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The first time I felt it, I'd just climbed off the tractor, admired the job I'd done on the well-manicured lawn, and wondered why my butt was so sore.

Days passed and the pain came and went. Helpful family and friends had opinions and lots of sympathy. Sciatic nerve - nasty, they said.

My doctor was away on holidays, so a walk-in clinic would have to do. The doctor sent me for an X-ray, and when nothing abnormal showed up, suggested exercise and heat. Ice too, she said. Won't hurt.

The pain worsened when I drove, but climbing into the passenger seat wasn't easy either.

It crept down my leg making my foot feel numb, leaving me fearful I might trip and fall. I began to have trouble getting in and out of bed.

"Let's try an anti-inflammatory," my doctor said when I saw her. "It's not like you to have something like this."

Anne knew me well. She'd diagnosed my thyroid cancer 10 years earlier, then supported me through two recurrences - the most recent just a few months before.

"Could there be a connection?" I asked her.

"Not likely, but with your cancer history I'm not going to fool around. I'll order a CT scan." We both knew thyroid cancer could spread to the bone.

While I waited for the CT scan, the pain became unbearable. I'd already seen a physiotherapist, an acupuncturist and a chiropractor. None had helped. I'd have gladly seen a witch doctor if I thought it would bring relief.

Anne ordered codeine, then stronger narcotics. When the CT scan results came back negative, she said, "I want you to see a physiatrist."

"You think this is all in my head?" I was indignant. I'd been through a lot with little complaint. I was no powder puff.

"Not a psychiatrist, a physiatrist! They're experts in diagnosing pain."

She ordered an MRI, and a few days later called me. By then I was in bed most of the time. The combination of pain and drugs had overwhelmed me.

"You have a schwannoma inside your spinal cord."

"A what?"

"A schwannoma. It's a tumour. It's not cancer, but it's not good either. You need a neurosurgeon, and a damned good one. I'll start working on it." There was a silence between us as I tried to take in what she'd said.

"Anne?" I said.

"Yes?"

"I'm really scared this time."

"I know. I'll do everything I can to help you." I wanted so badly for her to say everything would be okay.

I'd barely recovered from my cancer triathlon, and now I was facing Everest. I thought about my husband, who'd been at my side through all of it. I thought about our three daughters, the youngest carrying our first grandchild. I said a prayer and asked for strength. Then I cried.

The pain was all-consuming. I wasn't eating. I wasn't sleeping. At times I was incoherent. The neurosurgeon was backlogged. More than a week passed before Anne called. "They're going to admit you into the hospital, where they can do a better job of managing your pain. You'll go tomorrow."

I don't remember the drive to the hospital. I do remember my first night there. I got out of bed, took three steps and felt white-hot lightning strike the nerves in my right leg. In an instant, it shot back up through my left foot. I fainted.

When I opened my eyes the next morning, there was a flock of white coats at the end of my bed. One, a short balding man, was discussing my diagnosis with the others huddled in a circle around him. He leaned over my bed and took my hand. "I'm Mark Bernstein. I'll be doing your surgery." Behind his all-business demeanour were kind eyes.

I couldn't stay awake. I tried to formulate questions, but was too groggy from the drugs. Did I ask him what he was going to do to me? Did he really say he was going to fillet my back, take bone from my spine to give him access, then untangle nerve fibres as fine as hair from the tumour?

My husband and daughters visited constantly. They were there when I opened my eyes and there during my delirium.

The surgery happened a week after I was admitted. It took six hours. Dr. Bernstein came the next morning, as he had all the mornings before. I saw him clearly for the first time and felt we should be introducing ourselves.

"How's your pain?" he asked, flipping through my chart.

"I have no pain," I told him.

I watched the skin around his eyes begin to crinkle. "B.S.!" he said as he laughed. It was hard to tell which one of us was more pleased.

"Okay, I have a little pain, but nothing like what I had. I don't even know how to thank you."

Two days later, Dr. B and his flock of white coats paid their last visit. "I want you out of here before you catch something," he said. "A hospital is no place for a healthy woman. Go home, don't lift anything too heavy, and stay well."

I obeyed orders. I had good reason to get well. I had a special birthday party to attend. One month later, my daughter placed minutes-old Abby Faith in my arms. She was light as a feather.

Lynda Murtha lives in Toronto.