Read Online Dwarf: A Memoir by Tiffanie Didonato, Rennie Dyball - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tiffanie Didonato, Rennie Dyball
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in my shins and drill a new set into the femurs in my thighs. Altogether it was about
two years of surgeries, recovery periods, and exercising until the pins came out.
Then, all that remained were tiny clear bandages called Steri-Strips taped across
the holes in my skin to help them close. These were my first battle wounds, and my
first real sense of what it was like to be more independent.
My legs felt like feathers once they were free from all the metal, but they were also
weak, and I struggled to stand and walk. Light bed linens felt like heavy down blankets
and I could barely move my legs underneath them at first. The stretching continued,
but now Dad turned off the vacuum. And one day, he came homeand gave me a boom box of my own— with a fancy dual cassette player and removable
speakers so that I could play music while I kept up with my rehab.
“I’m sorry,” Dad began. “The Fair didn’t have one in pink.” He placed a black boom
box in front of me with a smile.
It was topped with an enormous pink bow.
CHAPTER 5
Too Small for Texas
At my mother’s air force swearing-in ceremony in Sudbury, Massachusetts. We moved
to San Antonio shortly thereafter.
I N JANUARY 1991 , the Gulf War played out like a movie on TV. I sat in my living room, transfixed
by the live shots of soldiers and marines in camouflage crossing the desert with loaded
rifles. Elsewhere on the dial, tanks fired and bombs exploded, and suddenly the idea
of war— previously relegated to history books— felt very real.
One unseasonably warm winter afternoon,
he
was coming over: a recruiter from the US Air Force. Mom wanted to enlist. Not long
before, she’d announced to my dad that she wanted to do her part for our country and
work with the troops that we’d seen on TV.
“It’s never too late to do what you want to do in life,” I’d heard her say on many
occasions.
Our front door was open, and the screen let in the breeze. I sat with my new, four-inch-longer
legs stretched out in front of me, waiting. The Nintendo that Nick had let me borrow
was plugged into our big, boxy TV, and I was excited to play his
Top Gun
game, which I’d specifically chosen for the recruiter’s visit. It was my way of showing
off.
With my fingers poised on the controller, ready to hit “start,” I saw him. Dressed
in a deep blue uniform with stripes and ribbons decorating his arms and chest, he
was far more handsome than the camo-clad troops from TV. The recruiter’s hair was
dark and cut short, and when he smiled, he flashed a set of gorgeous white teeth that
were as shiny as his black dress shoes. My mouth dropped open and my controller clattered
to the floor. He was Superman. No, he was better than Superman, because Superman wasn’t
real, and this recruiter most certainly was.
As I stared at him, wondering whether he had flown in the jets I’d seen on commercials
but feeling far too nervous to ask, he looked down at me through the screen.
“Hello,” he said in a loud but friendly voice.
Mom then appeared from around the corner.
“Say hello, honey,” she said as she welcomed him inside.
The recruiter walked in, removed his hat, and asked with a smile, “
Top Gun
?”
I stared at his uniform. There wasn’t a wrinkle in sight. He was like a living, breathing
billboard for the United States military, and all I could do was watch him in stunned
silence, managing only a weak nod. It was one thing to see the jets and the bombs
on TV and the men with rifles standing their ground without so much as a flinch. It
was quite another to be in the presence of a man who may have actually sat under the
dome of a fighter jet or behind the sights of a rifle.
“Outstanding,” he replied, reaching into his bag and handing me a blue and white baseball
cap. “Here,” he said, handing it to me. “You’ll need this.”
The cap had a fighter jet stitched onto the front with red
in my shins and drill a new set into the femurs in my thighs. Altogether it was about
two years of surgeries, recovery periods, and exercising until the pins came out.
Then, all that remained were tiny clear bandages called Steri-Strips taped across
the holes in my skin to help them close. These were my first battle wounds, and my
first real sense of what it was like to be more independent.
My legs felt like feathers once they were free from all the metal, but they were also
weak, and I struggled to stand and walk. Light bed linens felt like heavy down blankets
and I could barely move my legs underneath them at first. The stretching continued,
but now Dad turned off the vacuum. And one day, he came homeand gave me a boom box of my own— with a fancy dual cassette player and removable
speakers so that I could play music while I kept up with my rehab.
“I’m sorry,” Dad began. “The Fair didn’t have one in pink.” He placed a black boom
box in front of me with a smile.
It was topped with an enormous pink bow.
CHAPTER 5
Too Small for Texas
At my mother’s air force swearing-in ceremony in Sudbury, Massachusetts. We moved
to San Antonio shortly thereafter.
I N JANUARY 1991 , the Gulf War played out like a movie on TV. I sat in my living room, transfixed
by the live shots of soldiers and marines in camouflage crossing the desert with loaded
rifles. Elsewhere on the dial, tanks fired and bombs exploded, and suddenly the idea
of war— previously relegated to history books— felt very real.
One unseasonably warm winter afternoon,
he
was coming over: a recruiter from the US Air Force. Mom wanted to enlist. Not long
before, she’d announced to my dad that she wanted to do her part for our country and
work with the troops that we’d seen on TV.
“It’s never too late to do what you want to do in life,” I’d heard her say on many
occasions.
Our front door was open, and the screen let in the breeze. I sat with my new, four-inch-longer
legs stretched out in front of me, waiting. The Nintendo that Nick had let me borrow
was plugged into our big, boxy TV, and I was excited to play his
Top Gun
game, which I’d specifically chosen for the recruiter’s visit. It was my way of showing
off.
With my fingers poised on the controller, ready to hit “start,” I saw him. Dressed
in a deep blue uniform with stripes and ribbons decorating his arms and chest, he
was far more handsome than the camo-clad troops from TV. The recruiter’s hair was
dark and cut short, and when he smiled, he flashed a set of gorgeous white teeth that
were as shiny as his black dress shoes. My mouth dropped open and my controller clattered
to the floor. He was Superman. No, he was better than Superman, because Superman wasn’t
real, and this recruiter most certainly was.
As I stared at him, wondering whether he had flown in the jets I’d seen on commercials
but feeling far too nervous to ask, he looked down at me through the screen.
“Hello,” he said in a loud but friendly voice.
Mom then appeared from around the corner.
“Say hello, honey,” she said as she welcomed him inside.
The recruiter walked in, removed his hat, and asked with a smile, “
Top Gun
?”
I stared at his uniform. There wasn’t a wrinkle in sight. He was like a living, breathing
billboard for the United States military, and all I could do was watch him in stunned
silence, managing only a weak nod. It was one thing to see the jets and the bombs
on TV and the men with rifles standing their ground without so much as a flinch. It
was quite another to be in the presence of a man who may have actually sat under the
dome of a fighter jet or behind the sights of a rifle.
“Outstanding,” he replied, reaching into his bag and handing me a blue and white baseball
cap. “Here,” he said, handing it to me. “You’ll need this.”
The cap had a fighter jet stitched onto the front with red
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