hi, my name is celi.a. i had major back surgery at 16.

The other night I was thinking about my back surgery. Don’t ask me why it popped into my head (these things happen) – I don’t know the answer. And I was actually thinking not about the surgery, or recovery, or pain, or what-have-you, but the questions I asked the doctor in my last pre-surgery appointment. Random, right?

What came to mind was the memory of how surprised the doctor appeared to be that I was the one asking the questions, and that I was being an adult about it. My mom was there with me, but I was the one who’d written up the questions in my ruled school notebook. I asked how long my recovery would take, and when I could go back to classes. I asked if I’d be able to swim again (at that point I was right on the cusp of Junior National times). I asked if I would set off metal detectors. I asked about the risk of paralysis. I asked if I’d have pregnancy complications in the future as a result surgery. Wait, WHAT?

I wasn’t yet sixteen during those appointments, but I knew that I needed information. I needed to know not only how much it was going to hurt and possibly mess up my high school experience, but also how much it was going to affect my entire life. Whenever I look back at the questions I asked, how calm I was, and how much research I’d done, it brightens my day. Teens are smart. They can be careful, thoughtful, amazing human beings who weigh risks and imagine the future. And I know because I remember being one.

[photo found here]

I’m 26 now, and it’s weird. Ten years since surgery? I guess I supposed back then that I’d have a child by now. I don’t. And that’s okay. I still feel like a kid, I’m still figuring things out. And yes, I will probably always mark my life by how many years it’s been since surgery. Hard not to, when it was such a formative experience. And when I have a two and a half-foot long scar down my back.

But you’ve probably been wondering up to this point ‘What the heck is she talking about?’ Surgery happened because I developed a severe case of scoliosis by age fifteen. I was homeschooled during the years when you’d be tested for it in school, and by the time I hit my freshman year of high school, the hump of one shoulder was noticeable, but not horrible. Still, when I went in for the mandatory physical exam for swimming, they measured it and muttered and asked if I was in pain. I wasn’t, so I didn’t think much of it. I cut my hair boy short that year, dropped a lot of time in my best events, and spent my days with friends, playing cards by the pool.

The next year when I went in for the physical the doctor looked grave and told me I’d have to have surgery immediately. I listened in shock as she told me the scoliosis had gotten 14 degrees worse since last year’s exam, and that it was progressing at a rate so fast that it would impact my internal organs before I turned thirty. I started bawling. I couldn’t stop. I was fifteen, I had just qualified for senior regional times, I was going to be the best swimmer on the high school team that year. I was my class treasurer!

I was crying so hard that my mom ended the appointment and hustled me out of the office. She sat hugging me in the car for a solid half hour before she tried to talk it through. I think we were both stunned, because I remember her telling me over and over that there was no way I’d have to have surgery immediately, that we’d get a second opinion, that we’d do research, maybe I could wear a brace, but that it wasn’t happening today, right now. We’d find another doctor. Eventually I calmed down, but my only clear memory from that moment is “But it doesn’t hurt!”

We did get a second opinion, from one of the best orthopedic surgeons on the West Coast. And it was that man who told me that the sooner I had the surgery, the more correction they’d get. I didn’t have to have it immediately, but I shouldn’t wait long. And that’s how I ended up in his office that day, a week before my sixteenth birthday, asking him questions about not only my immediate future, but possible lifelong complications. My mom told me afterwards that she was proud of me for being so mature, for doing the research.

Looking back on it, I’m proud too. For myself, and for all teens dealing with things that aren’t fair. It’s a big reason I read Young Adult novels. Kids handle life-changing circumstances every day with dignity, wisdom and grace. And when someone writes a book about a teen facing these things, I remember my own story of something that wasn’t fun or wonderful or perfect, but was real. It reminds me that I am stronger than I suspect. Thank goodness, yeah?

(my) most embarrassing moment

You know you have one. It’s the kind of thing that you drag out and show old friends, or reminisce about with your family, or try to forget and NEVER bring up again. Sort of like baby photos, actually. I’m an easily embarrassed person, but I also have the lucky ability to forget most everything mortifying that I’ve ever done. With one major, story-worthy exception.

In 2004 I spent the second half the year abroad doing college exchange programs. I traveled to Chile and Spain, and by the end I was getting pretty good at Spanish. I thought so, at any rate. And to cap off all that studying my sister came to visit – she met me in Madrid and we did a little whirlwind European Christmas vacation. To start it off, though, she missed her connection in Philly, and had to meet me there a day late.

So to keep to my master schedule, we had to fit it all in during ONE grueling day in Madrid. And we certainly tried. I took her to the Palacio Real (the royal family’s official residence in the city), on a plaza tour ending at the Plaza Mayor, and to the Prado (only one of the most famous art museums EVER, don’t you know). We were seriously tired by Prado time. I was also starved for a little bit of Americana, so when I spotted a Starbucks across the street, I was able to convince Ginny to stop there to rest our feet and so we could write postcards. Because you know that postcards are the best and cheapest souvenirs, aside from a Latin lover. But that’s a whole different story…

We got our drinks (oh, the bliss!), I chatted and flirted with the barista, and we lounged for a bit (and scribbled to friends and family, after all). Ginny convinced me to go and try to charm another drink out of the guy at the counter. So I did. Grande mocha! After a sufficient revival period, we decided to move on to the next tourist attraction.

We got up to leave. I was reveling in my newfound ‘skills’ and turned to say goodbye to cute Mr. Barista.

And walked straight into the sliding glass door.

SPLAT.

Before you ask, yes, it was functioning perfectly. I just came at it at an angle, so it didn’t have the time to sense me before I engaged it in a full frontal assault.

Pretty sure a blush covered my entire body.

The most humiliating thing? I could hear the barista LAUGHING behind me.

I hauled Ginny the rest of the way out of the store in utter mortification,

and almost MOWED OVER an innocent little old lady on the sidewalk.

After that I slowed down and tried to breathe. In and out. Ginny was laughing and exclaiming and generally trying not to die of excess amusement. I, of course, was actively trying to melt into the sidewalk.

Eventually I recovered enough to act like a normal human being. Or as close an approximation as I will ever get to normal or human being. But see if I ever visit that Starbucks again (well, I might if I ever make it back to Madrid)!

party like it's 1999

My mom just developed a 10-year old roll of film. The first few and last few frames were ruined by the passage of time, but a few in the middle prove that it was taken with my sister’s camera, and I am the main subject.

What I can tell you about me, circa 1999:

I was 15 years old.

I had VERY short (and clean) hair. Like a boy cut. I could show you, but then I’d have to kill you.

I was reading a library copy of The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring. It’s next to me on the bed in the photo.

I was dressing up the (long-suffering) cat. Dark green doll cape + cat = obviously a hobbit.

I had very questionable taste in clothes.

I didn’t like to smile for the camera.

I wore sparkly white nail polish.

And…I was a HUGE dork.

Don’t get me wrong – I was a happy. And a jock and a nerd. But still a dork. Eeek!