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Five years ago I began experiencing lower back pain. It started when I reached into the dishwasher or bent to search the refrigerator. When chopping vegetables, I'd have to sit. My back was obviously sending me a message: Get out of the kitchen.

I agreed to an MRI scan although I was convinced the problem was caused by fallen arches. I've had custom arch supports since the eighth grade (though not the same pair). Mornings I slide the 1/2 inch-thick leather inserts into my shoes and immediately feel balanced. Two hours later they feel as thick as catcher's mitts and I yank them out. My feet are rarely happy although I've tried everything including Earth Shoes, which didn't help. Nor did Birkenstock sandals, Crocs, Dr. Scholl's or anything with "ortho" in its name.

Meanwhile, I learned the cause of my back pain: degenerative disc disease, commonly known as spinal stenosis.

The following week I had an appointment with Dr. Terence Doorly at his Peabody office. (A fact about neurosurgeons: They must be trained and certified in both surgery and neurology.) Dr. Doorly told me that spinal stenosis is common in 10 percent of baby boomers. Basically the bony supports of the spinal column build up, compressing the spinal canal. The word "stenosis" means narrowing in Greek.

Dr. Doorly displayed my MRI scan on his office monitor. It looked pretty good to me: lots of vibrant color. He concluded by saying he wouldn't be operating in the near future, yet I'd be back. "Never!" I thought. I would go on a self-improvement regimen. I would exercise and walk more. I would wear arch supports 24-7.

Upon Dr. Doorly's recommendation, I visited a physical therapist to strengthen my "core." Cores are something everyone in the fitness business talks about. For the next few weeks I subjected my core to twice-weekly physical therapy appointments. At the conclusion of my visits I can't say I had washboard abs, but I had a decent core, better than the one I walked in with. The therapist gave me a sheet of exercises to do at home. Alas, the sheet ended up in a desk drawer along with the arch supports.

Five years later I returned to Dr. Doorly's office. I couldn't walk to the end of my street without stopping to sit and pretend to tie my shoes. I asked an office nurse what people did in the days before neurosurgery. "They lost control of their lower functions," she said. Suddenly I felt grateful that I lived in an era of spinal surgery.

That attitude was put to the test in late May as I sat in Salem Hospital's pre-op area, shivering in a cotton johnny. Patients in plastic shower caps, IVs and breathing tubes were wheeled past. Maybe I'd been too hasty, I thought. Maybe I wasn't that bad. Minutes later my name was called: Too late to cancel.

In the hours following surgery, anesthesia played tricks on my mind. When my husband called my room, I couldn't remember his first name. This didn't bother me - in fact, I thought it was hilarious. Fortunately, as the anesthesia dissipated, my memory returned.

However, when I discovered I wouldn't be discharged the second day, I called home in tears. Yet on the fourth day I tried convincing Dr. Doorly to let me stay longer. I'd become comfortable in my private room (a perk for neurosurgery patients). I received flowers, cards and meals. I napped as often as a cat. Occasionally I had to get up and walk for the physical therapists.

There's an old expression: When the ball is over, it's time to take off your dancing shoes. Eventually I took off my hospital johnny and returned to daily life. At home I graduated from a walker to a cane. Now one month later, I walk unaided.

Dr. Doorly said recovery isn't a straight line. Some days will be better than others. In the meantime, I'm starting physical therapy. I don't mind, but my core won't like it one bit.

- Sharon L. Cook

Sharon L. Cook is author of A Nose for Hanky Panky and A Deadly Christmas Carol.