Yes, I had the surgery. I had the surgery! I must stop dwelling on why I did not have the surgery in January. I was so ready. And then I was talked out it, read too many incorrect articles online, saw talented doctors who were not able to help me or admit they could not help me. Four plus months later, I finally had the surgery. Let's dance. Let's shout. Shake your body down to the ground. That's how good I feel.

I saw the neurosurgeon the Friday before the surgery. After examining me and my MRI, he said surgery was a good idea, and asked me if I had any questions. Only one, I said. How soon can I have the surgery? When he said Tuesday, meaning three days and eight hours from the time I was sitting in his office, I nearly wept with joy. I had only three days, seven hours and fifty-nine minutes until I was out cold on an operating table. I could wait that long.

The procedure was to be a laminectomy followed by a micro-discectomy. First, the surgeon cuts a very small incision in the low back. Then he pushes aside the muscle to get to the bone, and then he cuts away a very small piece of of vertebrae to get to the spinal cord and soft discs beneath the bone, where all the bad stuff is happening. Using a tiny tool, the surgeon plucks off the herniation—what he had described as a piece of lobster meat sitting on the nerve—and then he stitches me back up with stitches that dissolve. I wake up. I walk that night. I go home the next morning.

At six thirty on the morning of surgery, a livery cab pulled up to my apartment. I threw my bag into the back, shimmied my way in and thought, this is the last time I have to negotiate pain while getting myself into a car. The sky was bright blue. The air was clean. My father was waiting at the entrance to the hospital. He had taken the first ferry from New Jersey, and he looked like he had not slept all night, rocking and sidestepping under the hospital's awning.

The main building of NY Presbyterian Cornell hospital looks like something out of the Rockefeller era, or what you might expect the inside of an English boy's school to look like—lots of concrete, intricate arches and vaulted ceilings, historic and solid. New York Presbyterian is ranked the number one hospital in New York City and the fifth best hospital in the world. My surgeon, Robert Snow, was named one of the top neurosurgeons for back surgery by New York Magazine. He apparently operates on a lot of writers, as well, one of whom read at Paragraph in the past. I was not worried one bit. In fact, I couldn't wait. I felt as if I were about to go on a long vacation.

I checked into pre-operation where I was handed pajama bottoms, a gown and a light-blue pinstriped robe, all size extra-large, all to be tied in the back. I almost asked if I could buy the robe. I could use a nice summer robe and this one was soft, worn and pretty good looking. I had all the standard tests done, some blood drawn, IV inserted, everyone friendly and helpful. The nurse who took my height assured me I wouldn't be bent over and hobbling when Dr. Snow got done with me. Amen to that.

I was shown to a bed in the pre-operation area. This is a large square room with a bright white tiled ceiling, a nurse's station in the middle and beds around the perimeter. Each bed is labeled with a letter above it and separated by dividing curtains. The nurses refer to patients by the bed letter, such as, "Q is ready to go upstairs" and "M needs some morphine." This room was mostly empty. I was second in line for surgery. There was a vase of blue hydrangeas in front of my bed and the nurses were laughing and checked on me often. I had a long conversation with one who said she was eaten alive by the New York City school system, and that's how she decided to become a nurse. Her husband is writing a book.

I was supposed to have surgery around nine, but as the nurse advised, time doesn't mean much in a hospital. At ten thirty, the doctor stopped by. He used a black magic marker to put an 'X' where the incision would be made, and then he walked with me into the operating room. A resident with a Mets surgical cap checked me in. This is to make sure you're not about to have a kidney removed when you think you're going for knee surgery.

I lay on the operating table while nurses and doctors put stickers all over me. A woman told me I was going to feel like I had something to drink. Now that she mentioned it, I did feel like I had a nice buzz on. And then I was out.

I woke up needing to cough in a room that looked very much like the pre-operation waiting room, except this one was busy and there was a small nurses station between my bed and the bed next to mine. I tried not to cough because something told me it would cause pain or the tenderness in the small of my back to explode. It also did not seem like a good idea to try and move my hips. I think I woke up at twelve thirty, but then it was two before I knew it. I kept waking up and falling asleep. I had only slight pain. I was given morphine, because, why not live it up.

A little after four, I beat out bed Q for a room. An old man wheeled me through a maze of corridors, into an elevator and a wing of the hospital called Central. There was a mural of Central Park in the entrance to that wing. Somehow, I was given a private room. A very large private room painted soft yellow with large windows overlooking the East River and Roosevelt Island and a flat screen television. A friend who had the same surgery said he shared a room with a man with a major flatulence problem. This was a huge score. I popped some Percacet and called friends and family.

I walked that night. My hips were not quite aligned and I was feeling weak and tender. My blood pressure was very low, something like 80 over 50, though sometimes it would climb to 100 over 60. I was woken up through the night for a blood pressure check. The next morning, my mother picked me up and drove me home, careful to avoid all potholes and bumps en route. For a few days I was knocked out and weak. Surgery really does kick your ass after all. But every day, I got stronger. And those severe spasms in my lower back and butt and hips? Gone. Like they had never been there. Just the slightest numbness in my right foot as a reminder of what I had been through.

I was going up and down stairs the second day. I was off Percacet by the third day. I was back in Brooklyn and able to go out to a restaurant for dinner on the Friday, the fourth day after surgery, hips nearly aligned. On Saturday I shopped. On Sunday I rested. On Monday, I went back to work. Seven days later, all I can say is, hoorah for microsurgery. Feeling good, feeling great.