Sunday, January 31, 2010

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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Friday, January 22, 2010


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.