Read Online Dwarf: A Memoir by Tiffanie Didonato, Rennie Dyball - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tiffanie Didonato, Rennie Dyball
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Mom and I sat
on the living room floor and I reached for my toes. The muscles in my calves clamped
and the skin circling my pins pulled and burned as I reached forward. My stomach felt
tight and hard as I tried to pull my toes toward my fingertips. I was only inches
away from touching my feet, but in my world, inches felt like miles.
“Don’t let it beat you,” Mom ordered when another leg spasm crept up my leg as I stretched.
“Breathe deep, in and out!” She wanted me to learn how to regulate my breathing. I
learned another, more important lesson in those days as well: the more I controlled
my pain, the less pain my dad experienced with my mom.
Throughout my lengthening process, I learned how to identify each hurtful sensation,
and even to categorize it as being muscle, bone, nerve, or vascular pain. Muscle pain
was sharp and stung rapidly. More often than not, vascular pain followed shortly thereafter.
That was a throbbing sensation and it made my limbs feel cool or numb. Bone pain felt
cold and penetrated deeper inside. The worst was nerve pain; it was a relentless mixture
of all those sensations, and there was no rhyme or reason as to when it would strike.
Once in a while, I’d feel temporarily defeated, and, like clockwork, another argument
would develop between my parents and the four-letter words would fly. It was my job
to capture the pain and get it under control.
As I continued stretching, my eyes began to hurt from squeezing them shut and my vision
blurred. My arms felt heavy as I stretched them forward. My teeth hurt from clenching
my jaw and then my ears began to ring, but Mom kept coaching me.
“Don’t lose control. Breathe! Take deep breaths, nice and slow,” Mom shouted over
my wailing.
From down in the basement, I could hear my dad vacuuming. The grinding of the vacuum
motor was, I’m sure, his way of drowning out the crying and yelling.
This was my introduction— my training— to learning how to cope with true adult pain,
and the harsh realities of diastrophic dysplasia.
“Don’t let it win. Don’t let the pain win. Toughen up. Fight!” Mom told me. “Count
backwards from five and we’ll be done,” she promised.
“Five,” I choked out between carefully timed breaths.
“Fight for
yourself
,” Mom coached me.
“Four!”
“You’ll never get anywhere in this world unless you fight. Remember this!”
I heard her loud and clear as I considered the vast difference between the way my
mom handled problems and the way my dad ran from them.
“Three!”
“Fight to reach those doorknobs! Fight to reach Daddy’s stereo! Fight to see above
the dining table!”
“Two!” I wanted to help
set
the dining table. I wanted to see over the windowsill and reach every doorknob in
the world so I’d never get stuck again.
“Fight to live your life, Tiffie.”
I meant to shout the final number at the top of my lungs, but another word came out
instead.
“Fight!”
After a month or two of turning my pins day after day, I gradually began to notice
that the tiny difference in my legs was becoming a big one. I no longer needed pots
or cookbooks to reach the things I desired.
I could see above the dining table and help set it, too.
My shoes were no longer easy to tie, as my feet stretched farther away from my reach.
I could look down into my bedside table drawer and actually take in the mess that
it had become. I could even reach the top of my dresser, and I could see, just barely,
the top of my forehead in the mirror.
And for the first time, I felt the shape of a rounded doorknob in my hand, as opposed
to the handles my father installed at my height. It was firm and solid. It felt so
good. It was a whole new world for me, and I felt that I’d earned it.
Dad may have hated her for it, but my mother made the right decision with the lengthening
surgery. Soon, another operation was scheduled to take the pins out of the
on the living room floor and I reached for my toes. The muscles in my calves clamped
and the skin circling my pins pulled and burned as I reached forward. My stomach felt
tight and hard as I tried to pull my toes toward my fingertips. I was only inches
away from touching my feet, but in my world, inches felt like miles.
“Don’t let it beat you,” Mom ordered when another leg spasm crept up my leg as I stretched.
“Breathe deep, in and out!” She wanted me to learn how to regulate my breathing. I
learned another, more important lesson in those days as well: the more I controlled
my pain, the less pain my dad experienced with my mom.
Throughout my lengthening process, I learned how to identify each hurtful sensation,
and even to categorize it as being muscle, bone, nerve, or vascular pain. Muscle pain
was sharp and stung rapidly. More often than not, vascular pain followed shortly thereafter.
That was a throbbing sensation and it made my limbs feel cool or numb. Bone pain felt
cold and penetrated deeper inside. The worst was nerve pain; it was a relentless mixture
of all those sensations, and there was no rhyme or reason as to when it would strike.
Once in a while, I’d feel temporarily defeated, and, like clockwork, another argument
would develop between my parents and the four-letter words would fly. It was my job
to capture the pain and get it under control.
As I continued stretching, my eyes began to hurt from squeezing them shut and my vision
blurred. My arms felt heavy as I stretched them forward. My teeth hurt from clenching
my jaw and then my ears began to ring, but Mom kept coaching me.
“Don’t lose control. Breathe! Take deep breaths, nice and slow,” Mom shouted over
my wailing.
From down in the basement, I could hear my dad vacuuming. The grinding of the vacuum
motor was, I’m sure, his way of drowning out the crying and yelling.
This was my introduction— my training— to learning how to cope with true adult pain,
and the harsh realities of diastrophic dysplasia.
“Don’t let it win. Don’t let the pain win. Toughen up. Fight!” Mom told me. “Count
backwards from five and we’ll be done,” she promised.
“Five,” I choked out between carefully timed breaths.
“Fight for
yourself
,” Mom coached me.
“Four!”
“You’ll never get anywhere in this world unless you fight. Remember this!”
I heard her loud and clear as I considered the vast difference between the way my
mom handled problems and the way my dad ran from them.
“Three!”
“Fight to reach those doorknobs! Fight to reach Daddy’s stereo! Fight to see above
the dining table!”
“Two!” I wanted to help
set
the dining table. I wanted to see over the windowsill and reach every doorknob in
the world so I’d never get stuck again.
“Fight to live your life, Tiffie.”
I meant to shout the final number at the top of my lungs, but another word came out
instead.
“Fight!”
After a month or two of turning my pins day after day, I gradually began to notice
that the tiny difference in my legs was becoming a big one. I no longer needed pots
or cookbooks to reach the things I desired.
I could see above the dining table and help set it, too.
My shoes were no longer easy to tie, as my feet stretched farther away from my reach.
I could look down into my bedside table drawer and actually take in the mess that
it had become. I could even reach the top of my dresser, and I could see, just barely,
the top of my forehead in the mirror.
And for the first time, I felt the shape of a rounded doorknob in my hand, as opposed
to the handles my father installed at my height. It was firm and solid. It felt so
good. It was a whole new world for me, and I felt that I’d earned it.
Dad may have hated her for it, but my mother made the right decision with the lengthening
surgery. Soon, another operation was scheduled to take the pins out of the
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