When I woke up on Tuesday in the ortho­pe­dic wing fol­low­ing back surgery, I saw the name Don Joy writ­ten on the white­board at the end of my bed.

I was already feel­ing very joy­ous because after a year and a half,  the all con­sum­ing, aching, burn­ing, twang­ing mis­ery in my back and leg was entirely gone, but if the doc­tors felt I still needed more joy before leav­ing  the hos­pi­tal, then I was all for it.

Who could he be, and what was his role going to be in my recov­ery? Each time I woke up and saw the white­board, I won­dered about him, but then I would fall back asleep.

Don Joy must be some kind of ambas­sador of hap­pi­ness from Hawaii, I con­cluded before falling asleep again. He will remind me of my many bless­ings through song and expres­sive dance. He prob­a­bly vol­un­teers his time at the hospital.

Or, the more likely sce­nario I decided on was that Don Joy would be a young, hand­some, kind, com­pe­tent life coach who would assist me in my recov­ery by help­ing me rebuild myself men­tally, spir­i­tu­ally and physically.

Yes, for sure. Blue Cross would be happy to pay for some­one like that if it will keeps from fil­ing more expen­sive psy­chi­atric claims down the road, I reasoned.

Don Joy will encour­age me to leave behind the neg­a­tive residue  from my bogus ortho­pe­dic adven­ture, and help me recon­nect with the real me, the ath­letic, joy­ous, devil-may-care gal that got left behind.

Together, Don Joy and I will redis­cover and pol­ish my sparkling psy­che and work to unlock my true phys­i­cal poten­tial so that I emerge from this shitty expe­ri­ence bet­ter and stronger than ever.

Don Joy will com­fort me when I get dis­cour­aged by my lack of progress, and he will cel­e­brate my small but sig­nif­i­cant steps toward recov­ery. He won’t take offense if I am inex­plic­a­bly cranky or curt. He will keep push­ing me to reach my peak.

Don Joy will let me con­fide in him, and will accom­pany me on cer­tain expe­di­tions that My Royal Consort might not enjoy so much, like shop­ping for clothes, or trips to Knit One, Purl Two to pick out wool. Like me, Don Joy will love the rit­ual and sim­plic­ity of tra­di­tional Japanese food, and will under­stand the urgency of my crav­ings for sushi and white wine.

Eventually, my pain-free idyll came to an end. I woke up and stayed awake. Vital signs were taken, instruc­tions were given, pre­scrip­tions filled, crutches and a walker pre­scribed. Before I knew it, I was being wheeled down the hall, on my way home.

But wait! Wasn’t I sup­posed to meet Don Joy before I leave? Or does he come to the house? I asked.

A per­plexed look from the nurse. “Huh? You are wear­ing your Don Joy now, aren’t you?” she asked, and then ducked down to take a peek under my shirt. “Yeah, you’re all set, see?” she said, tap­ping on the back brace that was keep­ing my spine from wilt­ing like a dehy­drated stalk of celery.

I laughed, ha ha joke, but inside I was think­ing WTF? When we got home, I care­fully unwound my back brace and climbed into bed. My Royal Consort hung it over the walker next to me, and when I awoke, I saw printed on the back brace a big, white logo that said DonJoy.

Liz McDonald

I am a recov­er­ing pro­fes­sional graphic designer and com­mer­cial illus­tra­tor for­merly known as Mistress Pixel. Quite often I was a house painter. I am always a writer because I am told I am good at it. I like humor, swear­ing, cook­ing, fit­ness, pais­ley, people, horses, dogs and cats. I also love trav­el­ing, hiking, par­ty­ing, live music, Spanish, and my family.

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