by Dan Caro
I studied my reflection in the mirror—and finding a mirror on a burn ward is not an easy task—the way an artist would study his subject. The longer I looked at my face, the more pleased I became with it. I appreciated the way I looked and the fact that I had, for starters, two holes in the center of my face instead of a nose. I was unique! Eventually, I decided that it didn’t matter what strangers thought of me. Everyone who knew me loved me, and I was determined to love myself, too. To hell with what other people thought!
Of course, I was just a kid and hadn’t experienced the harsh reality of life yet. That would come a little later, when I entered the dog-eat-dog world of kindergarten.
Chapter Three
A New Thumb, and New Challenges
When I first arrived home from my initial four-month stay at the hospital, my family had to adjust to having a delicate child in their midst. Before the accident I’d been a bouncy, resilient kid who clamored to be in the thick of things. Now things were vastly different. Dad and Mom put my two big brothers on high alert: they could play with me but had to be careful not to knock me over, nor could they haul me around the house as they often did before the fire. I was still a very sick, severely injured little boy who was extremely fragile.
At first, my family had to do everything for me. Mom, quite literally, became a nurse to me. She changed my bandages several times each day, spoon-fed me, helped me go to the bathroom, and was my main link to the world around me.
Still, I was an energetic youngster and curious about the world. The fire hadn’t burned away my desire to be part of everything that was going on in my midst, and I was included in all the family activities (even if everyone had to be supervigilant about my safety and keep an extracareful eye out if I wandered off somewhere in the house). Sure, I had weekly sessions with a physiotherapist and had a gazillion doctor and hospital visits, but thanks to my parents’ and brothers’ total acceptance of me as an equal member of the family, I felt like a normal kid during those first couple of years back home.
Of course, I was far from normal.
By the age of two or three, most children have mastered the simple everyday tasks people perform a hundred times a day without thinking about them. Picking up a fork, combing one’s hair, pulling on a pair of pants, and the like are automatically done without a second thought. But for me, those everyday tasks became gargantuan undertakings. At least they were at first, when I was trying to do things the way everyone else did them, which was impossible.
Take using cutlery, for example. I must have tried to pick up a spoon to dig into a bowl of pudding a thousand times before it became obvious that without fingers, I wasn’t going to eat like everyone else did. One of my physiotherapists tried to remedy that situation by fastening a strap onto my wrists and sticking a fork under the right wrist strap and a knife under the left one. It was a total disaster. Either the utensils dropped to the floor or the chinaware did.
I was born with a deeply rooted independent streak, so not being able to do things for myself was very troubling. I kept trying to do everything on my own by copying what everyone else did, and I kept failing. Finally, I decided that if I couldn’t do things the way “normal” people did, then the normal rules didn’t apply to me. This was an incredibly important lesson for me to learn at an early age, and extremely liberating!
I glanced at the ends of my arms and told myself that if I didn’t have fingers, there was no point in acting like I did. Instead, I’d start working with what I had—I’d simply use the ends of both of my arms to pick up my fork and bring food to my mouth. Success! At that moment, I could feed myself, and my entire future was suddenly changed. I would no longer be dependent on either the kindness of strangers or the goodness of my family. I would now take care of myself.
Next, I realized that if I could manipulate a fork with my two arms, then why couldn’t I do the same with a pen? Soon I was doodling and eventually writing by gripping a pen between both arms. Then I discovered that by using my mouth and wrists together, I could button my shirt. Before long I’d learned how to do just about every daily task all by myself: I could pull on my pajamas, slip into a T-shirt, and zip up a zipper. I could also toss a Frisbee and swing a baseball bat. I could even use a bow and arrow on family camping trips.
I may not have looked particularly graceful doing most things, such as using my mouth to yank a button through a buttonhole, but I didn’t care what I looked like. What mattered was that I was doing almost everything on my own and in my own way … except tying my shoelaces. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t grasp those narrow laces and pull them into a knot. While shoelaces were a source of constant frustration for me, I was proud that I’d accomplished so much and mastered so many other everyday challenges.
Then I turned five. That’s when the doctors told me that they thought they could successfully build a “thumb” on my left hand. As I’ve already mentioned, I’ve had scores of reconstructive surgeries since the fire, but the series of operations in which my thumb was constructed stands out most clearly in my mind because it changed my life in so many wonderful ways, allowing me to accomplish more than anyone ever dreamed possible.
Believe it or not, I hated the change at first. It had taken nearly three years after returning from my initial stint in Boston to become independent performing most daily tasks. But after my new thumb, I had to learn to do everything all over again! It was like being sent back a few grades in school and told that everything you’d learned up to then was all a lie! Start over, kid! Do it again!
Actually, the fact that they figured out how to build me a thumb from my own flesh and bone (and a little bit of steel wire for good measure) was pretty amazing. The procedure was complex and involved separating my first metacarpal from the rest of the bones in my left hand, elongating it with wires, and then slowly “twisting” the bone over time. I had at least five separate thumb surgeries, and after each one, I had to wear a metal cage over my hand. The doctors at Shriners called it a “hay raker” because it looked like the rake farmers used during harvest to collect (you guessed it) hay. The doctors also harvested my own skin to graft the new thumb, which eventually allowed me to grip and hold things quite firmly.
As I said, though, I had to relearn everything I’d already accomplished and was pretty upset about my new digit at first. It seemed as though I’d gone through a ton of work up to that point for nothing. My doctors sent me to physical therapy to learn how to use the thumb, but I refused to cooperate at first. I had been getting along fine without one and hoped that if I just ignored it, it might go away. But it didn’t go away—and as time went by and I got used to that thumb, my whole world opened up.
IT WAS DURING THE NEW STRUGGLE to master my thumb that I first began to notice God in my life. Of course, just like when I was in the hospital and intuitively sensed that I was a spiritual being, I wasn’t actually thinking about God specifically. What happened after I started using my thumb is that I caught a glimpse of the possibilities life held in store for me—or for any of us—when fear is put aside and we open ourselves up to the universe. I became aware of the soul’s desire to be inspired and to achieve a dream. In short, I began to realize God without understanding it. For me, “God” was the force pushing me from within to get the job done and move my heart and mind forward. I developed a belief that I could run headlong and headstrong toward any challenge with assurance and confidence. It gave me an immense feeling of freedom.
Until I looked down at my shoes.
Tying your than you think. usually spend weeks learning how to do it, they then have it down pat for the rest of their lives and never give it another thought. My experience, as you can imagine, was a little different. Even with my new thumb, the task of tying my shoes was more difficult and more frustrating than anything I’d had to endure up until that point.
Ironically, while my new thumb was opening up a galaxy of possibilities for me, the fact that I couldn’t tie my shoes haunted me like a demon.
My inability to perform this task created such a deep sense of personal failure in me that I secretly began to view it as a kind of character flaw.
My parents thought they’d addressed the problem when they brought home loafers, slip-ons, and Velcro-closing running shoes for me. But those shortcuts just intensified my embarrassment; I was ashamed to be the only one in the neighborhood wearing Velcro sneakers. Still, I wasn’t about to let my shoelaces mock the fresh sense of possibility my new thumb had given me. Instead of admitting defeat, I promised myself that no matter how long it took or how difficult it was, I’d practice tying my shoes every day of my life until I succeeded. At five years old, I made tying my shoelaces my mission in life.
In the meantime, I was getting older, and some of the greatest challenges of my life were about to begin.
MY TWO OLDER BROTHERS WERE ENROLLED at the local Christian school in our area, and my parents assumed that I’d follow in their footsteps. But when Mom and Dad talked to the administration, they were told it was impossible— the school board didn’t think the facility could accommodate my “special needs.” Out of ignorance, the board assumed that because I looked different from other kids, I must have some kind of learning disability or need extraordinary help.
My parents objected to this decision, and the Shriners even offered to send one of their ambassadors to the school to explain that I had no special requirements. Yet none of this made any difference. The board’s actions were stupid and mean and, I have to say, not very “Christian.” It was the first case of “official” discrimination I’d encountered because of the way I looked. My parents were so furious that they pulled one of my brothers out of that school in protest.
Mom and Dad ended up enrolling me in Terrytown Academy, a private school that accepted me with open arms. A Shriner ambassador had visited the facility before the school year and chatted with the staff about me, explaining that although my injuries made me appear different, I was a normal, happy kid who didn’t need or want any unique attention or assistance. He even passed around photographs of me to the teachers and administrators to ensure that no one would react in shock when meeting me in person. Everyone at Terrytown was well prepared for my arrival in kindergarten that September … everyone except my fellow students, that is, who did their best to make my life a living hell.
It was bad right from the start. At first the teachers kept watch to make sure the other kids were on their best behavior, but I could feel my classmates’ eyes on me when my back was turned. The energy they silently projected my way was so negative I felt it would suffocate me. It was the first time I sensed hatred, and after that first day at school, the idea of returning made me cringe. I didn’t tell my parents what was going on—I was embarrassed by how the kids felt about me, and I didn’t want Mom and Dad to see my shame. Instead, I bottled everything up inside and didn’t say a word about it to anybody.
On the second day of school, I dreaded getting out of bed and putting on my uniform. When my brothers and I met in our parents’ room for morning prayers, I prayed that something would happen to Terrytown Academy so I wouldn’t have to go. Alas, those negative prayers weren’t answered. So after breakfast I reluctantly climbed in the passenger seat of the family minivan, buckled up my seat belt, and sat back powerlessly as my mother drove the two miles to Terrytown.
On the third day, I was so upset that I refused to get out of the van when my mother parked in the culde-sac in front of the big brick schoolhouse. Mom, still not understanding my hesitation, walked me to the kindergarten classroom and left me with the teacher, Mrs. Wingfield, who escorted me inside.
Mrs. Wingfield was your stereotypical schoolmarm, probably 60 or 65 years old and very prim and proper. Her hair was completely gray and wrapped so tightly in a bun on the top of her head that I was certain it was going to pull her face off. As she led me to my seat, the faces of the other children twisted into masks of contempt and horror. Every fiber of my being screamed for me to run away as fast as possible, so that’s exactly what I tried to do. But Mrs. Wingfield held on to me and, in a very calm and gentle voice, asked what was troubling me.
How does a five-year-old explain an anxiety attack or the feeling of absolute terror? I answered the only way I knew how—by kicking her in the shins as hard as I could. I kicked and punched until she finally let go of me, and I made a mad dash for the door. I ran down the hallway as fast as my feet would carry me, until I burst through the doors and was safely outside. In the distance, I saw our white minivan pulling away from the school property and screamed out at the top of my lungs, “Mom!” The van came to an abrupt halt, and my mother’s comforting arms were soon around me. But even then I couldn’t tell her how horribly uncomfortable I was in school … so I found myself back in the classroom, silently suffering in a sea of youthful hostility.
But whatever discomfort I experienced in class was nothing compared to the torture I was subjected to in the school yard during recess. Whenever I walked onto the playground, I’d find myself encircled by dozens of taunting kids who hurled razor-sharp insults at me with the kind of unfiltered cruelty that comes naturally to some children.
“Look at the ugly monster!” they’d shout.
“Hey, Frankenstein!”
“Freak … freak … freak! Go back where you came from, burn boy! We don’t want you here!”
When I tried to walk away, the kids walked backward, keeping pace with me and holding me in the center of their wicked little circle. If I rushed at them, they’d scatter, shouting over their shoulders at each other as they ran: “Look out! The monster is trying to catch you. Run!”
The same nightmare repeated itself day after day. When my mother picked me up in the afternoons and asked how school was, I’d just shrug my shoulders and mumble that it was okay. Once we were home, I’d retreat to my room and spend hours unsuccessfully trying to tie my shoes, pulling at my laces until my new thumb was rubbed raw, or until Mom called me to come downstairs for supper.
After a week or so, I started avoiding the school yard altogether. As soon as the bell rang for recess, I’d make a beeline for the fence on the far side of the property, slip through an opening in the metal, and begin walking the perimeter of Terrytown Academy.
Circling the school property during recess, I began a daily ritual of carefully observing the different groups of children as they formed together in cliques to play games or share gossip. They all looked so harmless from my safe, distant, and anonymous vantage point. I wondered how the sweet faces of the little girls happily skipping in and out of a blur of swinging jump rope could have become so evil when they’d cornered me just a week before. I stopped and listened to them singing:
Girl Guide, Girl Guide, dressed in yellow,
This is the way I treat my fellow:
Hug him, kiss him, kick him in the pants,
That is the way to find romance …
Not far from the skipping girls, a dozen boys from my kindergarten class were laughing together and slapping one another on the back as they horsed around and traded baseball cards. Their group looked so friendly and inviting, but when I’d tried to join them several days earlier, they’d turned on me viciously and mocked me until my eyes burned with tears.
Day in and day out, I’d study the various groups in the school yard, and I began to see a definite social structure. Obviously, the kids who associated within each group were linked by age and grade level, but within each grade I noticed a pecking order determined by popularity, looks, and charisma. And at the top of the kindergarten pecking order was a boy named Kieran.
Kieran was the tallest boy in our grade, with a handsome face and a wide smile that instantly put the other kids at ease. He was by far the most athletic boy as well, so physically graceful that he made tossing a football across the length of the yard or making an impossible softball catch seem effortless. To top things off, he was fast—faster than many boys twice his age.
But what I found most intriguing about Kieran was
that he was a natural leader. Other kids clamored around him, looking to him to decide what the game of the day would be, and he’d organize them quickly into teams without rancor or argument. He never seemed bossy or used his popularity to lord over others—he just seemed like a really nice, fun kid to be around. And while he never stepped in to stop the other kids from picking on me, I don’t ever recall him joining in on the many occasions the kindergarten mob turned on me.
Often I’d look at the kids playing around Kieran and wonder what it would be like to join them, but I knew what would happen if I tried. I was lonely, but I preferred solitude to ridicule. So I watched from afar and continued to study my schoolmate adversaries. If a teacher approached me and asked why I didn’t join the others at play, I’d whisper something about preferring to walk by myself and hustle away until the bell rang. At home I remained silent about my emotional turmoil, continuing to conceal my growing psychological anguish. It was unbearable, and I was miserable. There is little doubt in my mind that at the age of five I was heading for an emotional breakdown.
And that’s when I first felt myself open completely to the universe and somehow tap into a power that was beyond myself, beyond anything that my limited experience had prepared me for.
THE DAY STARTED LIKE EVERY OTHER: I arrived in class, was greeted by muttered jeers and derision as I walked to my desk, and then sat sullenly until the recess bell rang and I could flee from the school yard and walk the perimeter in peace. But on that particular day, I felt a shift—not only in my mood, but also in the very way the energy of the world seemed to be flowing around me. Everything was different. My senses became sharper, and I felt stronger than I’d ever felt before.
Again, I don’t know if it was God giving me the gift of self-awareness or what, but on that particular morning I had a revelation. I received a flash of inspiration that convinced me I had the power to change the world around me, including the things that were making me miserable. The feeling grew so strong in me that I came to a sudden, dead stop in the middle of my perimeter walk and turned toward the playground.
