“I don’t want to see this.”
“See what?”
“That. You, struggling and everything. Cover them. Please?”
“This is what I wanted to show you, though. I can reach things now.” I made sure to make my tone upbeat and light to show him I wasn’t suffering. I wanted to show him the pain had mostly faded, replaced by feelings of independence and accomplishment.
“That’s great. You’re a real live girl now,” he said, still refusing to look at my legs.
“What’s with the attitude, Geppetto?”
“I wish you’d accept yourself for who you are.”
“This surgery has nothing to do with accepting myself. It has to do with living my life.”
“You were living your life.”
“Oh my God! I feel like I’m arguing with my dad!”
“I don’t want to argue. It’s not why I came over.”
“If you didn’t want to see this, then why did you come over?” I demanded, fighting back tears. I wanted to do more than show him some examples of the independence I had gained. I wanted to share my goals with him, like attending the prom. And I wanted him to be my date.
He didn’t let me get that far. He just hugged me, said, “I love you,” and left.
As the holiday season of 1997 approached, I was a full fourteen inches taller. After the four inches I’d gained in my legs as a kid, I’d added another six inches in my shins on the second go-round, and four more inches in my thighs. At four feet, ten inches, I could reach just about everything in the house (and on my body). For about three months, the pins stayed in my thighs in order to allow the new bone to develop in the space I’d created. During this time, I took my SATs from the blue recliner— a first for the test proctor. “This has to be the most comfortable setting I’ve ever seen a student take the SATs,” he told me. Clearly, he had no clue. During my sessions with Sandy, we perfected my college essays and applications.
Once the new bone had filled in, the surgery to remove the pins in my femurs went by in the blink of an eye. In the recovery room I felt weightless, almost like I was floating above my bed. The blankets fell over the sides of my legs and for the first time in years, I could feel the scratchy fabric against the thin skin of my entire legs. As a souvenir, Errol handed me a hazardous materials bag filled with the stainless steel pins that had been inside my legs. I felt compelled to roll over on my side and sleep, to enjoy the sensation of dozing off in a position other than on my back. With an audible giggle, I rolled over and enjoyed the sweetest sleep in years. I did my best to ignore the fact that I felt a slight pop in my left leg.
On Christmas Day, while my family gathered in the kitchen and the living room, I asked to be excused to my bedroom. The pop in my left thigh had grown into a dull ache and then a hard throb that made me grit my teeth in pain. For days, despite the sharp, twisting sensations, I continued to push through it, do my leg lifts, and walk around the house with my crutches. But the sensation soon grew too excruciating to bear. I had to go to the hospital.
“Now?” Mom asked. This was so unlike me that it worried her.
“Right now.”
Dad joined her in the doorway.
“Can you move?”
“No.”
“Want me to pick you up and put you in the car?”
“No! Don’t move my leg. Something’s really wrong.”
“That’s it. I’m calling an ambulance,” my mother said.
“An ambulance?” my father and I said in unison.
“You don’t act like this for it not to be something serious. If something’s wrong, we’re not making it worse.”
The paramedics arrived, and the fire department trailed behind them. It was such a spectacle that you would have thought I’d had a heart attack.
“I should have just gone in the car,” I said, shifting my weight while they loaded me onto a stretcher.
One paramedic put up his hand and motioned for me to stop. “Let us do this,” he said.
“I’m not dying,” I replied. “My leg just hurts.”
“It’s for your own safety.”
I threw my hands up, annoyed at the fuss, and gave in, allowing them to help me. It all felt so silly, given what I’d already been through. Soon, I was back at the hospital under an X-ray machine when Errol flew through the door.
“Do you want some pain medication?” His tone was so urgent that I’m sure if I had asked for a bottle of scotch, he would have complied.
“No,” I said slowly, puzzled. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” he asked again, his eyes practically bulging out of his head.
“No, I’m good. What’s going on?”
“Well,” he began, scurrying around the room, “we need to get you into surgery as soon as possible.”
“What? Why?”
He clipped my X-ray onto the light board and flipped a switch. The bright fluorescent light cast a creepy glow in the radiology room. He pointed at a spot on the picture.
“Because of this.”
I stared at the image of my femur. My thigh bone, the strongest one in the whole human body, had literally snapped in half. It now resembled a broken letter V turned awkwardly on its side.
Several hours later, I woke up covered in a thick, hard plaster. One leg was free, but my right leg and both of my hips were trapped. There was a hole cut out around my stomach so I could breathe without restriction, but I felt hot and itchy all over. I was in a body cast. There was no other way to stabilize my severely broken femur, Errol would later tell me. I looked at the clock on the wall in the recovery room and then it dawned on me. I had only months until graduation. As I watched the second hand circle the clock, I began to feel panicked about the time slipping away. How on earth would I walk across the stage at graduation now?
At home the next day, I was in bed on my back.
Again.
I asked Mom to strap a sand weight around my left ankle in order to keep up on the exercises as best I could. I lifted my left leg high in the air. While watching TV, I used an elastic resistance band to build up the muscles in my arms and I continued to eat chocolate Power Bars to keep up my strength. While Sandy went over corrections on my English exams, I clenched the muscles inside my cast and held them for five counts of ten. I did this every day for three or four months until, finally, it was time to get the body cast sawed off.
While I was home with my tutor, a reporter visited my assistant principal, Mr. Kamataris, at Marlborough High. He was covering a story about a rising star athlete at MHS, but ended up learning about me in the process. So he decided to do a story about me, too. A few days after the article about my surgeries (and my goal to walk at graduation) ran in our local paper, the cards started rolling in. Dozens of people I’d never met before were reaching out to wish me good luck and offered their prayers. I read each one with tears welled in my eyes. The support from total strangers was yet another nudge to keep going toward my goal.
Then one day, tucked inside a white envelope, arrived the biggest push of all: my acceptance letter to the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth. I was going to be a college girl! But first I had a graduation to walk in and that meant making up for lost time doing physical therapy, starting with the stepper in my room.
The machine was an eyesore, hulking over me and taking up way too much space in my room. Working out on the stepper was the most difficult exercise in my entire repertoire, but it was among the most important as well. If I could conquer the stepper, I could build my strength and stamina and— ultimately— walk longer distances in less time and in less pain. At first, I wasn’t up for the challenge. I covered the machine with a towel and pretended it didn’t exist. But it continued to taunt me, so I asked my dad to move it deep into a corner. That didn’t work for long. I was literally in countdown mode for graduation and time was running out.
I had no choice— I had to confront the stepper. I pulled myself up onto the pedals and gripped the handl
ebars. I’ll do three steps, I thought, and just see how it goes. On my first attempt, I could barely push the pedals down and complete a single step. From the tops of my feet to the backs of my thighs, my lower body screamed with pain, and I was quickly out of breath. I was frustrated, but the feeling of being defeated by an inanimate object made my motivation stronger.
“Dad!” I hollered after my first attempt on the stepper. He walked down the hall to my room. “Can you move this next to my bed?”
Dad looked confused. “It will be in your way.”
“Exactly,” I replied with a smile.
Every day, literally unable to avoid it, I stepped onto the machine. The tight, sharp pain began at my ankles again, crawled over my feet, and spread up my shins and thighs. Before long, it took over my hips. My goal was to stay on the stepper for the duration of an entire song.
The first three days I lasted no more than than thirty seconds.
By the end of my first week I had made it to a minute, but I stumbled off of the machine and fell. I could barely move. As I lay limp on the floor with my face pressed into the rug, I thought about how little time I had left and I started to cry. I had reached my breaking point. If I couldn’t walk at graduation, I would let everyone down, from my parents and friends to Errol to those who prayed for me and, most important, myself.
“This energy for crying could be used on the machine, you know,” Mom said from the doorway. She reached a hand toward me and helped me to my feet. I wiped my eyes and sat down on the bed. “Thanks, Mr. Miyagi,” I cracked. “I’ll remember that.”
“Hey, don’t get mad at me. Get angry with yourself for giving up.”
“Who said I was giving up?”
“You’re on your bed crying. Looks like you’ve given up to me.”
Her calmness infuriated me. “I’m in pain!” I shouted. “I’m allowed to cry when I’m in pain. I’m allowed to have one damn moment of weakness! You think this is easy? It’s not, Mom! It hurts and I’m so tired of it. Exercising is all I do and I’ll never be able to stop. I’ll have to work hard to keep my body functional for my entire life!”
Silently, she left my room. A moment later, she returned with a straw, still in its wrapper, and a cup filled with pepperoncinis.
“Since you won’t take pain pills, eat these peppers to help boost your adrenaline,” she said. “And if the peppers don’t help with the pain, use the straw to suck it up and get back on that stepper.”
I had a long hard road out of hell and while I hated to admit it, Mom was right. Crying wouldn’t help. It would only distract from my ultimate goal, and I needed to make good on what I told Errol when we first met. I could handle this pain. Each day from then on out, I stepped up to the machine, my mouth burning from the peppers, and turned on my music. I kept the straw Mom gave me on my bedside table as I reminder that the big day was approaching fast.
In the final week before graduation, I blasted through my goal of stepping for a whole song, and pushed myself through extended remixes. Mom would pass my door while making calls to plan my graduation party, flashing a thumbs-up as she walked by. I was so ready to walk across the stage and grab hold of my diploma— and my new life.
Graduation day was hot and breezy and I wore my school-issued white cap and gown. Once we arrived at school, I noticed that nearly everyone had puffy paint designs on their caps. I did not. They had symbols and quotes from the school clubs they belonged to and sports they played— memories of time spent in high school. I had nothing. I should have taped a few pins to my cap or something, I thought as I watched my decorated classmates crossing the stage. Then it was my turn. I stood up, forgot about my plain white cap, and slowly walked to the middle of the aisle in the auditorium. Screams and cheers erupted from the bleachers and I felt myself blush.
I hoped Mike was in the crowd like he promised. I knew Dr. Mortimer was there with his wife, Lorraine, and their kids, Daniel and Sophie. My uncles and aunts were there, and I was sure my mom and dad were standing up cheering. I looked at the rows of students who’d already walked and three boys I knew stood up and clapped. After them, the entire row came to their feet. Then, like a wave beginning at a baseball game, the entire section stood, clapped, and cheered me on. I watched them for as long as I could until I had tears in my eyes and the whole scene was just a loud, roaring blur. I had to move slowly, one foot in front of the other, down the lengthy aisle. It took me much longer than the other graduates, who easily breezed across the stage for their diplomas. I began to worry that I was taking too long, but the crowd’s reaction reassured me.
I had a standing ovation.
Their cheers made me feel like I was ten feet tall as the principal came down off the stage and greeted me at the end of the aisle. Steadily, I reached out my hand, gripping my crutch with the other, and took my diploma. I had accomplished my goal and walked at my graduation. I won.
The moment I got home, I called Mike. His voice was groggy and soft and I immediately knew he’d been sleeping— he was doing even more of that these days— and had never come to watch me walk. I was furious.
“Where were you?” I shouted, my eyes filling with hot, angry tears. “You said you were coming— you promised! I walked, Mike. I actually walked to get my diploma and you missed it!”
“Oh, sorry. What time is it?”
I was stunned. What did he mean, what time is it? First he didn’t go to prom with me, and now he’d missed the most important moment in my life?
“I’ll be over for your graduation party,” he said distractedly. His promise had no life behind it and the words died in the air between us. “I’m coming. Give me a half hour, babes. Love you.”
Mike never showed up.
I didn’t know what hurt worse, my tired, shaky muscles as I stood in the kitchen, or my heart.
CHAPTER 12
College Girl
The “after” picture! With Mom after my surgeries were completed, at the same spot in the kitchen where she’d taken my “before” photos.
THE UNIVERSITY OF Massachusetts campus in North Dartmouth looked like a futuristic concrete maze. The tops of all the buildings were flat, and rumor had it that the architect had envisioned flying cars being able to land on them by the twenty-first century. In 1999, my mom and I drove down to the campus, which was surrounded by the appropriately named Ring Road.
We arrived on a rainy day. The classroom buildings and dorms looked damp, dreary, and uninviting— not at all what I’d been picturing. I had everything I would need for the next nine months packed tightly into Mom’s red Jeep Grand Cherokee (she had given me the Pontiac): new bedding, a shower caddy, pictures of me and Mike, canned food, a mini microwave, a few dishes, and lots of my favorite outfits. I drove close behind her through campus toward my dorm.
The rooms in my dorm building were small, and mine— a single amid mostly doubles— was even smaller. The furniture that came with it reminded me of the sickly chairs at Children’s Hospital. A bed, desk, and bureau were crammed against one of the light blue concrete walls, and the rug was thin and brown, like the underside of a soggy pizza slice. As we stood in the doorway, Mom dropped my bags on the floor of the room. My room. I instantly felt homesick.
“We can make this work,” Mom said, just as she had in our base housing in Texas with the scorpion.
Mom assured me that I’d feel better about living by myself as the days went by. But I didn’t. With the first few days of college behind me, each night alone was still scary. I slept with the TV on, and I had the regular blaring of Limp Bizkit CDs from a nearby dorm room to keep me company, too. I lay awake in bed, reminding myself of what had led me to be here, alone, in a room and at a place that felt like an alternate reality. A part of me felt like I had made a big mistake. Maybe my dad was right and I had started college too soon. Maybe I should have waited, given myself a year, at least, to adjust.
But adjust to what? Up until this point, I had never been on my own, not for a week, or even a few d
ays. The concept of independence was, for most of my life, a fantasy that played out in my imagination while sitting in the gut of my blue reclining chair. The reality was this: I had no idea how big the world really was or, more important, how I was going to fit into it.
I may have been scared to be a college girl, but back home in Marlborough, my dad was terrified.
Every night for two weeks straight, he made his way to my bedroom, flicked on the ceiling light, stayed in there for a few moments, and then walked out without saying a word to my mom. Finally, he broke his silence.
“How could you let her go? She’s not ready.”
“I didn’t let her do anything,” Mom responded. “She chose to go. If she’s not ready, she’ll tell me. She knows I’m only a phone call away.”
But I never did make that phone call. Nor did I ever consider leaving, even as I watched dozens of students succumb to the pressures of freshman year and depart just as quickly as they arrived. I never viewed that as an option for me.
Every Monday through Friday, I’d force myself to get up, make my way outside, and wander through the winding trilevel corridors of UMass to find my classes. I walked in late to every class and my frustration and embarrassment made me feel so much smaller than my proud new height of four foot ten. Everyone whooshed by me confidently, holding their coffees, books, and notepads, like they knew what they were doing and where they were going, at all times. In my fantasy while undergoing the bone lengthening, I was that girl walking the hallways with a purpose and a smile.
But the truth was, I had no clue. I wasn’t that girl I had dreamed of at all. The surgery didn’t change these aspects of my life as I had naively thought it would. I knew no one at school. With each week that passed, I ached to go back home to the familiarity of my room and even the blue reclining chair. The world beyond my house moved so much faster than I had ever considered.
And I hated it.
Every Thursday, or “Thirsty Thursday,” as I learned that they were called, the girls in my hall would gather with their doors open and music blasting. As they got ready for a night of partying at the Dell, where the upperclassmen lived, a thick cloud of hairspray and perfume would fill the halls, clashing with the aroma of my Salisbury steak microwave dinner that I ate alone in my room.
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