Friday night I came to the ER in agony. By Saturday morning, I was admitted. Now, come Tuesday, I’m still here.

Back in April 2024, at this same hospital, I was admitted for severe back pain and given an MRI. It showed degenerative disc disease at L5–S1 and L4–L5 — discs already bulging and pressing against nerves, the cushioning between my vertebrae breaking down and pinching the nerves that control movement and sensation in my legs.

Fast forward to now, September 2025. After a hard fall sent my already fragile back into overdrive, I was admitted again. This time both a CT and MRI were done. The CT showed osteophyte formation where different discs have nearly worn away, pushing into my spinal canal. The MRI revealed worsening damage: at L5/S1, the bulging disc and thickened joints are severely pinching nerves on both sides. At L4/5, another bulge presses into the spinal canal, compressing the nerve that runs down my left leg. Last year’s report leaned on “mild to moderate” degeneration and spinal stenosis. This year’s is full of “severe.”

In plain language: in just over a year, my spine has gone from bad to worse. The cushioning is deteriorating, nerves are being squeezed, the canal that holds those nerves is closing in, and bone spurs are piling on pressure. That’s why I can barely walk some days. Why pain shoots down my legs like lightning. Why even lying in this hospital bed, I can’t escape it.

According to the Cleveland Clinic, this kind of degeneration usually doesn’t happen until after age 50. I’m 30. Without intervention, it will keep stealing pieces of my life — and at this point, there’s not much left to steal.

This didn’t come out of nowhere. Genetics set me up — both my biological parents developed degenerative disc disease young. Trauma sped it up: marching sousaphone in high school, an assault in 2014, a car accident in 2018. Add 13 years of autoimmune-driven inflammation, and most recently, another fall against my bedside table. Over and over, my back has been pushed past its limits.

Yes, my weight doesn’t help. But with this mix of genetics and trauma, even at 95 pounds soaking wet, I’d still be facing this kind of damage.

And that’s why the surgeon’s words this morning cut so deep.

He flicked on the lights while I was half-asleep, towering over me with questions he didn’t wait for me to answer. Every time I tried to speak, he cut me off. Every time I tried to explain, he talked over me. Then came the comments — about my weight, my “shape.” He dismissed surgery, calling it a “waste of time at my size.” He asked what I do for a living. I said I’m an author. His reply: “Oh, so nothing important then… good.” As if my career has anything to do with my right to care.

It wasn’t bluntness that broke me. It was the way he looked down on me, like I was less than him. Like my weight and my career made me less worthy of a decent quality of life. Like my pain — my whole situation — was somehow my fault. I’ve cried after doctor visits before, from experiences like this. But what made this one hit harder is that up until now, I’d been receiving excellent care. It’s rare for me to feel believed in medical spaces, but here I had. The team on my floor listened. They didn’t shame me for needing narcotics. They didn’t dismiss me or blame my weight. They treated me with compassion. So when this surgeon walked in and reduced me to stereotypes, it was jarring. It left a sour taste I can’t shake.

There are treatment options. Injections — usually corticosteroids or nerve blocks — can calm inflammation and give nerves room to breathe, though relief usually lasts only weeks or months. Surgery — decompression, discectomy, fusion — can remove tissue pressing on nerves or stabilize the spine. They can help, but they aren’t cures. Most patients eventually need repeat procedures. With this kind of damage, nothing stops the progression, only eases the symptoms for a while.

But instead of walking me through options, instead of giving me space to ask questions or be part of my care, this doctor wrote me off. He tossed out, “We’re doing an injection,” as he walked out. He was halfway down the hall before he’d even finished the sentence. No discussion. No chance to ask what kind of injection, or how it might help. No chance to have a voice in my own treatment.

And that’s what hurts most — the bias. Bias against my weight, maybe against my gender too. Bias that strips away dignity when I’m already at my most vulnerable. The whole encounter felt like a scene from a movie: the pompous, arrogant man towering over everyone, dismissing anyone he considers beneath him, especially women. I know you can picture it — the dinner table where women are talked over, silenced, made small. That’s how my morning began.

I wish I had some empowering way to close this out. But the truth is I’m anxious about the injection scheduled for this afternoon. I want to speak up about how degraded I felt, but I’m afraid of pissing off the surgeon who’s about to stick a giant needle in my spine. That’s the tension I’m living in — the mix of anger, humiliation, and fear. Wanting to demand better, but needing care I can’t provide for myself.

If you’ve ever been dismissed, silenced, or written off in a medical room, please know this: you’re not alone. And maybe, like me, you’re caught between advocating for yourself and fearing the consequences.

That’s where I am today. And it’s why I’m writing this down — because even if I can’t say it in that room, I refuse to let this story go untold.