If Health is Wealth, then I'm broke!

By 2020, I had finally reached my breaking point with the pain in my shoulders.

For years, I had dealt with the aches and wear-and-tear that come with living in a wheelchair. Transfers, loading my chair into the car, pushing everywhere I went—it all added up. But the pain was getting worse, and numbness had started creeping into my hands. I knew it was time to find answers.

I made an appointment with an orthopedic doctor in Frisco and explained everything that had been going on. He ordered MRIs of both shoulders and my neck. When I returned for the results, he barely mentioned my shoulders.

"We need to deal with your neck first," he said. "You have significant issues at C5 and C6. The shoulders can wait."

Within weeks, I was sitting in a spine surgeon's office. He reviewed my scans and scheduled me for cervical disc replacement surgery almost immediately.

The surgery itself went well. I spent one night in the hospital and then returned home to recover. Most of my days were spent in my recliner because it was the only place I could get comfortable. It quickly became my safe place, my office, my bedroom, and eventually my prison.

As the weeks passed, I waited to feel better.

Instead, I felt worse.

The pain lingered. My independence disappeared. Even simple tasks became exhausting. I wasn't working, I wasn't leaving the house, and I felt trapped inside a body that seemed determined to betray me.

The phrase "I hate my life" became part of my daily vocabulary.

Eventually, things got so dark that I turned to Johnny one night and said something I never thought I would say.

"I think I need to be admitted somewhere. I'm scared of what I might do."

It was one of the lowest moments of my life.

I contacted my psychiatrist and explained what was happening. He suggested something called Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation, or TMS Therapy. At that point, I was willing to try anything.

The treatment required me to go to appointments five days a week for seven weeks. For someone who isn't exactly known for loving schedules and routines, it was a huge commitment.

But I showed up. Every. Single. Day.

It didn't matter if I was tired, sunburned, emotional, or didn't even bother putting on a bra. I went.

At first, my mood improved. Then it crashed.

I remember asking one of the technicians if the treatment was actually working or if I was wasting my time. She reassured me that setbacks were normal and encouraged me to stick with it. So I did.

And somewhere near the end of treatment, something changed. I found myself singing along to songs in the car.

It sounds silly, but when you've been drowning in depression, small things feel monumental.

For the first time in months, I felt like myself again.

Because I responded so well, the clinic offered three additional weeks of treatment. By the time I finished, I felt strong enough to celebrate.

I got my first tattoo.

The word "continue" is tattooed on my arm, with the "i" replaced by a semicolon. For many people, the semicolon represents a story that could have ended but didn't.

That tattoo became a reminder of everything I'd survived. And it eventually inspired the title of the book I wrote.

Just when life started feeling normal again, my shoulder reminded me it wasn't done with me yet. The pain returned with a vengeance.

Another MRI revealed a rotator cuff tear, and my orthopedic surgeon didn't mince words.

"Shots aren't going to fix this," he said. "You need surgery."

So on January 11, 2021, I went under the knife again.

The recovery was brutal. For weeks, I couldn't do much of anything by myself. I had a catheter, needed help bathing, couldn't transfer independently, and struggled with even the simplest daily tasks. And my recliner became the center of my universe.

Then Texas decided to throw in a little extra chaos.

In February, a historic winter storm slammed the state. The power grid failed. Temperatures plunged. Pipes burst all over Texas.

Our neighbors' house flooded, so they moved in with us. And suddenly our home was filled with people, kids, pets, and complete chaos while I was trying to recover from surgery.

What could possibly go wrong?

Apparently, everything.

As I healed, I developed pressure sores. Then I got a severe urinary tract infection that required a PICC line for weeks of IV antibiotics.

Every time I thought I was finally turning a corner, another problem appeared.

Still, by May I was starting to feel hopeful again. Johnny and I went to a Red Sox game, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt alive.

The sun was shining. The crowd was cheering. I wasn't thinking about surgeries or infections. I was simply enjoying being there.

The next day, I woke up feeling sick. At first, I assumed it was allergies or a sinus infection. Then came the fever.

Five miserable days later, I called 911. Even the EMTs seemed convinced it was nothing serious.

At the hospital, doctors initially suspected a kidney infection and admitted me for treatment.

Days passed.

I continued getting worse. I couldn't keep food down. I felt awful.

Then, on my forty-third birthday, a nurse noticed redness on my thigh.

A scan revealed the real culprit. A massive staph infection had formed inside one of my pressure sores.

Within hours, I was headed into emergency surgery.

When I woke up afterward, I learned the infection had left a wound so large that one of my friends later told me it could fit a large apple.

I chose never to look at it. Some things are better left unseen.

The months that followed were among the hardest of my life.

Wound vacs. Daily dressing changes. Hyperbaric oxygen treatments. A bone infection that required 13 weeks of IV antibiotics. More clinic visits. More setbacks. More tears.

Through all of it, Johnny never wavered. He learned how to pack wounds. Changed dressings. Held me when I broke down. Reminded me I wasn't fighting alone.

When people say "in sickness and in health" during wedding vows, most of us picture a hypothetical future.

Johnny lived it.

Then, just when we thought we had finally beaten the bone infection, the symptoms returned.

A new doctor ordered new tests. Another PICC line. More antibiotics. More uncertainty.

Finally, a plastic surgeon reviewed my case and suggested flap surgery. For the first time in months, someone offered a real solution instead of another temporary fix.

In November 2021, I underwent flap surgery.

Recovery required spending more than five weeks in a specialized bed filled with circulating air and sand-like beads. I couldn't sit up for more than fifteen minutes at a time.

It was physically exhausting and mentally draining. But it worked.

After spending several weeks in rehab, I was finally discharged just two days before Christmas.

When I arrived home, Johnny had decorated the entire house for the holidays.

For the first time in a very long time, life felt normal. Not perfect. Just normal. And honestly, that felt magical.

Unfortunately, healing isn't always a straight line. In March 2022, I noticed blood after using the restroom.

The wound had reopened. Not catastrophically. Just enough to remind me that some injuries never completely disappear.

Since then, I've dealt with occasional setbacks and wound issues. The skin in that area is thin and fragile, and it's something I'll likely manage for the rest of my life.

But after everything I've been through, I've learned something important:

Healing doesn't always mean returning to who you were before.

Sometimes healing means learning how to move forward with the scars.

And continuing anyway.