE class for the rest of 7th grade. After 9 months, you get to start swimming again. You eventually get the news that the surgery was successful and was healing nicely. In fact, the surgery has also corrected the bottom curve, although it was only targeting correcting the top one. With every week and month, you get better and better, and life slowly goes back to normal.
Now, here I sit, almost 13 years later, here to tell you all that life has to offer you, post surgery. You’ll do a short stint in community theater. You swim on swim team and play water polo (at the varsity level for 2 years, I might add) all 4 years of high school. You graduate with high honors, and go to college to study biology. You join a sorority (#gokd) and meet some amazing lifelong friends. You transfer colleges, but graduate in 4 years with a degree. You move across the country to pursue a graduate degree.
I’m continuing to prove you wrong, and do more than you think you can do, even without the surgery. I ran a 5-mile race and a 5k race last year (I know you hate running now, but you will come to peace with it eventually). I’m currently training for my fist triathlon coming up this August. I am also happy to report I’m getting married this September, to an amazing man who loves my surgical scars as much as I love his (which is another story, for another foundation). My current hobbies include line dancing and country swing dancing, something I truly never thought I would be able to do.
All this to say: this diagnosis isn’t the end of your life, it’s just the start. Many people with conditions they deal with might say they are more than their condition. I don’t agree. Everything I am today, everything you will become is based on this experience. Every time you struggle in life, you remember this experience: you made it through that, you can make it through anything. You have a new appreciation for life and for those close friends and family that stood by you no matter what. It’s given you a great fun fact to say during those ice breakers during class, and given you quite a few usernames/emails!
I know that’s a lot, but here’s a few takeaways for you. You will get through this. I know, I’m you from the future! The days won’t always be easy. There will be days of pain, and sadness and grief. But you never give up. You learn to always find the good in the bad. You learn to always push yourself, if you can dream it, you can do it (scoliosis or not). Just know that I’m proud of you, for all you have already done and all that you will do. I’d like to think you would be pretty proud of me too.
I know this letter won’t find little ten-year-old Maura. But hopefully it will find someone like her: a young child, struggling to remember that long “S” word the doctor said, and worried about what your future holds. I hope you can find some similarities in this story, that you can see some aspects of yourself here, and know then that that means the outcomes will be similar: You will make it through this. It will get better. It won’t always be easy, Its ok to struggle. Its ok to feel sad and upset and angry and lost. There won’t be a brace or an appointment or a curve in your back. But you will always know, you will always have the reminder that you are capable of so much more than you ever imagined. In my hardest moments as an adult, my surgery date in a mantra in my head, reminding me that since I made it through that, I can make it through anything. I hope the same for you, reading this. That you never, ever forget it: You will make it through this.
I wish you strength and courage on this journey ahead of you. May you always know that someone out there is proud of you (it’s me J ).
All my love,
Future Maura
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