“What’s wrong, love?” a performer called Diamond asked me before taking the stage.
“I’m getting married soon, and I’ll be in front of all my friends and family,” I blurted out— my last martini giving me the courage to open up to a total (but terribly fabulous) stranger.
“I don’t know how to walk down the aisle without my cane and I wish I did. I’m afraid I’ll trip or forget how to walk.”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the stage with her. “Honey, that aisle is your stage,” she said and my friends applauded and screamed at the sight of me up there with the performers.
“Always be confident about who you are,” she said, shaking her sequined dress at the crowd. “Throw your head up high and own it!” With a dramatic snap of her fingers, she summoned the DJ to turn on her music and she stomped across the stage in her stilettos.
“Let’s go, sister,” she said, urging me toward her. “Your turn! Come claim your man at the end of that aisle!” Laughing as I mimicked Diamond’s confidence, I threw my head back and followed her across the stage, with the whole bar cheering me on.
“Claim your man!” my sorority sister Nicole repeated in our hotel suite, cracking up the group. That night, I’d dropped my cane defiantly, tossing aside my fear and uncertainty as I marched across that stage.
So what was stopping me from marching down the aisle, too?
In the back of our ceremony ballroom, I stood clutching my bouquet of garnet-colored roses and white stephanotis sprinkled with glitter, crystals, and feathers. I felt like the Wedding Day Barbie I coveted as a little girl. But Barbie had nothing on me.
Standing at the beginning of the aisle, I took in the scene: deep jewel tones decorated the room, and the aisle was lined with the trees my father had chopped down, glistening with crystals. I held my bouquet in one hand just beneath my stomach, as I had been shown, and gripped my dad’s hand in the other, partially for balance so I could make it down the aisle without my cane. But I would have held his hand even if I didn’t need it— I was so happy he was by my side and that I was able to show him, in the most extravagant way, that my days of lying in bed in pain were over.
A custom runner ran the length of the aisle and read Eric & Tiffanie: Always and Forever. It was almost too pretty to walk across. I stepped gingerly toward our chaplain.
During the rehearsal dinner, he told me to walk very slowly down the aisle. I felt relieved to hear that. But seeing so many familiar, smiling faces, I felt such a rush of energy that I almost wanted to run. I was ready to become Mrs. Tiffanie Gabrielse and I couldn’t wait to be embraced in front of everyone. I wanted the whole room to know I was happy.
With each step I took, Eric’s smile seemed to grow wider until it took over his entire face. I felt my heart racing and I took a deep breath to calm myself down. Someone had advised me to really take in the moment at my wedding, because it goes by so fast. With every lift and swing of my legs, and with each squeeze I gave my dad’s hand, I tried so hard to notice everything around me and commit it all to memory.
I saw Dr. Mortimer, along with pretty much every nurse that had ever taken care of me. I smiled at my friends and my cousins and uncles. Our eight groomsmen, all in their dress blues, waited at parade rest by the altar and our eight bridesmaids, all holding deep purple calla lilies, smiled at me.
As we approached the chaplain, Eric walked slowly toward me, and Dad placed my hand in his. Then he gave me a little kiss on my forehead. If he had to face giving his little girl away, I knew he was happy that he was handing me over to Eric. I smiled at him, and then at our guests.
Eric’s hand felt soft in mine, like the first time I had ever touched it in that hotel suite in North Carolina. His palms weren’t sweaty and there was not a single quiver as he held my tiny hand tightly in his. The music floated to a close and the chaplain opened with bits and pieces of the letters Eric and I had written to each other during his deployment.
As he spoke, I peeked again at everyone in their chairs. My Papa Jeremiah was there, in the front row in a suit and tie and red rose boutonniere, smiling.
After our short ceremony concluded, I felt incredibly proud to walk back down the aisle with Eric as husband and wife.
A flurry of photos later, the air was charged with excitement as we entered through the double doors to our reception ballroom. The band announced us and our eight groomsmen moved forward from the head table. As we approached, Johnny bellowed out into the ballroom.
“Draw swords!” he ordered, bringing his sword high in the air, matching its tip with that of the one directly across from him.
Hand in hand, Eric and I passed underneath and our initials in lights floated across the floor. Keeping with Marine Corps tradition, Johnny dropped his sword in front of me and didn’t allow my passage until Eric and I kissed one more time for all to see.
“Welcome to the family!” Johnny shouted over the clapping as he tapped me on the behind with his sword.
I smiled and gave a good wiggle, flaunting the bustle of my gown.
“Withdraw swords!” Johnny ordered, ending the drill and commanding the marines to take their seats.
I had gained so much in such a short period of time: all my new relatives, Eric’s family, and now, the Marine Corps. The wedding, or as Eric and I called it, “Our Show,” was playing out right in front of us, and he bent down to kiss me for what felt like the hundredth time.
As the night wore on, I made sure to go around and thank each of our two hundred guests. Seeing everyone together and so happy felt like a photo album unfolding before me. In one shot my dad and my mom were smiling, dancing, and happily greeting our friends who’d traveled to be there. It was as if all of the fights that had flared up between them during my childhood were nothing more than distant memories. In another snapshot, my Papa Jeremiah was clapping, standing, and smiling in my direction, urging me to keep dancing. And then in another, Errol and I shared a smile. I made my way over to him and asked him to dance.
There wasn’t a single moment that I was able to sit down. Nor was there a moment that I wanted to. Inside my platform sneakers with the ribbon laces that I had picked out for dancing, my feet throbbed and ached and felt like they might burst.
But I didn’t care. I danced for hours. I held one corner of my dress just as I had seen other brides do on TV and jumped into the cliché conga line that eventually formed and traveled around the room. I felt like a kid again, twirling around as my dad’s stereo filled the room with music.
And when the band began to play “You Are So Beautiful” and Dad met me in the center of the ballroom to dance, he took my hand and whispered, “I’m proud of you, pumpkin pie. You’ve always been so beautiful to me.” As we danced, he repeated the chorus each time in my ear. For that moment at least, my dad was extremely, undeniably happy, and that was a picture I’d never forget.
At two a.m., the lights in the ballroom kicked on. The band and the DJ had both played their last song. I sat at one of the round tables with Nicole and a few other sorority sisters. My uncle Bob, carrying my little cousin Cassandra passed out in his arms, gave me a kiss and headed out the door while Mom and Dad thanked the videographer and photographers. Eric came up beside me and furrowed his brow a bit when he noticed me wince. Then I let out a little chuckle that grew into full-fledged laughter.
“You okay, babe?”
“My feet hurt so bad I could die,” I said, still laughing. My reaction took my friends by surprise.
“If you’re in pain why are you laughing?” Nicole asked.
“My feet hurt,” I responded.
“And how is that funny?”
“Because,” I began, “if my feet hurt it means I got to use them!”
I continued to laugh. It was the most welcome pain I’d ever felt. I felt that I could do anything, and I’d found more for myself than I ever thought I would. It was a feeling that dwarfed everything else I’d been through.
Nearly skidding down the st
airs from my bedroom, I clung to the banister for dear life. Stairs will always be my nemesis. But on the Monday morning after my wedding I was not about to let them win. I looked into the kitchen and noticed my dad already up preparing coffee. I let out a shout from the belly of our home and aimed it upstairs.
“Hurry up! It’s almost on!” I yelled to Eric and my mom, who were still making their way down. The local press surrounding me and Operation Stocking Stuffer had attracted national press. Good Morning America put together a piece about my surgeries, concluding with a few photos from my wedding day. During a teaser before a commercial break, there I was, a “medical marvel,” with a photo of me next to the old Pontiac on our kitchen TV screen.
I was really on television.
“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” I called out again. And down the staircase they came, my dad handing coffee mugs to sleepy family members as they entered the kitchen. We all piled into the theater room, the one room in our house that didn’t have a window. I think Dad wanted to watch it play across the big screen like a real movie.
Side by side we sat, motionless and speechless as the five-minute segment aired on national television. In that small time frame, Good Morning America captured my life, my struggle, and in the end, my fairy tale. At the end of the segment, viewers were invited to discuss the piece on the ABC online bulletin board, and we all clamored off the couch and over to the computer to see what people would say.
Minute by minute, people offered their opinions on my story. I was surprised, but still intrigued. The majority were very supportive and one even called me and Eric “America’s Sweethearts.” Several people were amazed at the courage it took to drop everything and relentlessly focus on a goal.
One woman wrote that she could relate to what I’d been through, having been teased terribly through her childhood. She said she was horrified that Ms. Hart had gotten away with treating me the way she did and she congratulated me on the way I chose to live my life.
If only it remained strictly positive.
By nine o’clock that morning, the controversy began. Perfect strangers spoke out against my decision to have surgery and criticized me at will. I never realized how strongly the world would react to my desire for independence.
By ten, I received an update from a producer that my story was one of the most read on the Web site.
But it was only just beginning. The feedback from sharing my story followed me all the way back to North Carolina. And it went far beyond just the ABC site. I was inundated with messages on my Myspace account and my personal e-mail. People thought I was shallow and vain for undergoing my surgeries and said that I shouldn’t mess with what life dealt me.
I made the mistake of programming my cell phone to notify me each time I received a new e-mail and for the weeks that followed my press, my phone alerts were relentless. “You have a message. You have a message. You have a message!” my phone sounded constantly.
After reading the final e-mail in my in-box one day, I shut my laptop and made my way into the living room, where I plopped down on the couch next to Eric. He flipped through the channels on our TV and I threw my legs over his on the coffee table. We were watching our TV, I thought to myself with a smile. And in our living room! I picked up a pile of mail off the arm of the couch, dropped it on my lap, and began to thumb through it. Some envelopes contained our bills, and I was eager to hold them in my hand. It felt as if they were some kind of validation that we officially shared a life together. Others pieces of mail were advertisements, the same kinds of ads that my mom would toss aside and proclaim to be junk. I loved junk.
And then, slipped into the middle of the pile, was a single letter that I was not expecting. There was no return address.
Dear Tiffanie,
As a little person myself, I feel that I need to share my opinion with you. I can’t believe you advocate this procedure when it is reckless, dangerous and careless. There was no mention of the numerous complications that can occur because of this procedure and yet you flaunt it as though it is a cure for dwarfism. Who are you to suggest dwarfism is wrong or that it needs to be cured? By undergoing surgery that is what you are doing. You are advocating this belief and you should be ashamed. You are a disgrace to the dwarf community.
I was baffled. I never said anything about a “cure,” for dwarfism, nor did I suggest that it was wrong. And suddenly, I was a sellout, a disgrace to the little people community and its culture?
I wanted to flick a light switch without using a spatula.
I wanted to reach the faucet without first reaching for a stool. I wanted to see over the counter, take out the trash, and make my own coffee without something or someone assisting me. I wanted more for myself, more out of life, so I changed my body to that end. I’d never given any thought to what the “dwarf community” might think about that. But here I was being judged, as if I’d gone against some sacred order of Dwarfdom.
I stared at the letter for a while, mulling over the words and debating if I should try, somehow, to respond.
“Babe?” Eric said. “Babe, what is it?” He eyed the letter in my hand.
I handed it to him with a smirk and watched his eyes scan across the page. He tightened his lips together and instantly I saw it bothered him more than it bothered me.
“It’s like my Papa always said,” I told Eric before he had a chance to speak. “Opinions are like assholes. Everybody’s got one.”
I wondered what would have happened if I had subscribed to this belief in high school. Would Ms. Hart have affected me in the same way? Would I still have had the surgery?
The answer was a resounding yes. The world would never adapt to me, so I adapted to it. Having surgery was about living the life I’d always dreamed of. And here I was, actually living it! I smiled at Eric, thinking, knowing, that I never would have met him if it weren’t for the transformation I’d undergone.
“This really doesn’t bother you?” Eric asked. His expression had softened, and I could tell he felt proud that I wouldn’t let some stranger’s ignorance get me down.
“Nope— I have much more important things to do than worry about that,” I told him as I eagerly snatched the letter out of his hand. I walked from the couch to the garbage can in the kitchen, dropped the letter inside, and turned back to Eric with a smile.
“Like taking out the trash.”
Epilogue
WHETHER YOU LIKE it or not, you are and always will be a dwarf. The sooner you accept it the better. What if your child is also a dwarf? What are you going to do, make him or her go through the procedure as well? God help them. You will be an appalling parent.
Of all the unsolicited advice and opinions I got after my Good Morning America segment, this one stuck with me the most. It underscored the fact that the decisions I may make for my child one day could be far more difficult than those the average parent faces. If I have a baby who is born with diastrophic dysplasia, would I encourage him or her to go through with the surgeries that I did?
I’d have to think about the answer to that question sooner than I expected.
As of the writing of my manuscript, I am seven months pregnant! Eric and I have always wanted to have children but the timing wasn’t exactly planned.
“You said from the beginning you wanted to live life,” Eric said when we got the surprising news. “Well, babe, that’s exactly what we’re doing! We’re starting our family.”
The news of my pregnancy also turned out to be an unexpected lesson in genetics. In my early doctor’s appointments to determine whether our baby might have diastrophic dysplasia, Eric and I were both tested to see if we are carriers of the single gene that causes my unique condition. While I am a carrier of the gene, we found out that Eric is not, so there is only a very slim chance that our son (we’re having a boy!) will be born with diastrophic dysplasia. Of course, there’s always the potential that he could be born with a different form of dwarfism. The truth is, I am more likely to have a baby w
ith dwarfism than an average-size mother.
I don’t have any expectations for parenthood. As of right now, I’m just having fun picking out names, shopping for baby clothes, and seeking out the perfect crib. I’m excited and looking forward to the little things, like watching Saturday morning cartoons with our boy. I can’t wait to watch Eric read to him before bed, and for family trips to military appreciation festivals and dressing up our little guy for Halloween.
I’m also scared out of my mind. For starters, I don’t know how I’ll give birth. This is a brand-new ballgame for me that doesn’t involve an osteotomy or anything to do with bone breaking or pins— I’m totally out of my element. I have yet to learn what my options are for epidurals or anesthesia when I give birth, because I have a curvature to my spine and I’m a complicated intubation. So far, doctors have told me that a C-section will be the best and safest way to deliver. I’ve been working on accepting this reality, but I’m so scared to have a doctor take a scalpel across my belly. I know this is a very common procedure, but to me it’s new and terrifying to the point that I find myself actually wishing for the days of pins and wires being drilled and strung through my bones. While incredibly painful, those ordeals felt so much simpler than giving birth— and parenthood.
On the plus side, I haven’t experienced any morning sickness, aches, or pains. Maybe a higher power figured I’ve been through enough and I’m finally getting a break.
I do know that at some point I’ll have to be put on bed rest because of my size. There has been so much involved with finding the right ob-gyn for me as I’m a high-risk mom and I could have a high-risk baby, too. The whole process has made me feel like I’m fifteen again, trying to find the right doctor who’s willing to work with me and perhaps to think outside the box. Except this time, it’s not all about me. Thankfully, Dr. Mortimer has joined me in the hunt for the right team of specialists and I’ve returned to Massachusetts to deliver my baby back home.
Dwarf: A Memoir Page 22
