Crazy curves and Christmas lights

Recently, I had an appointment with the orthopedic surgeon who operated on my spine when I was thirteen years old. Meeting someone who knew me as a child is always emotional for me. My chest expands, gets tingly and then tightens, squeezing tears of perspective and longing. Why I choke up is beyond me (well not really, give me an east coast winter evening at a dimly lit cafe adorned with white Christmas lights, and I'll write a killer hypothesis). This reunion was not any different.

"Are you that little girl who...?"
I smiled.
"How old are you now?"
"Twenty six" Another smile.
"Wow, that's right, you were fifteen then?"
"Thirteen."
"That's right!" Pause. Smile.
"Fascinating read this is, right here" I patted my weighty medical file. While waiting for him to come in (I was nervous for some reason), I scanned the file for snapshots of my childhood. This was the first time I had a chance to speak to him as an adult, or something like it. This was the first time he had to deal with just my worried face, and not my mother's. Although I am certain it was a pretty close copy. 

While I waited, it also dawned on me how pivotal of a role this man had played in my life. It really doesn't compare to anything else. Although I can surely draw some parallels between him and other important males in my life. (Pulling the reigns, back to the point). To boldly use a cliche, he has been inside me. Literally, but not sexually of course. In many ways though, the imprint he left on my life is just as important, if not more so. His hands held my bare spine, untwisted the "crazy curves" I was born with, removed bone from my hip and used it to fuse my spine, inserted rods to support the fusion while it healed, and then sewed me back up. Unbelievable.

Here is what strikes me almost equally. This man cuts people open, manipulates their bones, sometimes intentionally breaking them I am sure. And yet, he oozes warmth, care and kindness. While speaking to you, he compliments and reassures almost automatically, as if he can't help himself. During our conversation that day, he used words like 'beautiful!' to describe my lumbar spine. I felt like a child being praised for an indecipherable finger painting. At the end of our detailed, one and a half hour long discussion of a possible second surgery, he said: 

"Regardless of what you decide to do, you'll have a full, beautiful life and a career. You'll meet a guy who will treat you like a princess and have a family, and everything else you ever wanted."

In many other situations, perhaps coming from someone else, I almost certainly would have discounted these words as over-the-top and generically cheesy. But sitting in that office, looking into his reassuring eyes, leaning on the many years he'd known me, I believed the words, every one of them. And it wasn't just words, he spoke with his whole face it seemed. He filled me with optimism and light. It felt good to hungrily sink my thoughts into a state completely void of resistance, analysis or doubt. In short, I gave in.


Of course this didn't last long. It didn't take much time for me to say something pre-maturely cynical. Intentionally or unintentionally, he deflated my cynical bubble by telling me about a time he set out to convince my mom that my back would not stand in the way of my getting married, or finding my one. I now vaguely recall him saying to my mom: "Natalia, any man who looks at her face and sees a deformed back, is not the man you want to be with your daughter."

When I was leaving, he gave me a warm hug, a kiss on the cheek, and reminded me for the fifth time to give his regards to my parents.