{"id":62,"date":"2017-05-04T17:08:24","date_gmt":"2017-05-04T17:08:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/suny-teaching-autoethnography\/chapter\/inhale-exhale\/"},"modified":"2017-05-04T18:06:34","modified_gmt":"2017-05-04T18:06:34","slug":"inhale-exhale","status":"publish","type":"chapter","link":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/suny-teaching-autoethnography\/chapter\/inhale-exhale\/","title":{"raw":"Inhale, Exhale","rendered":"Inhale, Exhale"},"content":{"raw":"
\r\n\r\n\u201cWhat is your name and date of birth?\u201d a voice asked me from a distance. As I struggled to lift my eyelids, I shuddered; bright white light flooded my eyes. I shook my head left to right, left to right, left to right. What was happening?\r\n\r\n\u201cI know,\u201d the voice said, \u201cbut I need you to tell me, what is your name and date of birth?\u201d I struggled to make the thoughts in my head into sentences. I had never been so keenly aware of every centimeter of my body. I had never had my senses flooded, not with pain, not like this. The word I expected to come out as \u201cEmma\u201d came out as a muffled groan.\r\n\r\n\u201cOkay,\u201d the voice sighed, \u201ccan you feel this?\u201d A finger traveled down my big toe, towards the back of my heel. Every time I had been asked that question, the answer was always yes. Every time I said yes, I felt lucky. I had numerous back problems since the age of thirteen and there was no saying when a disc in my back might give, causing nerve damage or even paralysis. Every step I took, seat I sat in, bump I drove over, I was in danger. Safety just wasn\u2019t a part of my everyday life. I nodded and I felt the movement migrate from my neck to my feet. I made myself a mental note: don\u2019t move.\r\n\r\n\u201cOne more time, what is your name and date of birth?\u201d I squeezed my eyes shut and used whatever strength was left in me to force out, \u201cEmma Suleski, six-three-ninety-six.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cGood!\u201d the voice called back to me. \u201cNow, can you tell me, on a scale of one to ten, what is your pain?\u201d I struggled to open my eyes a second time, only seeing blurry figures traveling around me; everything and everyone was drenched in white. In the background I heard the hum of machines, a steady bee-beep, and the shuffle of feet following familiar paths. I squeezed my eyes shut again. I wanted to go back to sleep.\r\n\r\n\u201cCome on, Emma, stay with me. One to ten, how are you?\u201d I shook my head back and forth, back and forth again. Tears flooded my eyes. The thing they don\u2019t tell you about spinal fusion surgery is that to check for paralysis, they have to bring you out of anesthesia without any painkillers. So, in essence, they cut you open, drill into your spine for a few hours, sew you back up and let your body be its own rude alarm clock. \u201cTen\u201d I choked out.\r\n\r\nThere was a scurrying of feet and I felt a pull on the IV in my left wrist. Broken conversations followed.\r\n\r\n\u201cAm I touching your right foot or left?\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cRight,\u201d I said aloud as I wondered, \u201cWas this worth it?\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cWe\u2019re going to scrape the bottom of your foot.\u201d\r\n\r\nI mumbled, \u201cokay,\u201d while thinking to myself, \u201cYes. You didn\u2019t want permanent damage, did you?\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cI\u2019m going to turn you and check your incisions.\u201d\r\n\r\nHands gripped my shoulder and hip, pulling me onto my side. Inhale, exhale, throbbing pain. I winced as the IV in my left wrist began to move again and the beeping began to fade. I felt myself drifting, wondering, \u201cAm I going to come out of this?\u201d\r\n\r\nMy eyes shot open and my heartbeat raced. To my left my mom was sprawled out in a chair, snoring softly. \u201cMom?\u201d I asked, \u201cam I okay?\u201d She lifted her head up and quickly rushed over to me. She squeezed my hand.\r\n\r\n\u201cThe doctors said you had a rough time in the recovery room. You\u2019ve turned a corner Em; you\u2019re safe now.\u201d\r\n
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Discussion Questions<\/h3>\r\n