SCREAMS

cruel affliction, profound hole
darkness moans, alone the soul
silent loudness, quiet blast
lurks the Demon, shadow cast

anvil, hammer, trumpets blare
chain reaction, trembling air
trilling whistles, pounding drums
cranked up volume, rendered mum

a deaf soul seeks no misery
it finds him through anxiety
from sight not sound, reactions come
frustrations tame him, thoughts go numb

twisted tension, rising tide
isolation, boxed inside
crushed emotions, self-esteem
deafened silence....Demon screams

©jrm2005 All rights reserved.

Bullies Again!

A bit of action on the river.

 This is a repost from 2 years ago. A little story about bullies. 

Lately there has been a lot of news about bullies. So I thought I would put up this true story of my own little journey thru that pleasant experience we like to call . . . "high school."

 

I Stood Alone

The evil ones lurked behind me on the one-mile walk to school, following at three or four paces back. I heard some giggling; turned around to see Raf and Jason, two kids from my gym class. They seem to be talking to each other, but I could not grasp the conversation and so, continued on my way.

Soon came a mumble, followed by silence, then more giggling. I turned around, "What’s up guys? Whatcha say?"

Looking at me quizzically, "Huh? We didn’t say anything."

So I continued the journey, but could hear more giggling. I decided not to respond. They got louder and louder until I could finally hear what it was they were saying.
"Jimmy is an asshole," over and over again, followed by more giggling and more snickering.

I told them to knock it off, but again they denied anything was happening.

I figured at some point I would have to deal with this, but I never counted on the evil ones to up the ante.

* * *

Junior High was rough. Everything was new to me. Having multiple teachers, as opposed to the one teacher in grade school, was a recipe for disaster. The amount of focus required for me to hear, under different circumstances for each class, was over-whelming. There was no special assistance then, no note-takers, no voice-interpreters, nor any affordable tutors.

So what’s a hard-of-hearing kid to do? A mainstreamed kid, one who could experience the world from only a hearing-impaired perspective. From age six to age thirteen I wore this box-like body-aid. It had scratches, dents, with this embarrassing brace to hold it to my chest. Somehow this device would stick with me for four more years. And by some miracle, it now sits on my fireplace mantle, still in working condition.

* * *

As I joined the sea of bodies flowing through the school hallways, weaving my way to the next class, I heard that giggling sound again. Then I heard the "asshole" part.

Why me, I thought. Just because of this damn cord running from my chest to my ear?

I forced Raf over to the lockers and said my piece. "You and me are gonna meet after school! Meet me at the fields!"

For some odd reason, I don’t to this day know why I said this next bit, but it was a ‘live or die’ situation for a desperate teenager.

"You can bring all your sassy friends, too! I’ll fight all of ’em, but I’ll only fight ’em one at a time!"

Raf was laughing hysterically. He couldn’t believe that I called out his entire gang. “It’s gonna be a feast,” he marveled.

I was scared. I was nervous. Bypassing the fields, I hurried straight home after school. Soon there-after, came a knock on the front door. It was Raf. Could he please, please, please, be here to apologize?

"Come on Jimmy," he sneered. "We got a play date, remember?"

It was one of those cold brisk autumn days. I never thought to grab a sweatshirt. I was shaking so hard from cold and fright, my bones rattled. The sight of me shivering must have made Raf’s wolfpack feel quite confident.

At the fields, a gang of eight formed a circle. I was bull-in-the-ring. Jason stepped in first. He started with a little shove, then I cut loose. A flurry of hard body shots and he was finished. I beat up two more lighties, then they all scattered, running for safety.

But, Raf, he was their alpha male. He could not run. Alone now, we faced off. After a few exchanges, I knocked him down, jumped on him and grabbed his head. Fueled on adrenaline, all my anger, and all my emotions wanted to destroy this coward, to lift his head up and slam it against the turf.

But I could not.

My mind raced from thought to thought; all of this hate, this poison bottled up inside, where did it come from? Would it ever stop? Would it consume me?

Meanwhile, the rest of Raf’s gang had alerted his older brother Joe. He arrived on the scene as I sat atop Raf’s chest, mulling over what to do next.

"When you’re done with him, let me know," Joe calmly stated, then went over to a rock wall to have a front row seat.

I thought it over. "Say uncle!"

Raf mumbled "uncle" as requested.

"No, that’s not loud enough. I couldn’t hear you. Scream it!"

And so he did. In tears, he cried out an "uncle" that echoed across the valley on that brisk autumn day; humiliated in front of his brother, a brother who would not save his sorry butt for what he did.

As it turned out, these were kids from my own neighborhood.

Betrayed by the kids I thought were my friends, the damage was done.

 My Living Proof

This is the final chapter of my adventure as a nine year-old with hearing loss, in the hospital for a few weeks to remove a tumor from above my ankle. I shared a room with three other kids, identical twins Donny and Ronny, and Joey. A fellow named Bob manned the nurse's station. He had no legs. My confidence had been shattered earlier that year from an incident at school.

You can read the prior stories here: (Part 1)  (Part 2)  (Part 3)

My Living Proof

Was it fate? Predetermined? Did the Gods and Demons hold all the cards?

When I first arrived at the hospital, the twins were very active; wheelies up and down the hallways, motoring their wheelchairs all over the second floor with reckless abandon. Full of enthusiasm, they crashed into the orderlies carrying waste, buzzed around nurses on watch, and plowed between doctors making their rounds. The twins seemed to be on their own, possibly orphans. I don’t recall any parents visiting them.

I was too young to understand what ailed twins, Ronny and Donny. They were both paralyzed, unable to walk. They were teens, in good physical shape, which leads me to believe they lost the ability to walk from the onset of an illness, such as some form of acute flaccid paralysis.

Whether or not the polio virus was the cause of their condition, I do not know. I do remember The March of Dimes program to eradicate polio, but at that time the virus was not successfully isolated, and there is doubt still today that the polio virus alone caused the childhood paralysis scare of the twentieth century. I am also puzzled that the doctors expected results less than a week after the operation.

*          *          *

Except for Bob’s nurse station, the twins seemed to own the joint. It was Bob who explained to me that the twins were having an operation on their spine, and if successful, they might be able to walk again.

And I was becoming more comfortable with Bob. As a nine year-old, it was difficult for me to imagine a life minus both legs; a life Bob lived. At first I couldn’t look at his stumps, but the more he chatted with me, the less afraid I became. Afraid? Yeah, because I would need to return time and again for checkups, fearful that the tumor removed from above my ankle could return. It would be an understatement to say that Bob was a normal person. He was special in ways I could not yet understand.

*          *          *

 Donny went under the knife first, then Ronny on the following day. The wheelchairs were left in ‘park’ for the time being, as they were both bedridden after their operations.  

After several days, a group of doctors entered our room to examine Donny. It was early morning as I silently watched from my bed. Joey was in the bed next to me. He reached over to squeeze ahold of my hand as we both watched the scene across the room unfold

They asked Donny questions, moved his legs a bit, then asked more questions. While one doctor distracted Donny with talk, another doctor pulled a safety pin from his pocket and poked Donny’s bare foot. There was no response. Donny just kept right on conversing with the other doctor. He never felt a thing.

All the white coats huddled up at the foot of Donny’s bed in what looked like a group hug. Tension filled the air. One of the white coats broke rank to explain to Donny, the operation proved unsuccessful.

All hell broke loose! Bedpans, clocks and radios, all airborne!

Donny screamed, “No, No, No!!!” Tears of disappointment streaked his cheeks. He was freaking. Who wouldn’t be?

At the same time, his twin Ronny jumped halfway out of his bed, yelling, “Donny! Donny! Stop! It’s gonna work out. Don’t panic! Don’t give up! Don’t ever give up!”

The doctors caught Ronny from falling to the floor, then wrestled him back into his bed. Damn! That kid was gonna crawl to his twin brother one way or another, so the docs pushed their beds together.

For me, it was like being suspended in time, seated on my bed grasping Joey’s hand, frozen stiff in a mind grip, tears and shocking disbelief. Was there no God? Did the Demons win?

Next day, the same doctors came to examine Ronny. The results were negative. More screaming, more crying. It didn’t scare me this time. I was just so moved by it all. Was anyone upstairs keeping watch over the twins? Where was their Reverend Van?

A few days later, the twins were eased back into their wheels. It wasn’t long before the orderlies, nurses and doctors were dodging wheelchairs, again. And I could hear the twins laughter as they motored down the hallway and into our room.

I was stunned, to say the least.

They were determined more than ever to carry on their journey.

Call it resilience. Call it perseverance. For me it was...  impact!

They might never walk again, yet they were smiling, joking and teasing everyone. I will never forget them. I thank them for showing me the way, the light. And I will always wonder how they made out in life.

 As for me, I was free of the so-called double ankle and returned for checkups every so often for the rest of my childhood. I beat this one, but it didn’t matter. What I gained during that hospital experience was invaluable for a kid with a disability, a hearing loss.

During the worst of times, no matter how bad things get, those words hollered by Ronny on that fateful morning come back to remind me: “Don’t give up! Don’t ever give up!”

Fate wasn’t so much up to the Gods and Demons. They don’t hold all the cards. No.

The light, it comes from within. And that’s the card I get to play.
 
Donny and Ronny… Joey and Bob, they were my heroes.

Scratch that...make it..…

SUPERHEROES!!!

  'til Hell Puddles Over

The story continues through the eyes and mind of a nine year-old with hearing loss. Still in the hospital recovering from surgery to remove a tumor from above my ankle. Help from above comes to the rescue in my time of need? Er... you decide.

 You can read the previous stories here:
(Part 1) (Part 2)

'til Hell Puddles Over

Following the operation, I had never been so nervous as the first time I went for therapy. After spending a few days in bed, sitting up and being placed into a wheelchair made me dizzy.

The female therapist was quite pretty, young with blonde flowing hair. When she lifted me onto the low parallel bars, I nearly vomited on her clean blue uniform. By some divine intervention, I managed to scarf it back down. So much for pride, huh?

When returned to my room, everyone was gone. Joey and Ronny were in the hospital’s school room. Donny was taking his turn under the knife. So the orderlies put me back in bed, then wheeled the bed into the center of the room so I could get a better view of the tv.

As I laid there watching Bullwinkle yet again save Rocky’s tail, this tall dark shadowy figure filled the doorway. A man of the cloth, dressed in black.

The Reverend from my church confused me, especially when he was up on the pulpit. Although Reverend Van preached against my demons, with his shouting, he scared the Bejeezus out of me!

The church, you see, with it’s high ceiling, hardwood floors and wooden pews, affects the acoustics. When you are in a stairwell and the noise echos, well that was what the sermon sounded like through my hearing aid.

 “Turn from the devil,” the Reverend’s voice would boom. “Let Jesus lead you from evil! Save yourself, before it’s too late!”

I could hear the pastor’s shouting voice, but just couldn’t distinguish all the wobbling words.

 The demons in my head were silenced by turning off my hearing aid. The rest of the service would find me exploring the tall stained glass windows, as light brightened the heavenly figures. By quieting the haunted church, the windows became my sermon. And that ‘off ’ switch became my ‘safe place.’

Knowing about the tumor operation, Reverend Van dropped in at the hospital to chat me up. Alone in the room, confined to the bed, I couldn’t just get up and run. Awe heck, I hadn’t even been issued crutches just yet.

Trapped with no way out, I pulled the sheets up to my chin. I had to face ‘the shouter’ and up close, too! I was so scared, the urge to pee flooded my memory banks. Since the orderlies had temporarily relocated my bed to the center of the room, there was no help button nearby.

In his deep baritone voice, the man in black wanted to explore my spirit. “How are you feeling today, son? God is keeping watch over you!”

I tensely replied, “Uh, yeah, the...the...pretty therapist, um, she’s watchin’ over me......too.”

“Pretty therapist?” he stammered, as his brows furrowed, and eyes darkened.

“Yeah... she’s pretty... so are the nurses!” I answered while struggling to impede the flow. “And if you don’t call one...  right now... it’ll be too late... to save... my soul!”

And with that the floodgates burst open, pissing damnation all over myself.

*     *     *

That evening my parents visited.

 “Mom, why’s the Reverend  traveling way out of  his territory to the hospital?  Who’s minding the church?”

Smiling, she explained, “That’s what they do, honey. He came all this way just to cheer up one of the flock.”

“Well, he didn’t cheer me at all. He scared the Bejeezus outta me! Again!”

 I never did mention what else he scared out of me. 

*     *     *

The church offered little hope, far as I was concerned. If I were to see the light, it would have to come from another source. And I was desperate for some living, breathing inspiration to overcome my demons. It would slap me from an unlikely source.

Double Ankle

(Read Part 1 here)

After the gym incident things couldn’t possible get worse or could it?

There comes a time in life, a turning point, where everything innocent, everything normal, is lost. At age nine, in the month of May, that time arrived for me. The next three weeks the meaning of life would dramatically change.

Late that winter, one morning as I dressed, I noticed a bump just above my ankle. After mentioning it to Gramma, she wanted to see.

“It’s a double ankle,” she exclaimed.

“Double ankle, huh? Wow, with this maybe some day I can win a medal in the Olympics!” I gloated.

After all the poking and probing by several doctors, it had been decided the double ankle needs to be surgically removed because it’s a tumor. Clang! There goes my medal. I knew nothing about tumors. Why it decided to park itself above my ankle, or what planet it came from.

At first I was quite brave about the whole ordeal. That is, until it was finally time to leave for the hospital. The idea of being left in a hospital room with a bunch of strangers, me unable to hear very good, it terrified me.

We entered the Children’s Hospital that Sunday. Monday would be a prep day, with the surgery performed on Tuesday. The Children’s Hospital is the same location where my weekly speech lessons are held.

This very cool guy, Bob, he runs the switchboard at the nurse’s station on the second floor. The billing office is right next to Bob’s station. Since first attending speech lessons from the age of six, I would ascend the stairs to pay the bill, saving Mom the trip. Bob would always chat me up as I stood on my toes to peek over the front of his workstation. Always friendly, never complaining, forever cheerful, that was Bob.

My hospital room was located on the second floor too, so my folks thought it would be comfy for me, knowing that Bob worked there.

First I met my hospital cellmates, Joey, Donny and Ronny. We couldn’t escape. Joey was fourteen. Until I met Joey, no one ever told me I might awake from this operation minus one leg. He was like a big brother and showed me the ropes; the help button on the bedside, the bathroom, and the rec room.

We had a tv, and a concrete porch outside our room. Down the hall was a room full of adults, for some reason or other, all crippled. Kids were forbidden from entering their room unescorted.

My other two roomies, Donny and Ronny, were sixteen-year-old identical twins; both had become crippled and wheelchair bound. I don’t know the reason why, but some kind of pressure on their spine or something. They would have surgery that same week to release the pressure, restoring feeling into their legs, so they could possibly walk again.

On Monday, for the first time ever I got a glance behind Bob’s workstation. My eyes grew to the size of grapefruits. Bob didn’t have any legs! Not even stumps! Nothing!

For three years this guy’s been cheering me up?

Joey must be right, I thought. Are they gonna remove the tumor, or remove my leg?

The nurse entered our room late Monday evening, she handed me two sleeping pills with a glass of water. I couldn’t figure out why, never had trouble sleeping, so why were they forcing pills on me? They made me forgo supper, too!

A nurse shook me awake bright and early Tuesday morning. At first everything was groggy; in super slo-motion. The smell of bacon awoke my senses. I asked for something to eat, but was ignored. So what happened next?

“Here jimmy, take these two pills,”instructed the nurse. “They’re to help you sleep during the procedure.”

“Awe gee, I was already asleeping!” I bitched. “You woke me up in order to knock me out?”

I had to stay awake long enough to see my folks. It was brief. They walked alongside as I’m wheeled into surgery. Mom was fighting back the tears.

We pushed into this spic and span room, bright lights, and shiny stainless steel all around. There were people with gowns and masks, all going about their business. It was scary; all of these strangers.

This one masked man hovered over my face. He wanted to know how I’m feeling. “Are ya tired at all, son?”

“Not at all,” I lied. “How ’bout some breakfast while we’re waitin’? Cuz it might be awhile afore I’m sleepy. And I’m starving! Bacon, eggs, and toast will do.”

“Ahuh,” the masked man countered. “Why don’t you try counting backwards from one hundred to zero. That always works for me.”

“Then you’ll feed me? Okay, I’ll give it a try. Um, one hundred, ninety-nine, hey! I want my eggs scrambled, okay? You got that? Um, let’s see, oh yeah, ninety-eight, ninety... uh... um... seven, ninety uh... uh... zzzzzzz.”

I opened my eyes, the clock read three in the afternoon; the room, it started to spin, and spin, and spin, until I spilled my guts, then passed out until late evening.

Slowly my eyes came into focus, there on the nightstand was this small jar filled with fluid, and suspended in the fluid was this most beautiful light blue Robin's egg... the tumor.

And my leg? It was still attached to me!

But the worst was not meant for me. No!

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A Nine-Year-Old

I have a series of brief glimpses into my life as a hard-of-hearing(h-o-h) youngster. They will appear from time to time over the next few months, but probably not in successive posts. Dunno for certain. My writing skills are not very polished, but I will try my best.

Why do this? I think it is important for youngsters to know that emotional turmoil happens to all of us with hearing loss. It's not just you, alone, even though you might feel that way.

And for parents of h-o-h kids, know that hurt feelings will happen to your child, no matter how protective you are. Always keep the communication lines for one-on-one conversations open. Keep in mind, the more worried my parents became, the less I shared with them. I would hide my hearing frustrations just to keep Mom and Dad from fussing over me.

Emotional Nines

Sometimes emotional scars are so deeply etched in memory, it’s as if the events occurred yesterday. No amount of mental patchwork can smooth the hurt. For this nine-year-old, the pain would strike again and again.

* * *

A blackboard eraser whistled overhead, parting hairs, that was all it took to grab my attention. Mr. Tamburro had a way of keeping his students from daydreaming.

Every one of his students received one-on-one mentoring when needed. He wrote in my report card: “James is a very nice boy and he works hard. I’m going to spend some extra time with him in Reading and Social Studies in an attempt to raise his grades.”

My hearing loss, at such a young age, led me to mispronounce words. For example, I had difficulty hearing the ‘th’ sound. Improved reading skills could aid in learning proper pronunciations.

And the next marking period, he wrote: “Jimmy improved a great deal. I think we’ve got him moving now.”

Cradling a stockpile of his eraser missiles, Mr. Tamburro was true to his word.

And me? My confidence soared!

* * *

All the fourth grade boys had gathered in the gym for PE. I never wore the Body-aid hearing device during gym for fear of breaking it. The PE teacher, Mueller, was late. So naturally, all of us boys were goofing off. My back was to the doorway as Mueller finally entered the gym.

“Okay guys, sorry I’m late, let’s take attendance.”

But I wasn’t facing the doorway, so I never saw Mueller enter the gym, nor heard him. I continued goofing off. All of a sudden, wham, this big strong hand slapped me hard, across the back of my head, because I was still yapping away while Mueller wanted quiet!

“Knock it off, jimmy, and pay attention!”

Stunned, I crouched to the floor, making myself small, but my instinct was to defend myself. That’s just what I did. Springing forward, I connected with a solid body shot!. Slammed him one right into the gut! A knuckle sandwich!

Mueller and I tussled; him pushing, shoving, then me, with fist a-flying. It was a no-win confrontation for a demonic nine-year-old boy. I ended up confined until the conclusion of PE. Mueller tried to approach my corner during class.

“Get away from me, you jerk,” I hollered. “Leave me alone!”

I was emotionally out of control, tears streaking my cheeks, and would swing wildly whenever Mueller came within range. Somehow, he managed to get my brother Gary out of his class to come calm me down. Gary was in sixth grade. From time to time he looked after me.

“jimmy, what's going on,” Gary inquired. “Why are you bawling?”

“Because that jerk of a teacher hit me,” I whimpered.

“If you don’t settle down, you’re gonna get into worse trouble. Why’d he hit you?”

“Cuz he’s a jerk! I was talking while he sneaked up behind me and slapped my head! Didn’t even know he was in the gym. Just because I can’t hear, now grownups are gonna smack me around?”

Gary had a conference with Mueller. It was decided if I shook hands, all would be squared and forgiven. Forgiven? Never again did I turn my back on that mean jerk.

A nine year-old slugging it out with the strongest adult in the school? Damn demon just won’t go away!

Returning to regular class, Mr. Tamburro could see that something was amiss. He took me aside to ask what’s up, “jimmy, what’s going on kid, you look like a train wreck?”

As I fought back the rainstorm, “Awe... umm... gee... it’s nothing Mr. T. Just all tuckered out from running around in gym class.”

I just couldn’t muster enough courage to tell him my hearing had failed me. Heck, I was nine years old, simultaneously dealing with this newfound anger and shaking with fear. Hopelessly confused, I didn’t understand why.

Lots of kids were in that PE class and to this day I don’t know if any of them ever spoke up. At least two teachers had to know something out of the ordinary occurred, Mr. Tamburro and Gary’s teacher.

And Gary, well I’m not sure if he ever told Mom and Dad. Maybe he just felt embarrassed for having such an out-of-control kid brother.

As for that confidence Mr. Tamburro instilled in me?

. . . Crushed.