Dwarf: A Memoir (31 page)

Today was my wedding day.

The October air in New Hampshire was cool and crisp as it breezed through the open
window— a welcome change from the warm suite buzzing with activity. Across the room,
Mom unzipped my wedding gown on its hanger and noticed me watching her.
I love you
, she mouthed and I smiled back.

She had a look on her face that I’d never seen before, one that went beyond just the
pride that a mother feels for her daughter on her wedding day. It was as if Mom, too,
had dreamed of a moment like this every day that I went through the bone lengthening.

And now here it was.

I had chosen a white satin Anne Barge gown with a crisp, delicate bow sewn inches
above the empire waist. In it, I looked so delicate, like I had never endured a single
ounce of pain in my life. I loved feeling that way for once.

“Close your eyes,” my makeup artist, Mija, said softly. I settled into the plush hotel
room chair as she gently swept shadow across my eyelids. We’d discussed the look I
wanted— a vintage fairy-tale feel— and I was sure that she’d deliver. Mija was beautiful
herself
and had her own vintage flair, right down to the feathers she’d pinned in her hair.

“How are you feeling?” she asked while dabbing glue along my lash lines to secure
a pair of dramatic false eyelashes.

“I’m nervous,” I replied in a whisper. I felt jumpy and antsy, too, but I wasn’t sure
why. Eric and I were already technically married. Six months earlier, we’d eloped,
officially saying our vows in front of a justice of the peace in a basement room at
the Onslow County Courthouse for twenty dollars. Our decision made the most sense,
given my insurance needs with my move out of state. But I knew I wanted to spend my
life with Eric and getting married right away with a big wedding to follow seemed
like the best of both worlds. No one knew but my mom and, thankfully, she understood.
She had always been spontaneous. Her only disappointment was that she wouldn’t be
there to share in it with me. Afterward, Eric and I met with our chaplain on Camp
Lejeune and he assured us that what we had done was very common among military couples.
It was also very understandable, given all the sacrifices involved in military life
and love.

But the nerves were still there as I anticipated walking down the aisle. Everything
I’d gone through with my surgeries felt cut-and-dried, definitive. I
had
to get through them to achieve my goal, and despite all the risks, I somehow felt
in control. Even if that was an illusion, I had my battle plan, and that was that.
I just wanted to be proud of myself. Getting married, with two families involved to
boot, felt far more complicated.

Now I wanted to make sure everyone else was proud of me.

“Everyone I know is going to be downstairs taking their seats,” I told Mija. “I want
them all to be proud of not just me, but Eric, too. I want everyone to be proud and
happy for us, together.”

“They will,” she assured me. “This is your day. You’ve done enough fighting. Just
relax today. Breathe. And have fun.”

Maureen Gould put her hand on my shoulder and winked. I was honored to have her as
part of my wedding party.

“Close again,” Mija told me and I obliged, taking a few peaceful moments to reflect
as the glue on my lashes dried. As Mija worked, I loosened up and laughed along with
my girlfriends as they recounted the funny stories from my bachelorette party a few
days earlier.

With overflowing champagne glasses, my friends and I had partied all the way to Jacque’s
Cabaret in Boston. Nine of my sorority sisters and my “Gay of Honor,” Mark, whom I’d
met in college theater, had planned to celebrate with the fabulous drag queens at
the cabaret. The whole night was hysterical. As my friends— wearing coordinated T-shirts
decorated with inside jokes about me and Eric— laughed and drank all around me, my
fears about walking down the aisle surfaced.

“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 stairs 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.