I fear pain. That might sound odd, considering I’ve lived with significant pain since waking up from my car accident in December 1983. But while pain has been a constant companion, there are still moments of blinding, searing pain—and that’s what I fear.
One of those moments followed my first amputation. My legs took the brunt of the wreck, and my right leg was nearly severed. It was reattached, and I endured years of extensive procedures to save it—but to no avail. The limb was deformed, forcing a severe gait that eventually caused significant issues with my back and hips.
When amputation first entered the conversation, we tried a Dorsal Column Stimulator to manage the pain. Leads were inserted into my epidural space to interrupt the pain signal from my misshapen ankle to my brain.
On paper, it sounded like a good plan.
It wasn’t.
The inevitable happened, and my right leg was amputated below the knee. To “erase the pain imprint” left on my brain from years of hobbling, the plan was to remove the Stimulator during surgery and numb my leg with an epidural for several days.
On paper, it sounded like a good plan.
It wasn’t.
Scar tissue in my epidural space blocked the anesthetic, leaving me to wake up to raw amputation pain. The anesthesiologist kept increasing the dosage, but nothing worked. I screamed until the orthopedic surgeon intervened (and actually got into an altercation with the anesthesiologist outside my room in special care). The surgeon brought in a new anesthesiologist who placed a spinal intrathecal line higher on my back—away from the scar tissue. The pain was finally controlled, and I passed out—more from exhaustion than relief.
As bad as the pain was, not being believed added more difficulty. Over the years, I’ve faced similar situations, and the fear of repeating that experience is hard to describe. That fear tightens my body, worsening the pain and making it harder to cope.
“Will they believe me?”
“Will I get in intractable pain again while doctors fumble around trying to figure out what’s going on?”
That fear doesn’t just stay in the past—it follows me. And now, as I prepare for my 87th and 88th surgeries—back-to-back operations on my hip flexors—it feels as raw as ever. These surgeries will hurt, but I don’t have much choice. Without them, the repairs to my back could fail, and the pain will escalate.
Scar tissue in my epidural space blocked the anesthetic, leaving me to wake up to raw amputation pain. The anesthesiologist kept increasing the dosage, but nothing worked. I screamed until the orthopedic surgeon intervened (and actually got into an altercation with the anesthesiologist outside my room in special care). The surgeon brought in a new anesthesiologist who placed a spinal intrathecal line higher on my back—away from the scar tissue. The pain was finally controlled, and I passed out—more from exhaustion than relief.
As bad as the pain was, not being believed added more difficulty. Over the years, I’ve faced similar situations, and the fear of repeating that experience is hard to describe. That fear tightens my body, worsening the pain and making it harder to cope.
“Will they believe me?”
“Will I get in intractable pain again while doctors fumble around trying to figure out what’s going on?”
That fear doesn’t just stay in the past—it follows me. And now, as I prepare for my 87th and 88th surgeries—back-to-back operations on my hip flexors—it feels as raw as ever. These surgeries will hurt, but I don’t have much choice. Without them, the repairs to my back could fail, and the pain will escalate.
I’ve been down this road before, and I know how it goes. On paper, it sounds like a good plan.
But here’s what I’ve learned: On paper, I also read words that give me hope and strength—God’s Word.
“Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” (Matthew 6:34)
The question is, “Do I believe this or not?”
If I believe it, then I can trust that God is with me now and will meet me in that Denver operating room. His promises remind me that I am never alone.
“For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you.” (Isaiah 41:13)
I don’t have much control over what’s happening with my body or the steps needed to address these challenges. But Scripture assures me that I can control my fear and anxiety. Even when my heart falters and I feel overwhelmed, I can deny fear and cling to God’s promises.
Without a doubt, what I am about to go through will be painful. But in my long journey of pain, disability, and trauma, fear and anxiety have never improved my circumstances. I would love to report that I handle this well and remain calm. I’m not—and I won’t. But I know the path toward calmness and peace of mind better than I used to. Reminding myself to take that path is a daily, hourly, and sometimes moment-by-moment choice.
The bad news is that I still have to deal with the pain in my life today, and there will be pain tomorrow—certainly more with these new operations.
The good news is that I don’t face it alone. God is with me, strengthening me in my weakness and reminding me of something my husband often says:
“We’re not there yet.”
He tells me that a lot—especially when he sees me freaking out or when my anxiety gets the best of me. It’s a phrase he lives by himself, especially when facing his own challenges. He’s told me how he learned not to live in the wreckage of his future. He reminds me, “We’re not there yet,” and somehow, it cuts through the panic and redirects my eyes to where they need to be—right here, right now.
Over the years, I’ve picked it up, too. It helps me remember that life is still a work in progress, even when it hurts so much I can’t see straight. God’s promises guarantee a joyful end—even if it’s through thorny ways.
That’s why the words of this old hymn hit home for me:
“Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change, He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heavenly FriendThrough thorny ways leads to a joyful end.”
– Be Still My Soul (Katharina von Schlegel)
I fear pain. That might sound odd, considering I’ve lived with significant pain since waking up from my car accident in December 1983. But while pain has been a constant companion, there are still moments of blinding, searing pain—and that’s what I fear.
One of those moments followed my first amputation. My legs took the brunt of the wreck, and my right leg was nearly severed. It was reattached, and I endured years of extensive procedures to save it—but to no avail. The limb was deformed, forcing a severe gait that eventually caused significant issues with my back and hips.
When amputation first entered the conversation, we tried a Dorsal Column Stimulator to manage the pain. Leads were inserted into my epidural space to interrupt the pain signal from my misshapen ankle to my brain.
On paper, it sounded like a good plan.
It wasn’t.
The inevitable happened, and my right leg was amputated below the knee. To “erase the pain imprint” left on my brain from years of hobbling, the plan was to remove the Stimulator during surgery and numb my leg with an epidural for several days.
On paper, it sounded like a good plan.
It wasn’t.
Scar tissue in my epidural space blocked the anesthetic, leaving me to wake up to raw amputation pain. The anesthesiologist kept increasing the dosage, but nothing worked. I screamed until the orthopedic surgeon intervened (and actually got into an altercation with the anesthesiologist outside my room in special care). The surgeon brought in a new anesthesiologist who placed a spinal intrathecal line higher on my back—away from the scar tissue. The pain was finally controlled, and I passed out—more from exhaustion than relief.
As bad as the pain was, not being believed added more difficulty. Over the years, I’ve faced similar situations, and the fear of repeating that experience is hard to describe. That fear tightens my body, worsening the pain and making it harder to cope.
“Will they believe me?”
“Will I get in intractable pain again while doctors fumble around trying to figure out what’s going on?”
That fear doesn’t just stay in the past—it follows me. And now, as I prepare for my 87th and 88th surgeries—back-to-back operations on my hip flexors—it feels as raw as ever. These surgeries will hurt, but I don’t have much choice. Without them, the repairs to my back could fail, and the pain will escalate.
Scar tissue in my epidural space blocked the anesthetic, leaving me to wake up to raw amputation pain. The anesthesiologist kept increasing the dosage, but nothing worked. I screamed until the orthopedic surgeon intervened (and actually got into an altercation with the anesthesiologist outside my room in special care). The surgeon brought in a new anesthesiologist who placed a spinal intrathecal line higher on my back—away from the scar tissue. The pain was finally controlled, and I passed out—more from exhaustion than relief.
As bad as the pain was, not being believed added more difficulty. Over the years, I’ve faced similar situations, and the fear of repeating that experience is hard to describe. That fear tightens my body, worsening the pain and making it harder to cope.
“Will they believe me?”
“Will I get in intractable pain again while doctors fumble around trying to figure out what’s going on?”
That fear doesn’t just stay in the past—it follows me. And now, as I prepare for my 87th and 88th surgeries—back-to-back operations on my hip flexors—it feels as raw as ever. These surgeries will hurt, but I don’t have much choice. Without them, the repairs to my back could fail, and the pain will escalate.
I’ve been down this road before, and I know how it goes. On paper, it sounds like a good plan.
But here’s what I’ve learned: On paper, I also read words that give me hope and strength—God’s Word.
“Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” (Matthew 6:34)
The question is, “Do I believe this or not?”
If I believe it, then I can trust that God is with me now and will meet me in that Denver operating room. His promises remind me that I am never alone.
“For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you.” (Isaiah 41:13)
I don’t have much control over what’s happening with my body or the steps needed to address these challenges. But Scripture assures me that I can control my fear and anxiety. Even when my heart falters and I feel overwhelmed, I can deny fear and cling to God’s promises.
Without a doubt, what I am about to go through will be painful. But in my long journey of pain, disability, and trauma, fear and anxiety have never improved my circumstances. I would love to report that I handle this well and remain calm. I’m not—and I won’t. But I know the path toward calmness and peace of mind better than I used to. Reminding myself to take that path is a daily, hourly, and sometimes moment-by-moment choice.
The bad news is that I still have to deal with the pain in my life today, and there will be pain tomorrow—certainly more with these new operations.
The good news is that I don’t face it alone. God is with me, strengthening me in my weakness and reminding me of something my husband often says:
“We’re not there yet.”
He tells me that a lot—especially when he sees me freaking out or when my anxiety gets the best of me. It’s a phrase he lives by himself, especially when facing his own challenges. He’s told me how he learned not to live in the wreckage of his future. He reminds me, “We’re not there yet,” and somehow, it cuts through the panic and redirects my eyes to where they need to be—right here, right now.
Over the years, I’ve picked it up, too. It helps me remember that life is still a work in progress, even when it hurts so much I can’t see straight. God’s promises guarantee a joyful end—even if it’s through thorny ways.
That’s why the words of this old hymn hit home for me:
“Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change, He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heavenly FriendThrough thorny ways leads to a joyful end.”
– Be Still My Soul (Katharina von Schlegel)