Thoughts, fears, and snacks in the days before neck surgery

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

On July 24, I had back surgery—and for once in my life, something involving surgeons and sharp objects worked exactly as advertised. The surgery was an absolute success. It relieved pain I had carried with me for years, pain that had eventually relegated me to a chair or a bed like a piece of well-worn furniture. Since then, I’ve been more active, more mobile, and reminded of what it feels like to move without negotiating with my spine first.

The issues I’m dealing with now are the natural result of a life lived in full living color—action-packed, unscripted, and with me doing all my own stunts. Sadly, I didn’t think to record any of them. Back when I was chasing crooks down alleys, sliding across car hoods, and arresting bad guys, there were no body cams strapped to our chests and no doorbell cameras documenting every questionable decision. In hindsight, that may be a blessing. People behaved differently then. The folks we pulled over or chased didn’t try out legal theories they learned on YouTube. If someone even hinted at going the “sovereign citizen” route, they’d likely find themselves exiting the vehicle through the driver’s window and reconsidering their life choices on the pavement. Judges were less impressed by nonsense back then, too. Jail cells and fines were far more common than viral videos.

Sometimes I wonder if all the bumps, bruises, and hard knocks were worth it. Then I remember a frightened grandmother who was grateful we showed up and took the bad guy away—and I know it was.

But I’m getting sidetracked. Apparently, even when facing surgery, I can still drift into police stories.

So, back to the main event.

On March 5, I’ll be going in for cervical disc replacement—C3, C4, and C5—each swapped out for shiny artificial parts, with the added bonus of the surgeon filing down a few rough bone spurs while he’s in there. The procedure requires entering through the front of the neck. Which to me translates to “the throat.” A place I use regularly for swallowing, breathing, and moving blood around—activities I’d like to continue uninterrupted.

Naturally, I have concerns. One poorly timed sneeze. A joke told in the operating room. A momentary slip of the knife. Any of those could turn a routine procedure into a very different blog post.

Oddly enough, what concerns me most is how fast my insurance company approved the surgery. Six days. Six. Anyone who’s ever dealt with insurance knows that’s suspiciously efficient. Normally, approvals involve paperwork, appeals, second opinions, and possibly a séance. So now I’m left wondering: do they know something I don’t? Is this a cost-saving measure? A quiet attempt to write me off while I’m still in beta?

Which is unfortunate, because I’m still working on a book—and I haven’t even finished the first section. I’ve got way too much left to say.

My anxiety is manageable, but my paranoia is stretching its legs. Even my dog has noticed. He’s been sticking close, watching me like these might be my final days…or possibly because I’m giving him more snacks than Steve. It’s hard to say.

Whatever the case, I’m choosing to approach this with humor. It’s what got me through a police career. “Sick humor,” they call it—and yes, I’m going to need every bit of it between now and March 5.

March 5 should be a perfectly good day. Except history keeps raising an eyebrow.

The Boston Massacre happened on March 5, 1770. Patsy Cline—one of my favorite country artists—along with Cowboy Copas and Hawkshaw Hawkins, died in a plane crash on March 5, 1963. BOAC Flight 911 crashed into Mount Fuji on March 5, 1966, killing 124 people.

Still, I’m choosing optimism.

I’m determined that this March 5 will be remembered for something else entirely—a day when the pain that has severe pain in my right arm finally loosens its grip. A day when modern medicine does exactly what it promises. A day when the feeling of numbness, electrical pulses, pain, and partial paralysis ends.

Unless, of course, I crash into Mount Fuji.

But I don’t think my insurance covers that.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026