Translated by ChatGPT
https://www.zaobao.com.sg/lifestyle/columns/story20260613-9183048?utm_source=android-share&utm_medium=app
For subscribers only
Lianhe Zaobao
Author: Yao Yaoguang 姚耀光
2026-06-13
After the COVID-19 pandemic, I went to a public hospital for an MRI. It was a rather peculiar experience. I was pushed into the machine, and amid bursts of high-frequency electromagnetic noise, it felt as though my body was being read layer by layer by something invisible. A week later, the doctor looked at the images and said, “Lumbar spinal stenosis.” The pain that extended from my buttock to my foot suddenly had a name.
The doctor recommended surgery, but I did not agree immediately. When it comes to “going under the knife,” people instinctively want to put it off for a while. So I decided to try “other methods” first. Over the next three years, I tried almost everything I could. Physiotherapy, traction, massage, heat therapy, ultrasound, electrical stimulation, steroid injections. The one that left the deepest impression was a “Pain Treatment Center” in Toa Payoh. After looking at my report, the chiropractor there spoke quickly: “This can be fixed.” His tone made the problem seem much less complicated than it felt. He suggested that I sign up for three courses of treatment, with a total cost of more than four thousand dollars.
I was a little more cautious and signed up for only one course of ten sessions first, costing seventeen hundred dollars, twice a week. The routine was always the same: a machine would stretch me a little, then there would be some pressing and kneading, after which the “doctor” would personally appear, tap my back a few times with a massage gun, and then help stretch and pull my legs. It was called an “adjustment,” but it felt more like a ritual. I asked him what I should pay attention to in daily life, and he replied coldly, “Don’t exercise excessively,” before hurrying away. Throughout the course of treatment, there were no checks on my symptoms and no conversation. That nerve remained fully awake.
I began seriously considering surgery. After searching online, I came across the term “minimally invasive surgery.” It sounded gentler, with a smaller incision and faster recovery. I asked my original doctor about it. He said, “Traditional surgery only requires an incision of about two inches anyway, so there isn’t much difference.” Then he added, “This time we’ll deal with one lumbar vertebra first, and the other one can wait until later.” As I listened, it suddenly felt less like a surgery and more like life being handled in stages.
I was still reluctant to accept that, so I wrote to another specialist in the same hospital who performed minimally invasive procedures. He replied quickly: “It can be done minimally invasively, but you’ll have to switch to being a private patient, and the cost will be much higher.” I thought to myself that this time my wallet would probably bleed quietly, but since I could choose the doctor, I agreed anyway. Yet when we met, he recommended that I undergo the same fusion surgery proposed by the first doctor. The estimated cost was about seventy-two thousand dollars.
At that moment, I was stunned for a second before I understood that the surgery involved using metal rods and screws to fuse two lumbar vertebrae together. He did not say much, nor did he sound hurried. His natural composure made it difficult to doubt him.
A week before the operation, I began to feel uncertain. A thought kept repeating itself: Should I hear one more opinion? So I consulted a doctor at a private hospital. After reviewing my report, he said, “I don’t recommend fusion.” Instead, he suggested a minimally invasive procedure to address three lumbar vertebrae in a single operation. He slowly explained the endoscope and the procedure, saying that the incision would be very small, I could be discharged the same day, and the price would be fifty thousand dollars. I asked, “What about the risks?” He replied, “There are always risks, but this is sufficient for your condition.” Hearing the words “sufficient for your condition,” I suddenly felt a little more at ease. When it came time to sign the consent form, I hardly hesitated. It felt like gently putting down something I had been dragging along for a very long time.
The day of the surgery was quieter than I had imagined. As I was wheeled in, the lights were very bright. I fell asleep, and when I woke up again, the nerve that had tormented me for so long had finally eased a little.
On the day I was discharged, my family and I walked out of the hospital. My steps were a little slow, but they felt light. That nerve is much quieter now. It is still there, as though continuing a conversation that has never truly ended.
I walked a few more steps before gradually realizing that some problems appear to reside in the body, but are not entirely there.
Posts
