I opened my eyes to the sound of my children, so innocently unaware of what had befallen their father: “is Daddy going to die?” asked one, in a voice engulfed with a worry that transcended her years; “no, but I think that he will have to use a wheelchair for the rest of his life,” answered the other, the older of the two. In fact, I was neither dead, nor dying, however, the second possibility was not completely ruled out.

I tried to speak but couldn’t. The post-opt room at the University of Washington gan nearly a decade ago; “typical back pain”, it was then decided by my doctor; she found it extravagant to bother with an MRI or even X-rays.

A few years later, I left Seattle, and moved to the Arabian Gulf for a position at Al-Jazeera Satellite Television that left me both disgruntled and disillusioned. Two years later, I left my high paying job to work as a media lecturer at an Australian University branch in Malaysia, before heading to London to claim a new post as a human rights advocate in a London-based NGO. During these years, I grew accustomed to my back problems that worsened beyond the most pessimistic expectations.

My back hunched so badly that it defined me. It embarrassed me. I could no longer participate in any activities that required me to stand up for two long. God only knows how I managed to put up with standing at podiums all of these years. Walking became a chore and an unbearable one at that. My children became resigned to the fact that I would be spending most of my time lying down, sedated by painkillers and their detrimental consequences. I became so obsessed with securing the future of my children, for I was left with no doubt that my own looked so rapidly bleak. As depression moved in, my hope of recovery petered out, and when one can no longer feel hope, he can spur none.

It was not until a few weeks ago when my body decided to endure no more. A 10-hour nonstop flight from London to Seattle exposed the long hidden fragility. I stepped out of the airplane to realize that I could no longer walk. Numbness pervaded my lower back and right leg. The level of weakness was quickly diagnosed by doctors at the emergency room to which I was quickly rushed, to have reached a perilous level.

An MRI and a few days later I was lying face down as a group of neurosurgeons congregated around my haggard back and began a most intricate surgery. I fought the surgical option with all my might until I was told it was my only hope. The fact that I had no health insurance in the US meant that I had to bear the high costs alone. As I opened my eyes to the welcome sight of my children, one carrying a “Get well” balloon, and another clinging onto a bunch of roses. I was still too anxious to ask the question: How did it go? What if the answer was not to my liking?

What If I had to embrace my trusted crutches once more? Worse, what If I had to resort to a wheelchair? Comfort was soon to follow however, as a kind nurse greeted me with a smile as soon as she heard my moans of pain: “Your surgery was a success; the nerve root was so entangled that the doctor had to do lots of tugging; the recovery might take longer than expected, but you will be OK.” I also learned later that the disc was so large that the hospital sent it to pathology “to be documented.” It was not exactly the type of achievements with which I wanted to be associated.

Just as the effect of the anesthesia began to fade, my journey with narcotics was soon to resume. Hours and days seemed like fleeting moments, although I insisted to write my weekly article, skipping a dose of painkillers that allowed me to dictate the article on to my wife, my faithful editor for the last 13 years. As I laid on me left side, as I have for many days, I day-dreamed for the simplest things: Being able to walk again, to walk straight, to hold my newest child, Sammy, to play hide and seek with my children as we once did.

I also thought of the things that we take for granted.

I also thought of the numerous American families without health insurance, disowned by the same system that finds it prudent to spend over $350 billion on a few years of unnecessary wars and have the audacity to ask for more.

— Ramzy Baroud’s latest book, The Second Palestinian Intifada: A Chronicle of a People’s Struggle (Pluto Press), is available at Amazon.com and also from the University of Michigan Press. His website is ramzybaroud.net