It’s been quite some while since I could take walking for granted.

Even before the herniated disc at the base of my spine started knocking on my sciatic nerve, the sharp ache of bones grinding together in my hip served to remind that bodies do not always remain in motion.

A surgeon has now tended to my spine, and I have suffered my way – loudly, and utterly without dignity – through a wrenching and tearful night during which my stomach strove repeatedly to heave itself out through my mouth.

I have rediscovered the simple comfort and pleasures of saltines, bouillon, ginger ale and hydrocodone. I can roll gingerly up to sit, and I can walk a bit.

I can walk all I want, actually, my surgeon said. I can’t drive at all, or sit for long, and my left leg remains weak and numb, but I can stroll my days away. Once upon a time last week, I had visions of a disciplined but rigorous recovery, with half hour walks ever other hour, up and down my street. Now, two laps around the living room brings a burn to my withered calves, and I take mincing baby steps to keep from straining the staples and stitches in my back.

I can walk, and it feels pretty darn good.