Dwarf: A Memoir (12 page)

“Who do you hang out with besides Jen? Where do you go to chill?” he asked me.

When I told him I hung out with doctors and nurses and actually spent a lot of my
free time at the hospital, I guess I intrigued him because from that day forward,
he never stopped calling. Our conversations lasted for hours. We talked about everything
under the sun, just two people getting to know each other and enjoying the learning
process.

“What movies do you like?” he asked.

“Comedies,” I answered.

“Do you go to the Marlborough theater?”

“Not really,” I said.

Other times our talks consisted of heavier topics, like the hidden meaning behind
songs we heard on the radio and how, in our young and naive lives, it all seemed to
relate to us. He strongly urged me to switch favorite musical genres.

“Boyz II Men?” he’d laugh, mockingly. “You need to hear Nirvana.”

He did his best Kurt Cobain and sang a few lyrics of “Nevermind” over the phone with
his guitar.

After a month of phone calls, that July I finally met the famous Mike face-to-face.
My mom picked him up and brought him to our house. I waited anxiously under an umbrella
at the patio
table in the backyard for him to arrive. Katie stayed over that weekend to calm my
nerves about meeting the boy I had been gabbing about. The night before, she and I
had torn apart my closet for the perfect outfit I could feel comfortable in when I
met Mike. Every pair of jeans I had purchased with my dad at Filene’s were cut at
the knees to fit my short legs. They frayed around my ankles and squared awkwardly
over my sneakers, looking sloppy and unfinished. They were the only pants I had, other
than the pastel pink leggings I had yet to throw out from Texas.

The afternoon of Mike’s visit, I chose denim shorts and an oversized short-sleeved
green T-shirt from UMass hospital. The sleeves easily covered the tops of my pins.
It wasn’t the most fashionable outfit, but it was comfortable, and it spoke to a part
of my life not many understood— but that Mike promised to try to comprehend. He wore
a baseball cap and long, baggy shorts and brought a friend named Mike Dufault, or
“Dufe” for short.

Mike didn’t even say hello when he came around back. Instead, he pulled out a Nirvana
CD.

“Got a radio?” he asked. Then he sat down next to me, casually, as though we were
lifelong friends.

We all sat and listened as the sounds of Cobain’s mournful guitar filled the yard.
When Mike noticed the pins in my arms, I was relieved to find out that he wasn’t afraid
or grossed out.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

I told him it didn’t.

“How long do they stay in again?” He stared at the pins, then back at me.

“Until I can reach the top of my head,” I responded.

A few moments passed in silence.

“If a monster came in here right now with a gun, Dufe, would you run?” Mike asked
randomly.

“No shit,” Dufe quipped, and we all laughed.

Mike faced Katie and asked her the same question.

“Yeah!” she squealed.

“I wouldn’t,” Mike said. Then he turned to face me. “I’d stay here with you, because
you can’t run. I’d stay right here.”

My heart raced and I looked away from his eyes, feeling a rush of excitement and shyness
at the same time.

That fall, the pins in my arms were removed and I became a high school freshman. Most
days, I ate lunch with a girl named Kelly Joyce, who was easily one of the tallest
girls in school at five foot ten. She always offered to get my lunch for me (I couldn’t
see over the buffet, let alone reach it) and in return, she’d get to snag an extra
plate of fries for herself. Kids teased Kelly for her height and called her “Jurassic
Joyce.” You just can’t win.

After an incident in junior high when I passed out from lugging my heavy book bag
down two corridors, I was no longer allowed to carry my own belongings. I had needed
to get from one end of the junior high school to another, and, as always, I would
drag my green book bag by its straps. It was so heavy that wearing it on my shoulders
would literally pull me over backward. But dragging it down the hallways was incredibly
draining. By the time I got to my classroom, I just toppled over, like a turtle flipped
over on its shell. That was the end of dragging my backpack.

Megan and I were still good friends and had nearly every class together. In high school,
Megan volunteered to carry the extra weight. Together we walked to each class and
she’d keep in step with my short gait, becoming something of a barrier between me
and the other students who might not even
see
me walking.
During one of our hallway expeditions, she talked me into joining the Marlborough
High sports medicine team.

Mike thought it was a great idea to get me out of my shell. Medical tape, injuries,
bandages, bruising, strained muscles— I was familiar with them all. And this was an
activity I could do with a friend, and a place where I could belong. I was looking
forward to the memories before I even got started. I couldn’t wait to wear— to
earn
— my team jacket.

The sports medicine room was small, making it crowded for the half dozen students
who waited around inside. The coach’s desk sat in the far corner of the room, and
an ice machine rumbled next to it. Metal racks filled with supplies lined one orange-striped
wall, while two wobbly padded beds and a small hot tub took up the remainder of the
space.

After a considerable wait and excited whispering among my classmates, Ms. Hart stomped
into the room. She had long, thick legs and wild hair that ran down her back. Hauling
an armful of files with a stiff, cold expression, she didn’t smile at any of us when
she entered. But she did appear to size us up before she finally began speaking.

“First thing all of you need to learn is how to rip tape,” she said through tight
lips. No “hello,” no “welcome to the club.” Just instructions.

Everything was strictly business. It never occurred to me to find that odd or take
it personally. I assumed that was just her way. “When you’re out on the field, you’ll
need to bandage an athlete quickly, and the faster you can rip tape, the better,”
she said, picking up rolls of medical tape from the racks. “This is how you do it.”

With her pointer finger and thumb pressed firmly on the edge of the tape, she tore
off a piece in one swift movement.

“Understand?” she asked, fixing her gaze on me. She tore another piece of tape, and
then slapped it on her thigh. She tore over and over again, shredding through the
roll with ease.

“Go practice.”

Megan and I grabbed some tape and stood by the two beds, where we decided to stick
the torn pieces. For Megan, it was no problem tearing through the thick white roll.
For me, it was a little harder. I could grip the roll, but pulling it and tearing
with enough dexterity to quickly rip the tape was not happening. My little hands didn’t
have the strength.

“Come on, Tiff. I’m beating you,” Megan joked, sticking her fifth piece of tape on
the edge of the bed. She was only kidding, but I envied the ease with which she completed
the activity. Not to mention the ease of just being her. Megan always wore her blond
hair in a ponytail, pulled halfway through the elastic. Her bangs were neatly curled
with a blow-dryer and round brush— the premier style of the mid-’90s. She wore easy-fitting
clothes, like a T-shirt and jeans, paired with big, silver hoop earrings. Her style
reflected her personality, and her big, confident smile made her inviting. Megan was
not a girly girl. She was easygoing, fun, and athletic. I wished I could be more like
her.

As I stood there trying to figure a way to catch up, something shiny caught my eye:
a pair of medical scissors hanging on a little hook behind mountains of gauze.

“Oh, really?” I shot back to Megan, already confident that I’d found a way to win.

I grabbed the scissors with a smile and began to cut the tape as quickly as she tore.
I’d watched nurses do this on many an occasion when I was in the hospital, so I knew
what I was doing. And I did it well.

Soon Megan and I were even, and I felt like a pro. Like I
belonged. Megan and I giggled our way through two rolls of tape, and in the midst
of our race, I thought I noticed Ms. Hart scowling at me. I pressed on anyway.

Then we moved on to a new task.

“Not everything you deal with on the field will be easy,” Ms. Hart said.

She narrowed her stare in my direction. I pretended not to notice.

“When there’s an injury, we apply ice. Sometimes the ice feels worse than the injury,
but our job is to make sure they keep it on their bodies. How can we tell them to
do this if we don’t know what it feels like? For five minutes you are all going to
take turns placing your foot in this bucket.”

She scooped ice out of the ice machine and into a small trash can while everyone looked
at one another.
Is she serious?

But Ms. Hart was not the type of teacher you defied. One by one, my fellow students
took off a single shoe and sock and stepped into the bucket, grimacing and giggling
as quietly as possible. I lined up last. Secretly, I was hoping the clock would wind
down and we’d be done for the day, letting me quietly skip out on the assignment.
It was not that I didn’t want to do it. I would have
loved
to deal with the crazy, painful assignment just like everyone else, and to laugh
and joke about how badly it sucked to sit there with my foot inside a bucket of ice.
I wanted so much to be just like everyone else.

But I couldn’t.

I knew that the amount of pain I’d feel in my muscles and joints would exceed the
pain felt by anyone else. Thanks to all the surgeries I’d been through and the fact
that my disability played on the same team as severe arthritis, the ice wouldn’t just
sting and then numb my foot. It would pierce my joints, creep up
my leg, and take every muscle in my body hostage for the rest of the night. It would
prevent me from moving my foot and leg, and from functioning for hours after I left
school. Even if I sat down for the rest of the night, or just went to bed, I would
still feel the chill of the ice controlling me. My arthritis would have a celebration
in my body. I was no stranger to pain. I respected it, but the pain I endured was
for a reason.

“Ms. Hart?” I began softly when it was my turn. I stepped toward her desk, motioning
for her to come closer to me.

“Yes?”

“Can I speak to you for a moment?” I nodded toward the door, hoping to move her away
from the other students.

“What is it?” she said. She wasn’t budging.

“Is there something else I can do?” I said softly.

“What?” she replied loudly.

“Is there, um, maybe, something else I could do instead?” I repeated hopefully. “I’ve
had a lot of surgery on my feet.”

She stared at me blankly.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to do . . .”

“You need to feel what the athletes will feel,” she replied loudly.

“Yes, I know. But could I place my hand in the ice instead?” I suggested, showing
her my scar-free extremity. “I’ll still feel the cold and I’ll still understand the
athletes. I haven’t had surgery on my hands, see?”

She stared back at me hard. It made me nervous. Her gaze was blank and uncaring.

Swiftly, she moved the bucket aside and placed two egg crates in the center of the
room.

“Let’s talk.”

She sat on one, and then motioned for me to do the same.
For a moment I thought she was preparing for me to do something else— maybe she’d
be a mock patient. Perhaps she was going to pretend to be a difficult football player
who needed to be bandaged with ice. Maybe this gruff teacher wanted to see how I would
handle the situation, I thought excitedly, and I readied myself to impress her.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I heard her say next.

“Look, I don’t know what kind of disease you have, but you’re obviously a
dwarf
. Why don’t you tell me what you can and cannot do?”

I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. Her words paralyzed me.

Ms. Hart inhaled deeply and continued.

“Maybe sports medicine isn’t the best thing for you to do. Maybe you should find another
activity.”

Each word out of her mouth was sharp and jagged, puncturing my pride. Yet I was too
frozen to respond.

I felt a wave of heat pass through me. I had never been told that I couldn’t do something.
It went against everything I was raised to believe. What was she talking about, a
disease? And a dwarf? I knew I was born with a bone condition, but a dwarf? And I
had a
disease
on top of that? Why hadn’t my parents told me?

My eyes burned from holding back tears. I wanted to assault her with
my
words, hurting her back, but my breath was taken away. I couldn’t move off that egg
crate. I felt like I had met a monster. And Mike was right; I couldn’t run away.

I could tell everyone else in the room had heard what she said, Megan included. But
they all kept busy, avoiding my gaze as they bandaged already-wrapped ankles, and
ripped tape until their rolls were empty. They were trying not to be there, and to
act as though they hadn’t noticed my humiliation. I felt so alone.