“It’s not complete yet! How am I supposed to do that?”
“Prove you’re happy with your decision.”
“I am happy! Can’t you tell in my voice? I’m fucking happy!” I attempted to muster a pleasant tone. But Mike knew just what buttons to push to get me fired up.
“Then go out to dinner,” he said calmly.
“How will that prove anything?”
“Go out to dinner,” he insisted.
“Mike, listen to me,” I argued.
“Go out to dinner.” He wouldn’t budge. Anything I tried to say was met with the same line: “Go out to dinner.”
“Fine!”
“Great. Love you!” he said as sweet as could be, as if no argument had happened at all. He said it sweetly because he won.
“Love you, too, damn it.” Part of me wanted him to win.
The next few times Mike called, he asked to speak directly to my mom. It wasn’t too suspicious, because he often liked to make small talk with my parents. Unconcerned, I passed the phone to my mom, but I did squeeze in one question.
“Are you coming to dinner with us?”
“No. Celebrate with your mom and dad. I’ll come over after.”
“Fine. Be that way.”
And that was that. Despite our yelling and name-calling, Mike knew me pretty well. Underneath my tough exterior, I really was afraid of people seeing my pins. Yes, I had made the choice to undergo the procedure to help change not only the way people saw me, but also the way I saw myself. But what if I scared children? What if I went out to celebrate my birthday, and I permanently damaged a child’s innocence with the sight of these things? They were pretty disgusting, after all. Even I had a hard time looking at them. If I was a child and I saw pins drilled through someone’s legs, I’d go running to my mom crying!
I didn’t want to flaunt my choice. Not until it was all over with, anyway. I didn’t want to worry about draping a blanket over my entire lower half the whole night. And the dress I had always wanted to wear for a very special occasion— a velvet, emerald green one with sheer long sleeves I had bought with Dad at Filene’s— was meant to go to the knee. Not the ankle. How could I ever wear something beautiful like that with legs like mine?
All I could do was trust in my mom that she would create something to match it, as she’d promised, so I could dine comfortably. For hours, she sat upstairs in her room, the motor of her sewing machine spinning away. Just before she revealed her big project, Mom brought down some of her makeup and a mirror and placed them on my hospital table.
“Here,” she said with a smile. “I think the amethyst shadow would bring out the brown in your eyes the most.” She slid the shadow across my table with a thimble-covered finger and went back upstairs.
Fooling around with the makeup, I was reminded of all the times I’d stood atop my makeshift ladder in Mom’s room, playing with her jewelry. This time was very different. Now I could reach my earlobes, my bangs, and even the top of my head. As I swept the deep purple powder across my eyelids, I smiled to myself.
From upstairs, Mom called out to me.
“Here it comes!”
She was so proud of herself. I knew by the expression on her face that even if what she’d made turned out to be a mess, I would have to at least fake a smile. Hurting my mom’s feelings would sting far more than being seen in a monstrosity.
When she revealed what she had made to cover my pins, all my worries about people staring at me faded away. The dress was beautiful. Mom had somehow found the exact same fabric— emerald green velvet— and attached it to the hem of my original dress.
It had pouf, but it wasn’t too puffy. It was narrow at the waist and flowed to elegantly cover my legs. There was even a little zipper on the side so that I could wrap my legs up tighter in case they got cold. I had a ball gown after all.
“I love it!” I squealed. “Thank you! Thank you, thank you!”
“See? I’m good for something,” Mom said with a wink as she brought it over to me.
Little did she know that I thought she was good at everything.
The gown slid on and over the pins with ease. It gave my legs warmth against the crisp November air without making me too hot. With my matching green satin hair tie in place, I was officially ready to celebrate my birthday over a nice dinner. Maybe agreeing to go out wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all.
“Ready, pumpkin?” my dad asked.
“Ready.” I smiled at him and lifted my arms for him to pick me up.
“Let’s go pig out,” he said with a wink. He scooped me up into his arms and carried me out the front door. That night, Dad had an extra bounce in his step. To me it was amazing, considering how much more I must have weighed with all that metal attached to me. I think he was just happy to finally see me out of the house.
As we made our way down the front porch stairs, I was shocked to notice what was waiting in the driveway.
“A stretch limo!” I shrieked. “I thought we were going in your Jeep, Mom!”
“Wait, wait, let me get in front of you!” she told my dad. “I want to see her face!” Mom hurried out in front of him, her high heels clattering on the pavement.
“Ready?” she asked me.
I nodded.
“We’re ready!” Mom announced, tapping on the roof of the limo with the palm of her hand.
The limo door opened, and there, with a sweet sixteen balloon and a big smile on his face, was Mike.
“Happy birthday, babes,” he said, beaming.
From behind him, Megan, Jen, and another friend of mine from English class, named Erin, chimed in. “Happy birthday!” they all screamed, throwing their hands in the air.
“Oh my God!” I shouted. Mom clapped her hands and cheered. I’d never seen her happier.
Mike had helped plan the whole thing.
As Dad eased me into the limo, I had tears in my eyes.
“Don’t ruin your eye makeup,” Jen said, adding another thick coat of gloss over her lips.
“We’ll see you all there,” Mom called to me.
“You’re not coming in, too?” I asked, shouting out the door.
“No, no. This is for you. We’ll follow in the car.” Before I could argue that there was more than enough room, Mom shut the door. Mike seated himself next to me. “Are they under there?” Mike asked, gesturing at my legs as the limo began to pull down the driveway.
“My legs? No, I left them in the house. I’ll have the doctor put them back on when the night’s over,” I joked.
Mike playfully nudged me, and his leg slightly brushed up against mine, tapping one of the pins.
“Oh, shit, did that hurt? I’m sorry!”
“I didn’t feel anything,” I said. “You’re way more freaked out about these suckers than you were about the pins I had in my arms,” I said, brushing it off.
“There weren’t as many . . . in your arms,” he stammered. “And they weren’t as big.”
“Mike isn’t as tough as he puts on,” Jen said, rolling her eyes and winking at him. “So, how’ve you been?”
“Tired, to be honest. It’s hard to sleep. I can’t roll over and get comfortable. But I’m good.”
“Good! It’s your birthday!” Jen squealed. She couldn’t relate. “We need to celebrate!” She quickly turned on some upbeat club music. Soon, everyone was singing along, even quiet Erin.
“I have something for you,” Mike said to me, reaching into one of the limo cubbyholes and pulling out a plastic container. Inside was a perfect pink Tiffany rose corsage. Red roses never appealed to me. Girls always talked so much about red roses, but I wanted something different, something uniquely me. And Mike got it. He got everything.
“I have to pin it on you. If I stick you, don’t get pissed.”
I laughed. “As you can see”— I pointed to the velvet ball gown covering my legs— “I’m used to being stuck with pins.”
Mike didn’t crack a smile.
“It was a joke.”
> “You can do better than that,” he said as he pinned it perfectly above my heart.
When the limo hit a bump, instead of sticking me with a sharp pin, Mike ended up bumping into my legs again.
“Shit!” he shouted. “I’m sorry.”
“Mike, it’s fine. It doesn’t hurt.”
“No, dude. I should sit over there.” He nodded toward the opposite end of the limo.
“It didn’t hurt, Mike.”
“I keep knocking into them. We’re gonna go over more bumps in the road.”
“It’s all right, seriously. I promise.” I patted the pins myself to show him it didn’t hurt. He was so scared he would hurt me that he moved as far from me as he could.
After a half hour of music, jokes, and talking about what my life at home had been like thus far, the limo finally rolled to a stop at the Castle, a medieval-style restaurant that served pretty much anything suburban diners could imagine.
My excitement melted away when my dad took out the wheelchair from the trunk of the Pontiac and rolled me inside the restaurant. I wasn’t upset by the wheelchair itself— I knew that no one expected me to walk. But I was embarrassed when the hostess had to clear a path for me to be wheeled through. I wanted to just go in smoothly and easily. Instead, a big production ensued.
People rotated in their chairs to watch. Some women seemed concerned for their purses; worried, perhaps, that I’d roll over them. Others set down their dinner forks, hunks of bread, or soup spoons and slid their chairs and their bodies awkwardly underneath their table to make room for me. I felt totally helpless sitting there and relying on everyone else to get me to my meal. Inside, I was criticizing the glacial pace with which our hostess moved chairs, slid empty tables to the side, and flattened bumps in area rugs so my wheelchair wouldn’t get caught. Could she go any slower? Why not just place a giant spotlight on me and hire an announcer?
Everyone move aside! Here comes Tiffanie and her medical issues!
My embarrassment must have been written all over my face, because Mike spoke up.
“Hey, Tiff?”
I looked at him. He nodded and waved a hand in my direction, encouraging me to just let it go.
“Is this okay?” the hostess asked after what seemed to be a lifetime of rearranging the damn place. Why was she looking at me for approval? As if I would say, “No, this table sucks. Can we possibly find another table so we can create another scene? Perhaps at the other end of the restaurant?”
I looked to Mike again. He winked at me.
“It’s great,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Wonderful. Enjoy your meal.” She smiled and walked off.
Dinner was great, and so was the conversation. We exchanged “what we’ll do when we’re twenty-one” stories and laughed about memories we all shared before I left high school. No one focused on my surgery. I could be myself and experience a slice of normalcy with my birthday cake. I wanted the night to last forever.
On the way home, Mike still sat across from me inside the limo. When we arrived at my house, everyone gave me a hug good night and wished me one final happy birthday. We’d been smiling so much all night that our cheeks hurt, and my dad was no exception. It was a gift in itself to see him smiling like that. As he picked me up out of the limo and carried me up to our front door, I waved good-bye over his shoulder. By the time he placed me on the blue recliner, my body had had it. I was suddenly really tired, and the pain in my legs gradually began to breach the line of defense my pain pills had provided. The night had ended at the perfect time.
“I’ll tell Mom you need more pain medicine when I go out there to bring in your gifts,” Dad said. “You made out like a bandit tonight, huh?” I’d received a pink Victorian collectible bear, a desk lamp with glass beading, and, my favorite gift, a warm afghan with Winnie the Pooh on it. I felt thoroughly spoiled.
“I sure did, Dad, thank you,” I replied. The pain kept growing. My muscles started to twitch, and the skin around my pins began to burn with irritation from sitting upright for hours in the wheelchair.
Outside, Mike climbed out of the limo.
“Mrs. D., you need help with that?” He took the Pooh blanket and the bear from my mom and made his way inside.
With my dad outside tipping the limo driver, Mike came into the living room. I felt the twitching and burning sensations fade away as he smiled at me.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” I said, smiling.
“Do you want the TV on?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be going home?”
He flicked on the TV then made his way toward me. “I just thought I’d help a little before I go.”
“MTV? Good choice,” I said.
“Music is always good for you,” he said, inching a bit closer. “Did you have fun tonight?”
“I didn’t think I would, but I really, really did.”
“Good. I was right.” I could tell he was still a bit nervous around the pins. “Do you hurt right now?”
I paused. “No. I don’t.” The truth was, even if there was pain pulsing through me, I barely noticed it when he was around. “I have to turn them soon. You want to watch?”
He laughed. “Most girls ask me if I like them, or if I want to hang out. Leave it to you to ask if I’ll watch you stretch your bones.”
“I guess I’m not like most girls.”
“No shit, dude.” He smiled even wider.
“Well?” I continued. “Do you want to see how all this works?”
“No,” he replied quickly.
I was mildly disappointed. I wanted to show him, but he was clearly too scared to see what I’d really been going through.
Instead, he placed the blanket carefully over my legs, as if it would make all the pins go away. Then he sat beside me. “I don’t think I have time anyway. The limo is leaving soon.”
I had always envisioned my first real kiss to be like those passionate, soap opera embraces. Where the guy struggles to admit how much he loves the girl, and just before she rushes in the opposite direction, he grabs her, pulls her into his arms while gazing into her eyes, and plants one on her.
That night, there may not have been any soap opera dramatics. But there were fireworks inside my chest when Mike took my hand and slowly pulled himself close to me. I could feel the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up as he slid his other hand into my hair. He held my jaw gently in place and guided my lips toward his. There was an explosion inside me when I felt his smooth lips touch mine.
After each movement of his mouth, a small breath escaped his nose lightly and brushed against my skin. The smell of his cologne made me dizzy. It felt like we kissed for hours.
It was amazing.
When Mike finally pulled back, ending my very first kiss with easy, little kisses, he gave me a pleased smile. I said nothing. I felt comfort, and total peace. A feeling I hadn’t experienced since my surgery began. Mike had given me the perfect gift. He gave me back a feeling of true happiness.
“Do you know the name of this song?” he asked, gesturing at the television.
As he stood up, the name of the band and the title of the song appeared in white block letters in the corner of the screen. “It’s ‘Big Empty,’ by Stone Temple Pilots. It’s the acoustic version,” he told me. “You should get the CD.”
“Okay.”
“Cool.”
And with that, he was gone. I heard him say good night to my parents and, moments later, I heard the limo door slam shut.
Some girls get their first high heels for their sixteenth birthday; others get a DJ at their party; and others may even get their first car. But I had the best gift of all.
I had Mike Gould.
And that made my sixteenth birthday very, very sweet.
CHAPTER 10
Duct Tape and All-Nighters
Me and Papa in our matching Christmas presents—we both picked out a “writer” hat for the other without even knowing it!
WHEN I WAS sev
en, I fell in love with a keyboard that my dad had bought me for Christmas from the Fair. Music always held my attention, which thrilled my mom, who was anxious to support any budding talent or interest I might have. So I began taking lessons at a local piano teacher’s very cluttered home. Today, I think his place could probably be featured on one of those shows about hoarders. I’d never seen a house with so much stuff. His music room was positively chock-full, with sheet music, books, and potted plants covering nearly every inch of the space.
Somehow, I was able to concentrate among the clutter and I quickly chose my favorite piece, one that I longed to play myself: Beethoven’s “Für Elise.” It was quite a bold and ambitious choice for a little girl. My instructor, impressed and maybe a little amused that I had even heard of “Für Elise,” agreed to help me learn to play it.
I climbed onto the piano bench— quite a feat in itself for someone just over three feet tall— and sat down beside him. My feet dangled high above the floor and the brass piano pedals. With his thumb and pointer finger he showed me the first four keys to the song. I picked up on it right away. I was excited and inspired to learn more. He played the next few notes. I repeated after him. And though they were the exact same notes that he had just played for me, something didn’t sound right.
It was that beautiful echo created by the pedals as he pressed them down firmly with his feet. I couldn’t reach them— not even close. And no matter how hard I tried to pull an echo sound out of the keys, when it was my turn to mimic what my teacher had played, my version was always different. It never sounded like it should. In time, I gave up and learned “Mary Had a Little Lamb” instead.
I rang in 1997 with my mom and dad, nibbling on homemade chicken wings. I wasn’t having a party or looking forward to a kiss when the ball dropped, but I was celebrating the length I had achieved in my legs thus far: a solid three inches. I was that much closer to whatever I wanted to reach.
But I was getting sick of my living room. I literally hadn’t seen my own bedroom upstairs in over three months. I missed my pink lace curtains, my girly furniture, and my pile of stuffed animals. Despite the TV, stereo, and phone in the living room, I felt stuck. I needed a change of scenery. So Mom rented an adjustable orthopedic bed and set up camp for me back upstairs.
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