An Emotional Interlude
Simone's last post got me thinking more about my own personal experiences with my surgeons. Not the experiences involving them explaining what exactly scoliosis is and why I should fear for my life (I was a teenager, everything is exaggerated in my memory), but the personal experiences that rose from the witty banter and crude sarcasm that was exchanged between us while my poor mother watched on while shaking her head in dismay. When I was first diagnosed back in Kelowna at the age of 11 I went, at least temporarily to a local doctor by the name of Dr. I-Can't-Deal-With-Children O'Farrell. Maybe that's a bit unfair of me, my memory of that whole time is a bit blurred, and any recollection I do carry of him generally involves me feeling about two inches tall. I'm sure he was/is a good Doctor, but his experiences were with adults who figured the high arches in their feet gave them reason to complain until they had passed out. Perhaps it was a mercy that my spine went...