Taking the Wheel on My Recovery

Driven By Determination

With a renewed sense of hope, my determination surged. I now had a goal—to regain my independence, to drive again. At my next appointment with Dr. Vale Sterling, I needed to find out what it would take to get back behind the wheel. My recovery demanded frequent checkups, and before long, I was seated in one of his patient rooms, waiting to be seen.

I felt resolute, ready to make my case. By this point, I had grown adept at advocating for myself—at articulating my thoughts, at questioning and negotiating my path forward with my surgeons. Dr. Sterling always listened with care, working through whatever I brought to him, ensuring every conversation was thorough and considered. This day was no different.

Making My Case for the Driver’s Seat

Dr. Sterling greeted both my mom and me, checking in not just on my progress but on hers as well. I usually asked about him, too—it had become part of our routine. Once the pleasantries were out of the way, he moved into his examination, assessing my recovery with practiced precision.

He asked the important questions—how things were progressing, whether I needed anything, where my pain levels stood. We discussed physical therapy and how it had been going. When he had worked through his list, I knew it was my turn. This was the moment to bring up driving.

I could tell he wasn’t entirely on board with the idea. It was just after Labor Day, still too soon after surgery for him to be comfortable with it. But he didn’t dismiss me outright or shut the conversation down. He listened, understanding my desire for independence. Instead of a flat refusal, he suggested looking into specialized mirrors that would allow me to see all around my car without needing to turn my head.

Still, there was one clear barrier—I couldn’t be released to drive until I was completely off pain medication. I understood, even if it wasn’t the answer I wanted. We talked in depth about my pain, how it might evolve over time, and what I could realistically expect moving forward. He did his best to set the right expectations, balancing encouragement with realism.

Charting My Own Course

I left that visit feeling accomplished—I had gotten what I needed. Dr. Sterling was open-minded and understanding, offering me concrete steps to work on. He had his own timeline in mind, estimating that I wouldn’t be ready to drive until about six months post-surgery, sometime around late February or early March.

But I had my own timeline. And it was much sooner than six months.

Balancing Pain and Progress

There was much to accomplish in this stage of my recovery. But for now, my focus had to be on managing pain—learning how to navigate it while gradually reducing my medication and figuring out how to care for myself again. Fortunately, I wasn’t alone. Collyn was deeply concerned about the long-term use of opiates and had already begun encouraging me to taper off them as soon as possible.

Pain management after surgery is a delicate balance. If handled poorly, it can slow the healing process. But if I let the pain escalate too much, it would become difficult to rein back in. I had to approach this carefully—listening to my body’s signals while training my mind to practice patience. Rushing the process could sabotage my ultimate goal: regaining my independence and getting back behind the wheel.

Beyond medication, I also needed to explore other ways to ease my pain. I thought back to the peacefulness I felt during my uncle’s Reiki sessions—how astral travel had given me a rare kind of relief, lifting me beyond the limits of my physical body. Perhaps that was something I could tap into again.

A Gentle Touch Through Recovery

As my incision healed and the staples were finally removed, a new milestone emerged—I could get wet again. With that freedom came the challenge of figuring out how to bathe myself.

Washing my hair proved to be one of the hardest obstacles. My range of motion was severely limited; lifting my arms to my head felt like an impossible task. My left arm, in particular, refused to cooperate, forcing me to use my right hand to guide it onto my head. Even then, the pain was relentless.

It wasn’t just soreness—it was deep, persistent pain. The top left side of my head ached constantly, every touch unbearable. Even the simple act of brushing my hair felt like torture. My mom, however, had a gentle touch I had known since childhood. She took care to brush my hair softly, bringing the same tenderness she had always shown me.

The section of my hair that had been shaved in surgery had begun to grow back, leaving behind a layer of soft fuzz. It was a small sign of progress, a quiet reminder that healing was happening, even if it felt slow.

Adapting To My New Reality

Showering came with another challenge—standing for too long would cause the numbness and pain in my left thigh to intensify until it became unbearable. Eventually, I’d have no choice but to sit. To accommodate this, I relied on the stool in the shower, a necessary adjustment to my new reality.

Life had become a constant process of relearning. The tasks I once did effortlessly, without a second thought, now required careful planning and adaptation. What had once been instinctive was no longer automatic. Every action demanded consideration—each step forward shaped by the limitations of my altered body and the adjustments I had to make to keep moving forward.

Support, Solutions and Strength

With Collyn’s steady support, I continued to ease off the pain medications, carefully navigating the delicate balance between relief and recovery. My family remained by my side, helping me find solutions to the daily obstacles that arose. And with my imagination, I could see beyond the present challenges—I could envision a path forward, a future where these hurdles became stepping stones rather than roadblocks.

Held By The Earth, Carried By Hope

Grief settled into the spaces between my recovery, threading its way through my thoughts. As I navigated my new physical reality, my mind spun on everything I had lost, pulling me into spirals of self-pity. Cancer had taken so much from me, and the weight of that grief was overwhelming.

When the sorrow became too much to bear, I would step outside, seeking solace in the steady presence of the trees. Wrapping my arms around their trunks, I would silently ask for help—for relief from the pain, from the relentless chatter in my mind. In the trees, the flowers, and the warmth of the sun, I found comfort. In the quiet moments lying in bed, I escaped to distant places—serene spaces where the heaviness softened, even if only for a while.

More Than Just a Story

And yet, recovery has never been confined to a single moment. It has taken years—far longer than I first imagined. Even now, I continue adapting, finding new ways to navigate challenges as my body changes. Healing bone, muscle, and tissue after such a disruption is an ongoing process, sometimes slow, sometimes intense.

After all these years, the chronic pain has remained a constant thread woven into my life, demanding patience, resilience, and an ever-evolving approach to care. The numbness and pain in my left thigh persist, sometimes creeping into my right. My hair and scalp still ache at times, reminding me to be gentle with myself. Some days, the discomfort is manageable; other days, it tests my endurance. Learning to live with it—rather than fight against it—has been one of the hardest lessons, but also one of the most profound.

So why do I share these moments, these details of my journey with cancer? Why take the time to describe the struggles, the victories, the raw reality of healing? Because this story isn’t just about me—it’s about the profound nature of transformation itself.

For nearly forty years, I have lived with this metal rod, with the reality of my altered body. And yet, miraculous things have happened along the way. If the beginning of this journey isn’t fully understood, then what follows—what I’ve experienced, what I’ve learned—won’t carry the same weight.

Why is that important? Because at the core of it, I am human. Flawed. Resilient. Capable. Just like every other person walking this earth. Each of us carries our own unique set of traits, strengths, and challenges that shape us over time. We don’t need labels like “victim” or “survivor.” We simply need to take hold of life and embrace it fully.

The struggles we face are not walls—they are doors. They push us to grow, to see ourselves differently, to evolve into something stronger than we ever imagined. And that, more than anything, is the reason I share this journey.

Did this resonate with you? Did you gain something valuable from this?

If so, consider subscribing, liking, or sharing—your support helps keep the conversation going!

Curious How My Drive Toward Independence Goes?

Take the wheel for the next stretch of my journey: Unspoken to Unstoppable: A Story of Resilience

Invitation to Share Your Coping Tools

Have you ever faced obstacles that tested your strength? Experienced loss that required deep grieving? Or navigated intense emotions that shaped your journey? We all develop tools to cope—whether it’s finding solace in nature, leaning on loved ones, or discovering new ways to heal.

If you’ve found something that helped you through, please share in the comments below. Your experience could offer support and guidance to someone who needs it.