Stable
Mary-Pat Buss
Mary-Pat Buss
Textile Design with Alternating Vertical Garland of Stylized Leaves and Undulating Circles Surrounded by Pearls, 4 3/16 × 4 3/16 in., 1840. Open source from The Met.
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The cast-making room was dismal. Its floor was covered in an off-color linoleum that screamed of frequent use and hasty cleanings. I stared at a square below me where someone had missed a bit of plaster. The flooring looked like it had sprung a growth where one tiny white clump had escaped the staff’s notice. It glared up at me. How could the staff have missed cleaning it? Say something! It challenged me. I glanced away.
A nurse tugged at the tight nylon tube I was wearing for my scoliosis brace fitting and wiggled it into place. The movement jolted me out of my trance, and I numbly raised my arms as she strapped me into the apparatus designed to hold my limbs up while the mold dried. She glanced over my body and nodded, a gesture akin to checking an item off a list, and stepped away to direct a spotlight at my form.
I craned my neck once the nurse left to look at my mother. She was sitting in an office chair nearby. She smiled in encouragement and I tried to smile back. I settled for a twitching of my lips. We waited.
The cast maker swooped into the room, and I tried to look anywhere but at him while he hastily covered my body in wet plaster strips. Then, as abruptly as he entered, he left and I stood spread-eagle hooked to the support device. No one spoke. I was not allowed to move. I waited for the strips to dry, waited for the cast mold to be cut off me, waited for permission to leave, and waited for news that yes, the curve in my spine had stopped progressing. I allowed myself to drift into space, floating into places where physical limitations imposed by rotating spines did not exist.
I had learned my Cobb Angle that morning. Orthopaedic doctors use Cobb Angles to help determine the degree of spinal curvatures; they draw lines pointing away from each of the most titled vertebrae until they meet in the middle. “Severe” is considered 40 degrees. Mine was 45. If the cast didn’t work, I was going to have surgery.
I had stood before my doctor with my hospital gown open in the back and my feet planted facing forward. It was cold. Mom had told me to wear my good underwear before we left home, and as the doctor felt along my hips and lower spine, I ignored his touch.
He poked his head around my torso to speak to my mother. I looked down at the top of his bald scalp blanketed in age spots. He didn’t ignore me; he seemed to know I was not the kind of kid that passively lets adults make choices. He met my eyes when he suggested a brace. My back was still exposed and I could feel his index finger nudge the furthest part of my spine. It was his way of telling me how far off course it was. I nodded. A couple of months prior, my hips and shoulders had become noticeably uneven. I wondered to myself how the kids at school would react to the brace.
The doctor gave me permission to cover up, and my mother preserved my modesty by tying the top of my gown while she asked if the brace would fit under loose clothes. Yes. It was adjustable. It could be removed eight hours each day.
“So she can take it off at school?” The world started to spin again with my mother’s question.
“Absolutely.”
She smiled and I grinned hesitantly.
My mother had been optimistic. The scenario was laid out to me: the curve would stop progressing, the brace would be comfortable, no one would notice the twist in my back. She was making the decisions for both my father and herself while swallowing her own worries. Her child had lost an inch worth of height in a year. She knew that what she decided would impact the rest of my life, and if it weren’t for the high-pitched tone in her voice, I would never have known the pressure she felt. She must have thought that if she sounded enthusiastic, I would feel enthusiastic too.
I wanted to scratch a drip of plaster inching down my leg and instead forced my heart to go to old things now lost. The feeling of running, before my rib cage twisted and threw my balance off kilter. My feet hitting the pavement and my lungs filling fully. My muscles stretching and the burn as they carried me faster and faster.
My mother’s voice pierced through the fog. “Do you want me to buy you some razors, honey?” I startled as embarrassment burned my fantasies to a crisp.
“You don’t need to be embarrassed. But there is hair under your arms.”
I didn’t need to be told I was blushing. A male nurse shuffled a few papers and escaped on an errand. “You’re twelve and it’s normal for young girls to start shaving.”
I tried to allow my mind to disconnect again. I had shaved before, but I wouldn’t start thinking of doing those things every day until a few years later, and I would be lying if I did not say I felt a little betrayed that my mother brought this up when there was nothing I could do about it. The stress of the situation must have put a crack in her usually reliable filter.
“Think of the brace like being waxed.” She wheezed out a laugh. That's what happens when she gets really tickled.
Twelve and embarrassed by the world! I lowered my eyes back to the blob of plaster. I determined that once I was free, and clothed, I’d kick it loose and toss it. The next girl didn’t need to see it.
A nurse tugged at the tight nylon tube I was wearing for my scoliosis brace fitting and wiggled it into place. The movement jolted me out of my trance, and I numbly raised my arms as she strapped me into the apparatus designed to hold my limbs up while the mold dried. She glanced over my body and nodded, a gesture akin to checking an item off a list, and stepped away to direct a spotlight at my form.
I craned my neck once the nurse left to look at my mother. She was sitting in an office chair nearby. She smiled in encouragement and I tried to smile back. I settled for a twitching of my lips. We waited.
The cast maker swooped into the room, and I tried to look anywhere but at him while he hastily covered my body in wet plaster strips. Then, as abruptly as he entered, he left and I stood spread-eagle hooked to the support device. No one spoke. I was not allowed to move. I waited for the strips to dry, waited for the cast mold to be cut off me, waited for permission to leave, and waited for news that yes, the curve in my spine had stopped progressing. I allowed myself to drift into space, floating into places where physical limitations imposed by rotating spines did not exist.
I had learned my Cobb Angle that morning. Orthopaedic doctors use Cobb Angles to help determine the degree of spinal curvatures; they draw lines pointing away from each of the most titled vertebrae until they meet in the middle. “Severe” is considered 40 degrees. Mine was 45. If the cast didn’t work, I was going to have surgery.
I had stood before my doctor with my hospital gown open in the back and my feet planted facing forward. It was cold. Mom had told me to wear my good underwear before we left home, and as the doctor felt along my hips and lower spine, I ignored his touch.
He poked his head around my torso to speak to my mother. I looked down at the top of his bald scalp blanketed in age spots. He didn’t ignore me; he seemed to know I was not the kind of kid that passively lets adults make choices. He met my eyes when he suggested a brace. My back was still exposed and I could feel his index finger nudge the furthest part of my spine. It was his way of telling me how far off course it was. I nodded. A couple of months prior, my hips and shoulders had become noticeably uneven. I wondered to myself how the kids at school would react to the brace.
The doctor gave me permission to cover up, and my mother preserved my modesty by tying the top of my gown while she asked if the brace would fit under loose clothes. Yes. It was adjustable. It could be removed eight hours each day.
“So she can take it off at school?” The world started to spin again with my mother’s question.
“Absolutely.”
She smiled and I grinned hesitantly.
My mother had been optimistic. The scenario was laid out to me: the curve would stop progressing, the brace would be comfortable, no one would notice the twist in my back. She was making the decisions for both my father and herself while swallowing her own worries. Her child had lost an inch worth of height in a year. She knew that what she decided would impact the rest of my life, and if it weren’t for the high-pitched tone in her voice, I would never have known the pressure she felt. She must have thought that if she sounded enthusiastic, I would feel enthusiastic too.
I wanted to scratch a drip of plaster inching down my leg and instead forced my heart to go to old things now lost. The feeling of running, before my rib cage twisted and threw my balance off kilter. My feet hitting the pavement and my lungs filling fully. My muscles stretching and the burn as they carried me faster and faster.
My mother’s voice pierced through the fog. “Do you want me to buy you some razors, honey?” I startled as embarrassment burned my fantasies to a crisp.
“You don’t need to be embarrassed. But there is hair under your arms.”
I didn’t need to be told I was blushing. A male nurse shuffled a few papers and escaped on an errand. “You’re twelve and it’s normal for young girls to start shaving.”
I tried to allow my mind to disconnect again. I had shaved before, but I wouldn’t start thinking of doing those things every day until a few years later, and I would be lying if I did not say I felt a little betrayed that my mother brought this up when there was nothing I could do about it. The stress of the situation must have put a crack in her usually reliable filter.
“Think of the brace like being waxed.” She wheezed out a laugh. That's what happens when she gets really tickled.
Twelve and embarrassed by the world! I lowered my eyes back to the blob of plaster. I determined that once I was free, and clothed, I’d kick it loose and toss it. The next girl didn’t need to see it.
* * *
My childhood friend and I played in her backyard. We were six at most, and she was trying to master a forward flip. There was a weird charge to the atmosphere, the sky an overcast grey-blue, and it would rain soon, so we were rushing. Electrified by the currents in the air, she took a running start before she jumped into a handspring and her shoulder length hair flew in a mad halo about her head. She landed on her feet.
“You had it!” I cried out in joy. I was terrible at gymnastics. My mother had enrolled me in a class when I was little and the trainer decided not to teach me. Back then, I thought it was because I ran on the balance beam, but I later learned it was because my back was not straight and she didn’t want the liability. Of course, I was a stubborn child and completely unfazed. I tried to do flips anyway.
“Let me see if I can do it!” She looked at me doubtfully. My kind of athletic was sturdier than hers. I was a pro at t-ball and I loved to run in short spurts. When my friends needed someone strong, they asked me. I wasn’t slender like her with tiny arms like sticks. She loved to dance, dress up, and be called pretty. I was my brother’s baseball team sidekick, a tomboy missing a few teeth, and my nose was covered in freckles. My nickname was even Impy and I served it well: short, stocky, and temperamental.
She grinned to me in encouragement as I mimicked her starting pose. Arms stretched above me, l leaned and began to run. I knew I had to gain momentum. I closed my eyes and propelled into the flip. I could feel when I reached halfway. My hands gripped the soft earth, but I’d twisted in midair. I landed in a roll off and came to a stop in a seated position.
“Go straight next time, and you’ll have it.”
We spent the next half hour trying to flip together. She landed on her feet with every attempt. By the time the first strike of lightning laced along the clouds above us, I was getting better, but I kept twisting to the left. I didn’t know why. I kicked the dirt and pouted.
“You’ll get better at it.” She had a way of forestalling my tantrums. My notorious temper evaporated.
The first drop of rain fell and we raced to the back patio door. I won because she let me.
“You had it!” I cried out in joy. I was terrible at gymnastics. My mother had enrolled me in a class when I was little and the trainer decided not to teach me. Back then, I thought it was because I ran on the balance beam, but I later learned it was because my back was not straight and she didn’t want the liability. Of course, I was a stubborn child and completely unfazed. I tried to do flips anyway.
“Let me see if I can do it!” She looked at me doubtfully. My kind of athletic was sturdier than hers. I was a pro at t-ball and I loved to run in short spurts. When my friends needed someone strong, they asked me. I wasn’t slender like her with tiny arms like sticks. She loved to dance, dress up, and be called pretty. I was my brother’s baseball team sidekick, a tomboy missing a few teeth, and my nose was covered in freckles. My nickname was even Impy and I served it well: short, stocky, and temperamental.
She grinned to me in encouragement as I mimicked her starting pose. Arms stretched above me, l leaned and began to run. I knew I had to gain momentum. I closed my eyes and propelled into the flip. I could feel when I reached halfway. My hands gripped the soft earth, but I’d twisted in midair. I landed in a roll off and came to a stop in a seated position.
“Go straight next time, and you’ll have it.”
We spent the next half hour trying to flip together. She landed on her feet with every attempt. By the time the first strike of lightning laced along the clouds above us, I was getting better, but I kept twisting to the left. I didn’t know why. I kicked the dirt and pouted.
“You’ll get better at it.” She had a way of forestalling my tantrums. My notorious temper evaporated.
The first drop of rain fell and we raced to the back patio door. I won because she let me.
* * *
As I came out of the anaesthesia, I felt weighed down, heavy, and wrong. The steady beep of a heart monitor pushed its way into my senses, my lips were chapped, and my jaw shook. The world hurt.
I had been told that I would wake up in some “discomfort.” There would be nurses to take care of me and I might feel strange. The surgeon had put Harrington Rods in my back to straighten my now seventy-eight degree curve, fused my thoracic vertebrae, and readjusted my rib cage.
There is a difference between knowing and feeling. I could feel the rods, foreign and unyielding.
A familiar voice asked, “Mary-Pat. Are you awake? I told your mother to get some rest in the waiting room. She’s been here for hours and I figured she needed to relax, but I can go get her.”
A squeal sounded from one of the machines that managed my vitals. It was an alarm.
“Mary-Pat. Breathe.” The buzzer blared over her calm directions.
I recognized the voice as my aunt’s. The revelation that I was not breathing surprised me. I focused through the fog of beeps and high-pitched ringing, and I gasped in a hasty burst of oxygen. Suddenly, the sounds stopped except for the wailing of a child in a bed near me.
My aunt asked a nurse, “Why isn’t she breathing on her own?”
“The doctor moved her ribcage. She will have to relearn some things.”
“Like breathing.” It was a simple statement.
“Please, get her mother from the waiting room.” Aunt Cindy squeezed my hand as she gave orders to the nurse.
A few moments later the alarm went off again and my aunt directed her attention back to me. She grasped my hand, and I knew she would act as an anchor until the wrongness faded.
“Mary-Pat. Breathe.”
I had been told that I would wake up in some “discomfort.” There would be nurses to take care of me and I might feel strange. The surgeon had put Harrington Rods in my back to straighten my now seventy-eight degree curve, fused my thoracic vertebrae, and readjusted my rib cage.
There is a difference between knowing and feeling. I could feel the rods, foreign and unyielding.
A familiar voice asked, “Mary-Pat. Are you awake? I told your mother to get some rest in the waiting room. She’s been here for hours and I figured she needed to relax, but I can go get her.”
A squeal sounded from one of the machines that managed my vitals. It was an alarm.
“Mary-Pat. Breathe.” The buzzer blared over her calm directions.
I recognized the voice as my aunt’s. The revelation that I was not breathing surprised me. I focused through the fog of beeps and high-pitched ringing, and I gasped in a hasty burst of oxygen. Suddenly, the sounds stopped except for the wailing of a child in a bed near me.
My aunt asked a nurse, “Why isn’t she breathing on her own?”
“The doctor moved her ribcage. She will have to relearn some things.”
“Like breathing.” It was a simple statement.
“Please, get her mother from the waiting room.” Aunt Cindy squeezed my hand as she gave orders to the nurse.
A few moments later the alarm went off again and my aunt directed her attention back to me. She grasped my hand, and I knew she would act as an anchor until the wrongness faded.
“Mary-Pat. Breathe.”
* * *
It was the spring before my first surgery. I was 13, and my mother wanted to wait until school ended and after I visited my father. Mom was double-booked between my brother’s track meet and my softball tryouts, so she dropped me off. I sat in the dugout with a few friends waiting for my name to be called.
It had started to be hard for me to stand up straight and get a good breath of air into my lungs. If my mother had known, she would never have let me try out, but be damned if I didn’t love softball. I could swing a bat like a demon. My mother had told me that I probably wouldn’t be able to play ever again after the surgery.
When I stepped up to the plate, there were snickers from girls I did not know. It was dark, the lights were blinding, and someone’s tired-looking father ran the pitching machine. The jeering started from the outfield. “Hunchback!” and “Weirdo!”
I looked at the dad and he looked back, frowning. I took the batting position my father had taught me, crouch low, weight on your back leg so you are ready to run. Lift the bat high. Swing like there is no tomorrow.
“That’s not a real stance!” Some kid behind me shouted, but something in my expression must have registered because the dad told the kids to stop their yelling. His eyes spoke pity, blue and sad.
Most of the kids at school knew something was up with my back, but until that moment, I had been able to separate my spine from the rest of my life. That countenance of sadness and expectation of failure made me feel a hate I had yet to know.
I locked eyes with him and nodded.
When the ball flew, I swung. A satisfying crack registered in my ears as its yellow dimpled surface connected with the bat and flew right back at those pitying eyes. The father ducked just before it hit him, and the outfield paused in surprise as the ball passed.
You don’t run the bases at tryouts, so I stood still. People whispered in the stands behind me and my friends cheered.
The ball was back at the pitcher’s mound and that same poor dad looked back at me.
“Outfield, move back!” I’d be lying if I said I didn’t smile.
A strange feeling comes over moments when some god given grace has selected you from the masses and allowed you this one moment. I felt it flood into me as the ball was loaded into the machine.
This time I did not aim at the dad. I hit the ball and he jumped as I launched it straight back into the machine. It flew back out, and I punted a grounder. It skipped along the dirt, passing the surprised shortstop, and I walked back to the dugout.
It had started to be hard for me to stand up straight and get a good breath of air into my lungs. If my mother had known, she would never have let me try out, but be damned if I didn’t love softball. I could swing a bat like a demon. My mother had told me that I probably wouldn’t be able to play ever again after the surgery.
When I stepped up to the plate, there were snickers from girls I did not know. It was dark, the lights were blinding, and someone’s tired-looking father ran the pitching machine. The jeering started from the outfield. “Hunchback!” and “Weirdo!”
I looked at the dad and he looked back, frowning. I took the batting position my father had taught me, crouch low, weight on your back leg so you are ready to run. Lift the bat high. Swing like there is no tomorrow.
“That’s not a real stance!” Some kid behind me shouted, but something in my expression must have registered because the dad told the kids to stop their yelling. His eyes spoke pity, blue and sad.
Most of the kids at school knew something was up with my back, but until that moment, I had been able to separate my spine from the rest of my life. That countenance of sadness and expectation of failure made me feel a hate I had yet to know.
I locked eyes with him and nodded.
When the ball flew, I swung. A satisfying crack registered in my ears as its yellow dimpled surface connected with the bat and flew right back at those pitying eyes. The father ducked just before it hit him, and the outfield paused in surprise as the ball passed.
You don’t run the bases at tryouts, so I stood still. People whispered in the stands behind me and my friends cheered.
The ball was back at the pitcher’s mound and that same poor dad looked back at me.
“Outfield, move back!” I’d be lying if I said I didn’t smile.
A strange feeling comes over moments when some god given grace has selected you from the masses and allowed you this one moment. I felt it flood into me as the ball was loaded into the machine.
This time I did not aim at the dad. I hit the ball and he jumped as I launched it straight back into the machine. It flew back out, and I punted a grounder. It skipped along the dirt, passing the surprised shortstop, and I walked back to the dugout.
* * *
I underwent my second surgery seven years later. After the procedure, the hospital felt sterile and alien, and a sharpness of sensation coursed along my skin. The sheets on my body felt stiff. My mother and father stood at opposite sides of my hospital bed, each holding one of my hands, faces drawn and worried. I was gritting my teeth and holding my parent’s fingers with hands that belonged to someone else. Cramped. Pale.
This doctor was young and ambitious. In a twelve-hour surgery meant to last four, he’d found himself overwhelmed. My surgery at thirteen had failed at correcting my spine, and he expected he would understand more once he opened my back. He discovered that the rearranged vertebra hadn’t fused. Only the rods stopped my back from collapsing. My ribs were permanently in a rotated position. My L5 vertebrae had slipped and fractured, and the pain that caused me to submit to seeing a doctor originated from the disks dying around it. He later told me he’d had no idea and refused to operate on me again. I was beyond his skill set.
The anaesthesia had started to wear off, and I released my mother’s hand long enough to push the morphine button device. The pain stayed. My father had to leave the room; his frustration with my condition overpowering. He paced the halls. My mother remained by my bedside. I remember baring my teeth like an animal in a documentary. My body moved in uncontrolled spasms and spurts. I growled and shrieked.
Later, the nurses strapped me to the bed.
I imagined figures moving in and out of the room. Grey blue shapes and shadows passed and returned, paused. I lost count of the number of times I pushed the button. At one point, I heard a strange keening and realized it was me.
A tree grew. I watched the roots take shape and wrap themselves around their brown brothers, weaving into a trunk with no beginning and end. Leaves sprouted in crayon colors, jungle green vines and tangerine foliage, a hot house of tropical plant life joined by sudden birds and strange furry beasts.
Kim, my best friend, came to see me with her husband, Justin. He removed her when she started to cry. Outside the walls of my hospital cell I heard her sobbing,
My mother’s angry voice reached through my half-sleep. The room was empty except for my grandfather in the corner; his dentures had come unglued and his eyes were closed. She shouted that she wanted a new nurse. She wanted the doctor who performed my surgery.
I pushed the button again and again.
An older woman walked through a vine hanging from a tree branch above her, her face shadowed. My legs twitched involuntarily. An unanticipated scream ripped from my chest. I perceived that I annoyed the woman and hoped it wouldn’t hurt the level of care she gave me.
She was the floor manager, and she avoided looking at me or my mother as she checked my vitals. Her lips were pursed as if she considered this inspection unnecessary. She examined my IV. She rolled me onto my side, and through waves of nausea I felt her poking my staples. She returned me to my back in a movement nurses call a log roll.
I pushed and pushed and pushed the button.
She watched my thumb and ran her fingers along the IV. “The machine says that you asked for pain medication one hundred and forty-four times over the night.”
I never forgot that number.
I closed my eyes. The tubes connected to my body swayed and swished like vines. Suddenly, her movement stopped. I could hear her breathing, but she didn’t come out from behind.
“Excuse me.” She adjusted something and exited. My mother collapsed into a chair.
An older man stood over me. A bird landed on his shoulder. He was explaining to my mother that there had been a mistake. My morphine feed had not been hooked up properly. A day and a half had passed and no medication had reached me.
He turned his eyes on me, strange grey orbs framed in lines. He evaluated the numbers on my vitals monitor and he delivered a nondescript platitude. When he turned away, he spoke to my mother.
“Please, let us know if you would like to speak to a lawyer.” The bird that rested on his shoulder spread its wings and took flight, landing on one of the main branches of the trunk. His wings flexed and settled. Lavender and plum. Dandelion yellow. Red Orange.
I pushed the button and a smooth weight swelled into my limbs. My chest filled with air, lungs inflating. The metal in my back warmed. Sixteen screws, the rods, and the incisions began to fade into the distance.
I woke up to my mother and father standing by my bedside. The restraints around my wrists were gone. My mother, the warrior who fought for me. My father, the man who felt my pain.
The jungle receded.
This doctor was young and ambitious. In a twelve-hour surgery meant to last four, he’d found himself overwhelmed. My surgery at thirteen had failed at correcting my spine, and he expected he would understand more once he opened my back. He discovered that the rearranged vertebra hadn’t fused. Only the rods stopped my back from collapsing. My ribs were permanently in a rotated position. My L5 vertebrae had slipped and fractured, and the pain that caused me to submit to seeing a doctor originated from the disks dying around it. He later told me he’d had no idea and refused to operate on me again. I was beyond his skill set.
The anaesthesia had started to wear off, and I released my mother’s hand long enough to push the morphine button device. The pain stayed. My father had to leave the room; his frustration with my condition overpowering. He paced the halls. My mother remained by my bedside. I remember baring my teeth like an animal in a documentary. My body moved in uncontrolled spasms and spurts. I growled and shrieked.
Later, the nurses strapped me to the bed.
I imagined figures moving in and out of the room. Grey blue shapes and shadows passed and returned, paused. I lost count of the number of times I pushed the button. At one point, I heard a strange keening and realized it was me.
A tree grew. I watched the roots take shape and wrap themselves around their brown brothers, weaving into a trunk with no beginning and end. Leaves sprouted in crayon colors, jungle green vines and tangerine foliage, a hot house of tropical plant life joined by sudden birds and strange furry beasts.
Kim, my best friend, came to see me with her husband, Justin. He removed her when she started to cry. Outside the walls of my hospital cell I heard her sobbing,
My mother’s angry voice reached through my half-sleep. The room was empty except for my grandfather in the corner; his dentures had come unglued and his eyes were closed. She shouted that she wanted a new nurse. She wanted the doctor who performed my surgery.
I pushed the button again and again.
An older woman walked through a vine hanging from a tree branch above her, her face shadowed. My legs twitched involuntarily. An unanticipated scream ripped from my chest. I perceived that I annoyed the woman and hoped it wouldn’t hurt the level of care she gave me.
She was the floor manager, and she avoided looking at me or my mother as she checked my vitals. Her lips were pursed as if she considered this inspection unnecessary. She examined my IV. She rolled me onto my side, and through waves of nausea I felt her poking my staples. She returned me to my back in a movement nurses call a log roll.
I pushed and pushed and pushed the button.
She watched my thumb and ran her fingers along the IV. “The machine says that you asked for pain medication one hundred and forty-four times over the night.”
I never forgot that number.
I closed my eyes. The tubes connected to my body swayed and swished like vines. Suddenly, her movement stopped. I could hear her breathing, but she didn’t come out from behind.
“Excuse me.” She adjusted something and exited. My mother collapsed into a chair.
An older man stood over me. A bird landed on his shoulder. He was explaining to my mother that there had been a mistake. My morphine feed had not been hooked up properly. A day and a half had passed and no medication had reached me.
He turned his eyes on me, strange grey orbs framed in lines. He evaluated the numbers on my vitals monitor and he delivered a nondescript platitude. When he turned away, he spoke to my mother.
“Please, let us know if you would like to speak to a lawyer.” The bird that rested on his shoulder spread its wings and took flight, landing on one of the main branches of the trunk. His wings flexed and settled. Lavender and plum. Dandelion yellow. Red Orange.
I pushed the button and a smooth weight swelled into my limbs. My chest filled with air, lungs inflating. The metal in my back warmed. Sixteen screws, the rods, and the incisions began to fade into the distance.
I woke up to my mother and father standing by my bedside. The restraints around my wrists were gone. My mother, the warrior who fought for me. My father, the man who felt my pain.
The jungle receded.
* * *
“Flat back” is the term used to describe what happens when the spine is supposed to heal in a small curve in the lower back called a lordosis that allows you to stand up straight, but instead, it flattens and leaves you pitched forward. This puts stress on the hips and back and causes debilitating pain. Within a year, I developed flat back and needed my third surgery.
It involved a surgeon I didn’t like who offered the least invasive approach. He removed a wedge of bone from my spine, tilted my torso back, and fused it all together with grafts. I was resentful that I had to miss another semester of college and put my life on hold again and I had anxiety from the days without morphine from the previous surgery. My goal was to get out of the hospital fast.
Nurses give their patients hurdles to pass before they are allowed to go home: eat solid food, walk the length of a hallway, sit for an hour, take yourself to the bathroom and back. My day’s goal was to spend thirty minutes upright in an armchair and I was somewhere around minute ten, coasting in a haze of willpower and refusal to resign, when Kim and Justin arrived.
My fingers’ vice-like grip meant I didn’t need to tell them my goal was a struggle. They helped me laugh about it, inventing a new meaning to the term “armchair warrior.” We were in a hospital together again. My back was being dysfunctional again. Some nurse was going to make me drink prune juice again.
Kim hated hospitals more than me. OCD was an unwavering force in her life, and hospitals were germ ridden castles. It was a testament to her love that she’d come.
When the nurse arrived and told me I could lay down, I felt relieved. She also told Kim to help me pee first. Kim froze. I barked a wild morphine cackle, and Justin helped me stand while he held my IV tubes.
“Is my butt hanging out?”
“Yep.”
“Awesome.”
“I’m going to try and do this on my own,” I said.
Kim visibly relaxed; Justin looked doubtful. I made it through most of the bathroom trip fine until I stood up, flushed, and had no idea how to pull up my underwear. Still, I had almost managed to finagle the hospital panties up around my hips when I knocked a roll of toilet paper into the bowl.
I called out to Kim, embarrassed. I couldn’t bend to reach it, and what would I say? That I had just left it? I had too much pride to ask for the staff’s help and besides, what are friends for?
Wide coffee eyes peered around the bathroom door. Kim’s face was some kind of cross between amusement and terror as she breached the threshold.
I pointed at the floating toilet paper roll.
“... Oh dear.”
She stared. I stared. She hiccupped.
“Everything okay?” Justin called from outside. We didn’t ask him to deal with it, either. Our mutual refusal to depend on anyone except each other united us.
A moment passed, and Kim exclaimed in triumph as she all but skipped out of the bathroom. I heard her opening the built-in cabinets. When she returned, she held a bent wire hanger and her eyes were sparkling.
We further contorted the hanger together. She poked at the soaked roll, balanced it on the hanger, and skittered over to the trash can. It landed with a thud.
We emerged laughing with tears in our eyes. Justin blinked, bemused, and supported me as I maneuvered my way back to bed.
It involved a surgeon I didn’t like who offered the least invasive approach. He removed a wedge of bone from my spine, tilted my torso back, and fused it all together with grafts. I was resentful that I had to miss another semester of college and put my life on hold again and I had anxiety from the days without morphine from the previous surgery. My goal was to get out of the hospital fast.
Nurses give their patients hurdles to pass before they are allowed to go home: eat solid food, walk the length of a hallway, sit for an hour, take yourself to the bathroom and back. My day’s goal was to spend thirty minutes upright in an armchair and I was somewhere around minute ten, coasting in a haze of willpower and refusal to resign, when Kim and Justin arrived.
My fingers’ vice-like grip meant I didn’t need to tell them my goal was a struggle. They helped me laugh about it, inventing a new meaning to the term “armchair warrior.” We were in a hospital together again. My back was being dysfunctional again. Some nurse was going to make me drink prune juice again.
Kim hated hospitals more than me. OCD was an unwavering force in her life, and hospitals were germ ridden castles. It was a testament to her love that she’d come.
When the nurse arrived and told me I could lay down, I felt relieved. She also told Kim to help me pee first. Kim froze. I barked a wild morphine cackle, and Justin helped me stand while he held my IV tubes.
“Is my butt hanging out?”
“Yep.”
“Awesome.”
“I’m going to try and do this on my own,” I said.
Kim visibly relaxed; Justin looked doubtful. I made it through most of the bathroom trip fine until I stood up, flushed, and had no idea how to pull up my underwear. Still, I had almost managed to finagle the hospital panties up around my hips when I knocked a roll of toilet paper into the bowl.
I called out to Kim, embarrassed. I couldn’t bend to reach it, and what would I say? That I had just left it? I had too much pride to ask for the staff’s help and besides, what are friends for?
Wide coffee eyes peered around the bathroom door. Kim’s face was some kind of cross between amusement and terror as she breached the threshold.
I pointed at the floating toilet paper roll.
“... Oh dear.”
She stared. I stared. She hiccupped.
“Everything okay?” Justin called from outside. We didn’t ask him to deal with it, either. Our mutual refusal to depend on anyone except each other united us.
A moment passed, and Kim exclaimed in triumph as she all but skipped out of the bathroom. I heard her opening the built-in cabinets. When she returned, she held a bent wire hanger and her eyes were sparkling.
We further contorted the hanger together. She poked at the soaked roll, balanced it on the hanger, and skittered over to the trash can. It landed with a thud.
We emerged laughing with tears in our eyes. Justin blinked, bemused, and supported me as I maneuvered my way back to bed.
* * *
After a sixth spine surgery, I went out with friends, finished my undergraduate degree, traveled, and got married. At my wedding, despite the protests from my mother, aunt, Kim, and future spouse, I insisted on wearing towering red heels. I tripped during the first dance, and my husband pretended to dip me. My clumsiness got a round of applause, though I glimpsed Kim and Justin laughing uncontrollably. My mother and father cheered.
The doctor that performed my final three procedures told me most people with my condition were permanently disabled. He was surprised that I worked and had even attended dance classes. My refusal to submit was the key to my mobility, and I knew it.
My job hurt, though. I taught high school and was on my feet most of the day. I would have to sit in a chair and shift my hips between classes until a grinding noise and sliding sensation signaled that my sacrum was back in the joint. Nightly, I needed my husband to rub my back. He asked me to see my doctor again.
Because my husband had just started a new job, my mother went with me. Entering the medical facility felt like entering the past. The doctor greeted me happily and reminisced. His version was that he replaced my hardware, rebuilt my spine, and he brought everyone in the operating room a twelve pack to take home to celebrate. “That was a hell of a surgery. Thirteen hours. I could barely stand up!” He laughed.
For me it had been different. My nerves were damaged with that surgery, which he warned might happen, and despite his later efforts, I still had a slight limp and neuropathy. Regardless, when other surgeries had failed this man replaced all of my spinal hardware with painstaking care, rearranged my entire spinal structure, and built me into an upright person. My spine was fused correctly and my organs where they were supposed to be. I owed him the life I was living.
So, when I told him my hips felt like they were dislocating from my sacrum, his smile faded and he transformed into an orthopaedic genius. He laid out my recent x-rays on the lightboard. His black Expo marker traced my Cobb Angle and lines appeared from my hips to the top of my fusion at T2. After an eternity of silence, he turned and said, “Technically, I can’t find anything wrong.”
This was the first time I’d ever heard those words.
“You’re always going to need ‘tune ups.’ The human body isn’t made to be full of hardware. I can do an exploratory surgery and see if there is a deeper cause.”
I turned my head slowly to look at my mother.
“So, I am structurally sound? The pain and movement is normal?”
“You’re going to feel pain with a spine in the state yours is in. Your muscles and the scar tissue are probably responsible and you’ve developed some hypermobility around your pelvis and ribs.”
My eyes settled on the x-rays. Surgeries had burned through years I might have spent living. Instead of going to school, I had laid in bed consuming novels and escaping into worlds in which I could never exist. Did I want another operation?
“No surgery. Are there other options?”
I could feel my mother’s astonishment. The doctor titled his head in surprise.
Ever the surgeon, he asked, “Are you sure? We might find something.”
“Six surgeries are enough.” Number seven could kiss my ass, I thought.
“Okay. Let’s talk about what’s out there non-surgically.” He sounded disappointed, but I was thrilled.
Stable. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but my spine was stable. That was all I needed.
The doctor that performed my final three procedures told me most people with my condition were permanently disabled. He was surprised that I worked and had even attended dance classes. My refusal to submit was the key to my mobility, and I knew it.
My job hurt, though. I taught high school and was on my feet most of the day. I would have to sit in a chair and shift my hips between classes until a grinding noise and sliding sensation signaled that my sacrum was back in the joint. Nightly, I needed my husband to rub my back. He asked me to see my doctor again.
Because my husband had just started a new job, my mother went with me. Entering the medical facility felt like entering the past. The doctor greeted me happily and reminisced. His version was that he replaced my hardware, rebuilt my spine, and he brought everyone in the operating room a twelve pack to take home to celebrate. “That was a hell of a surgery. Thirteen hours. I could barely stand up!” He laughed.
For me it had been different. My nerves were damaged with that surgery, which he warned might happen, and despite his later efforts, I still had a slight limp and neuropathy. Regardless, when other surgeries had failed this man replaced all of my spinal hardware with painstaking care, rearranged my entire spinal structure, and built me into an upright person. My spine was fused correctly and my organs where they were supposed to be. I owed him the life I was living.
So, when I told him my hips felt like they were dislocating from my sacrum, his smile faded and he transformed into an orthopaedic genius. He laid out my recent x-rays on the lightboard. His black Expo marker traced my Cobb Angle and lines appeared from my hips to the top of my fusion at T2. After an eternity of silence, he turned and said, “Technically, I can’t find anything wrong.”
This was the first time I’d ever heard those words.
“You’re always going to need ‘tune ups.’ The human body isn’t made to be full of hardware. I can do an exploratory surgery and see if there is a deeper cause.”
I turned my head slowly to look at my mother.
“So, I am structurally sound? The pain and movement is normal?”
“You’re going to feel pain with a spine in the state yours is in. Your muscles and the scar tissue are probably responsible and you’ve developed some hypermobility around your pelvis and ribs.”
My eyes settled on the x-rays. Surgeries had burned through years I might have spent living. Instead of going to school, I had laid in bed consuming novels and escaping into worlds in which I could never exist. Did I want another operation?
“No surgery. Are there other options?”
I could feel my mother’s astonishment. The doctor titled his head in surprise.
Ever the surgeon, he asked, “Are you sure? We might find something.”
“Six surgeries are enough.” Number seven could kiss my ass, I thought.
“Okay. Let’s talk about what’s out there non-surgically.” He sounded disappointed, but I was thrilled.
Stable. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but my spine was stable. That was all I needed.
About the Author
Mary-Pat Buss is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Communication, Cultures, English, and World Languages at Texas Lutheran University. Her research focuses on minimized feminist voices and disability studies, while her work as a nonfiction writer also explores lessons in empathy and representation. She is a recent graduate of Texas State University’s Masters of Fine Arts Creative Writing program, nonfiction winner in the Coalition of Texans with Disabilities Pen2Paper competition, and a D.H. Lawrence Society fellowship recipient. Buss lives in Central Texas and fills her time with friends, shenanigans, and playing with her labradoodle, Daisy.
About the Work
“Stable” is the story of Mary-Pat’s experiences with scoliosis and surgeries resulting from that original condition. It seeks to humanize the patient ordeal and highlight the challenges that many people with scoliosis tackle. Disability is often minimized and the goal of “Stable” is to help bring it into the light.
Mary-Pat Buss is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Communication, Cultures, English, and World Languages at Texas Lutheran University. Her research focuses on minimized feminist voices and disability studies, while her work as a nonfiction writer also explores lessons in empathy and representation. She is a recent graduate of Texas State University’s Masters of Fine Arts Creative Writing program, nonfiction winner in the Coalition of Texans with Disabilities Pen2Paper competition, and a D.H. Lawrence Society fellowship recipient. Buss lives in Central Texas and fills her time with friends, shenanigans, and playing with her labradoodle, Daisy.
About the Work
“Stable” is the story of Mary-Pat’s experiences with scoliosis and surgeries resulting from that original condition. It seeks to humanize the patient ordeal and highlight the challenges that many people with scoliosis tackle. Disability is often minimized and the goal of “Stable” is to help bring it into the light.
