Read Online Imperfect: An Improbable Life by Jim Abbott, Tim Brown - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jim Abbott, Tim Brown
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confusing the church’s preferred order of marriage, then conception and childbirth, Dad had grappled with the new uncertainty in his life. School, basketball practice, and work had been replaced by family and job, by paying bills, protecting his wife and son, and making a future for them all. The questions that chased him out of bed in the morning and kept him from sleep for hours at night seemingly had no answers.
How would he take care of this little boy? And who would fix him? What would happen when he found out he was different? What’s a boy’s life without a hand? Without sports? How would he defend himself against all the cruelty out there?
The worries that his son would grow up vulnerable, frightened, and alone hounded him. He’d carry those grinding insecurities for years, but never were they more relentless than in these first months, when he, too, was vulnerable and frightened. Dad became determinedto make it all right, starting with moving us into the house he grew up in, where he was comfortable, and then holding a job. Six months later, upon his return from the National Guard, we became a family. If you didn’t look too close, I was enough like most babies. Dad chose to be the provider and the doting father. Where he once carried apprehension and could see only obstructions, he smiled when I did, and when Mom did. It was a start, Dad’s first move toward searching for hope and recognizing opportunity. As downtown Flint teetered toward unpredictability, we soon moved into an apartment on Flint’s north side, and a year later Dad bought our first house. Through the usual baby stuff, all the while we were creeping up on the greater problem of my right arm, which was small and weak and wouldn’t do much. Worse, of course, it ended at about the wrist. As I grew older, the structural condition of that arm and hand became less important—as far as my parents were concerned—than the condition of my self-esteem, particularly as I came to realize all the other boys and girls had two fully developed hands. Then we’d deal with what I was going to do about it. There would be daily physical dilemmas, daily obstacles and daily triumphs and failures, which never did disappear. But there was always tomorrow.
Mom and Dad were consumed by preparing me for the world outside our living room. That meant frequent trips to doctors and specialists and physical therapists, frequent examinations and X-rays, followed by the process of sorting through the results, opinions, and recommendations. As I neared kindergarten, they wondered if I’d be allowed into the public elementary school in the neighborhood and, if I was, if I could cope with it. With that approaching, we spent a little more time on the structural side of my handicap, which meant more time at the Mott Children’s Hospital and consultations with the Crippled Children’s Fund, which, in spite of its ghastly name,did ease the financial burden on the family—now a family of four with the addition of Chad. By then, while Mom made some money teaching and prepared to go to law school, Dad was working long days as a meter reader and meat cutter to keep the lights on, the furnace lit, and everybody fed. Yes, a meter reader. I wasn’t even sure there were parking meters in Flint. Like I said, complicated.
In each doctor’s office, the initial consultation began the same way: a long look at my right arm and a question, posed inoffensively: “What happened here?” Of course my parents had no answer. After more inquiries, all of them predictably about the nature of the pregnancy, what Mom may or may not have been exposed to, whether there was a traumatic event and if there was a family history of birth defects, the responses to which did nothing to explain my condition, they’d get around to considering what to do about it. The consensus among specialists was that I’d function better with a prosthetic arm and a mechanical hand—a hook. Before long, I was in
How would he take care of this little boy? And who would fix him? What would happen when he found out he was different? What’s a boy’s life without a hand? Without sports? How would he defend himself against all the cruelty out there?
The worries that his son would grow up vulnerable, frightened, and alone hounded him. He’d carry those grinding insecurities for years, but never were they more relentless than in these first months, when he, too, was vulnerable and frightened. Dad became determinedto make it all right, starting with moving us into the house he grew up in, where he was comfortable, and then holding a job. Six months later, upon his return from the National Guard, we became a family. If you didn’t look too close, I was enough like most babies. Dad chose to be the provider and the doting father. Where he once carried apprehension and could see only obstructions, he smiled when I did, and when Mom did. It was a start, Dad’s first move toward searching for hope and recognizing opportunity. As downtown Flint teetered toward unpredictability, we soon moved into an apartment on Flint’s north side, and a year later Dad bought our first house. Through the usual baby stuff, all the while we were creeping up on the greater problem of my right arm, which was small and weak and wouldn’t do much. Worse, of course, it ended at about the wrist. As I grew older, the structural condition of that arm and hand became less important—as far as my parents were concerned—than the condition of my self-esteem, particularly as I came to realize all the other boys and girls had two fully developed hands. Then we’d deal with what I was going to do about it. There would be daily physical dilemmas, daily obstacles and daily triumphs and failures, which never did disappear. But there was always tomorrow.
Mom and Dad were consumed by preparing me for the world outside our living room. That meant frequent trips to doctors and specialists and physical therapists, frequent examinations and X-rays, followed by the process of sorting through the results, opinions, and recommendations. As I neared kindergarten, they wondered if I’d be allowed into the public elementary school in the neighborhood and, if I was, if I could cope with it. With that approaching, we spent a little more time on the structural side of my handicap, which meant more time at the Mott Children’s Hospital and consultations with the Crippled Children’s Fund, which, in spite of its ghastly name,did ease the financial burden on the family—now a family of four with the addition of Chad. By then, while Mom made some money teaching and prepared to go to law school, Dad was working long days as a meter reader and meat cutter to keep the lights on, the furnace lit, and everybody fed. Yes, a meter reader. I wasn’t even sure there were parking meters in Flint. Like I said, complicated.
In each doctor’s office, the initial consultation began the same way: a long look at my right arm and a question, posed inoffensively: “What happened here?” Of course my parents had no answer. After more inquiries, all of them predictably about the nature of the pregnancy, what Mom may or may not have been exposed to, whether there was a traumatic event and if there was a family history of birth defects, the responses to which did nothing to explain my condition, they’d get around to considering what to do about it. The consensus among specialists was that I’d function better with a prosthetic arm and a mechanical hand—a hook. Before long, I was in
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