Read Online Dwarf: A Memoir by Tiffanie Didonato, Rennie Dyball - Free Book Online
Authors: Tiffanie Didonato, Rennie Dyball
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pills. Gently, Dad pulled away the
sheets and placed a hand over each of myfeet, rubbing the tops of them with his coarse fingertips. That soothed everything.
The arguing, the pain, it was all gone, at least for now.
“Dad, can you make me an automatic foot-rubbing machine?”
“An automatic foot rubber?” he repeated, stifling a smile. It sounded more like “rubba”
when he said it. Dad always had a Bostonian accent, so he occasionally dropped his
r
’s.
“Maybe you can use some of the same metal they put inside me and make fingers that
move back and forth,” I suggested. “I think you can do it. You can make anything.”
“I’ll draw up some plans,” he replied, humoring me, though I felt quite sure he’d
actually get to work on it. Silently, I wished that the pills would kick in sooner.
“I could help,” I told him, my eyes still closed. “I don’t want a ring like Mom’s
anymore. I want an automatic foot rubba,” I added, imitating his accent.
“We’ll do that when you wake up. Try to go back to sleep. Okay, pumpkin pie?”
I nodded my head and took a deep breath, waiting for the medicine to work its magic
and for Mom’s bed to swallow me up in its sweet-smelling, soft embrace.
Over the course of days, then weeks, I adjusted to the idea that the metal in my legs
wasn’t going anywhere— not until I was four inches taller. My musical tastes during
this time changed, too, from my pop favorites like Cyndi and Debbie Gibson to hair
bands and hard rock.
After school, Katie would often visit me and together we’d watch Bret Michaels and
Guns N’ Roses videos on MTV. We’d giggle and quickly flip the channels back and forth,
timing itperfectly when Mom came and left the living room. MTV was forbidden in my house and
I loved the chance to rebel, even a little bit.
I devoured every detail Katie divulged to me about school. Without her, my days consisted
of homework from my tutor, range-of-motion exercises, stretching, and cleaning and
turning my pins.
Turning the pins, despite its torturous terminology, was actually the easiest part
about the entire lengthening process. Unlike the tools I’d created from household
items when I was younger, I now used an official tool that Dr. Shapiro had given me
right out of the hospital cabinet. It was called an L-wrench and I kept it by my side
at all times, even though I only needed it to turn the pins four times a day. The
wrench had become a part of me— or maybe part of the person I was going to be. Four
times a day I’d stick the short end of the wrench into a hole of the apparatus and
crank it counterclockwise. At eight in the morning, at noon, at six in the evening,
and finally, at midnight, I’d stretch my bones for a total of one millimeter a day.
And I didn’t feel a thing.
Cleaning the pin sites was more tedious than turning them. Every night, just before
bedtime, I dipped oversize Q-tips into hydrogen peroxide and swiped them along the
sites where the pins entered my skin and went into the bone. I pressed and then dragged
the skin away from each pin to prevent it from growing upward and becoming inflamed
and infected.
But the most defining part of the whole bone-lengthening procedure was the exercising.
I had absolutely no choice but to do it— if I didn’t, my muscles would lock up and,
as Mom explained it, the surgery wouldn’t work. I wouldn’t be able to gain the full
two inches in my tibias. Everything was connected— my ligaments, my skin, my nerves—
and they all needed to be stretched together to keep up with the stretching bone.
Though I couldn’tfully understand the medical explanation, I did understand that the more I stretched,
the less the tremors wreaked havoc inside me and the easier I could sleep.
Exercising every day broke me down and then built me back up again. I learned how
to control the pain instead of letting the pain control me. Together,
sheets and placed a hand over each of myfeet, rubbing the tops of them with his coarse fingertips. That soothed everything.
The arguing, the pain, it was all gone, at least for now.
“Dad, can you make me an automatic foot-rubbing machine?”
“An automatic foot rubber?” he repeated, stifling a smile. It sounded more like “rubba”
when he said it. Dad always had a Bostonian accent, so he occasionally dropped his
r
’s.
“Maybe you can use some of the same metal they put inside me and make fingers that
move back and forth,” I suggested. “I think you can do it. You can make anything.”
“I’ll draw up some plans,” he replied, humoring me, though I felt quite sure he’d
actually get to work on it. Silently, I wished that the pills would kick in sooner.
“I could help,” I told him, my eyes still closed. “I don’t want a ring like Mom’s
anymore. I want an automatic foot rubba,” I added, imitating his accent.
“We’ll do that when you wake up. Try to go back to sleep. Okay, pumpkin pie?”
I nodded my head and took a deep breath, waiting for the medicine to work its magic
and for Mom’s bed to swallow me up in its sweet-smelling, soft embrace.
Over the course of days, then weeks, I adjusted to the idea that the metal in my legs
wasn’t going anywhere— not until I was four inches taller. My musical tastes during
this time changed, too, from my pop favorites like Cyndi and Debbie Gibson to hair
bands and hard rock.
After school, Katie would often visit me and together we’d watch Bret Michaels and
Guns N’ Roses videos on MTV. We’d giggle and quickly flip the channels back and forth,
timing itperfectly when Mom came and left the living room. MTV was forbidden in my house and
I loved the chance to rebel, even a little bit.
I devoured every detail Katie divulged to me about school. Without her, my days consisted
of homework from my tutor, range-of-motion exercises, stretching, and cleaning and
turning my pins.
Turning the pins, despite its torturous terminology, was actually the easiest part
about the entire lengthening process. Unlike the tools I’d created from household
items when I was younger, I now used an official tool that Dr. Shapiro had given me
right out of the hospital cabinet. It was called an L-wrench and I kept it by my side
at all times, even though I only needed it to turn the pins four times a day. The
wrench had become a part of me— or maybe part of the person I was going to be. Four
times a day I’d stick the short end of the wrench into a hole of the apparatus and
crank it counterclockwise. At eight in the morning, at noon, at six in the evening,
and finally, at midnight, I’d stretch my bones for a total of one millimeter a day.
And I didn’t feel a thing.
Cleaning the pin sites was more tedious than turning them. Every night, just before
bedtime, I dipped oversize Q-tips into hydrogen peroxide and swiped them along the
sites where the pins entered my skin and went into the bone. I pressed and then dragged
the skin away from each pin to prevent it from growing upward and becoming inflamed
and infected.
But the most defining part of the whole bone-lengthening procedure was the exercising.
I had absolutely no choice but to do it— if I didn’t, my muscles would lock up and,
as Mom explained it, the surgery wouldn’t work. I wouldn’t be able to gain the full
two inches in my tibias. Everything was connected— my ligaments, my skin, my nerves—
and they all needed to be stretched together to keep up with the stretching bone.
Though I couldn’tfully understand the medical explanation, I did understand that the more I stretched,
the less the tremors wreaked havoc inside me and the easier I could sleep.
Exercising every day broke me down and then built me back up again. I learned how
to control the pain instead of letting the pain control me. Together,
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