The night’s frost still clings to the shady basins of the dunes, although the sun is steadily marching higher in the sky, pushing back the white frosting coating the sand. For the Oregon Coast in January, it is a spectacular day. I’ve woken late, my conference schedule allowing for a late start, and one of the first things I’ve done is call my wife to check in.
My daughter had physical therapy yesterday and we’re discussing how the session went. I can tell there is something bothering Tracy and I ask if everything is okay.
“I didn’t want to tell you while you were gone,” she says.
“No, tell me. I’d appreciate it if you tell me.”
“Well, Cressa, the physical therapist wants to put a new brace on Shea. Both legs. She thinks Shea’s walking on her toes is getting worse.”
I mumble a quick, “Uh huh,” and hope my wife will continue quickly. I don’t like these stories to be dragged out. I want the information quick and dirty. Otherwise, if I don’t get it that way, my mind begins to wander, I see surgery, disfigurement, a lack of physical aptitude.
“It’s going to be a calf-length brace on both feet. It’ll incorporate the orthotics she already wears and so we’ll only have to worry about one brace. She needs to wear it 90% of the day.”
“Wow,” I say. It’s not the brace I’m amazed at. It’s the amount of time during the day she’ll have to wear them. I should tell you that my daughter is going to be two in a matter of weeks. She’s a baby, or close to it anyway. Braces are a struggle, a power play that involves coaxing, persuasion, and, yes, sometimes even force. I’m not saying force in terms of physical force, abusive force, but a force of will to ignore Shea’s cries and tears when she doesn’t want to wear them. The force of will to understand what you are doing is incomprehensible to the child, but, in the end, in her best interest.
“Yeah, I know,” Tracy says, “Anyway, Cressa think they’ll be temporary. Six to nine months. If we don’t do this now, her calf muscle won’t elongate, won’t generate the proper strength and could cause problems with her balance, her ankle, knee, hip, and back. We have to do this.”
Tracy is persuading me, trying to argue me into acceptance. What she doesn’t know is I’ve already accepted this. I’m firm in my resolve that this is the best course of action. Then I wonder if it isn’t about me, if it’s about her, if she is persuading herself. It sucks I’m gone.
I’ve been gone for a week now and am not due to return for another three days. It’s hard enough on Tracy and I both that I’m not there. Tracy’s aunt Mary is there at the house, taking care of Shea while Tracy is at work and I am gone. She’s a lovely woman and we are blessed to have her around to help with everything. I don’t know what we would have done without her.
Tracy and I are creatures of habit, routine, schedules. I was never this way as a young man, but I’ve come to love the security of the schedule, the safety it provides from anxiety and stress. But, also, it makes weeks like this, when I am gone, much harder to handle. Things are in disarray, chaos. It sets us both on edge a little bit and our conversations feel like we are talking across continents, instead of only the distance of an hour and a half drive.
So, the braces. In my mind they are mechanical contraptions, bulky, heavy, unattractive. I know modern orthotics and corrective devices aren’t always this complicated, but I grew up in a time where they were. I remember a girl Stephanie in grade school who had complex mechanical braces on her legs plus arm supports that helped her walk. This is the image that pops into my mind. It makes me sad, fretful. It’s not because of Stephanie, it’s because of the way I remember people treating Stephanie.
Stephanie herself was a bright and witty young girl. She was also the best tetherball player I had ever seen. The strength in her arms as a result of using them to help her walk was enormous. She couldn’t move quickly, so she would plant herself at a strategic point on the court. She didn’t need to move. Her long arms seemed to attract the ball with some kind of magnetism. You had to hit the ball perfectly so it hit the apex of its arc just above her head. Anything in an upswing, or dropping too early, was hers. I don’t think I ever beat her. I don’t think many people ever did.
I remember that playground and those games. Stephanie didn’t excel at dodgeball or basketball but she owned the tetherball court, which was one of my favorite games to play at recess. I played with her often, wanting desperately to beat her. I was a child, I wasn’t taking it easy on her because of her disability, I was playing an opponent, a good one, and I wanted to win, to prove myself. I can’t remember if I ever did or not.
So this image of Shea in these mechanical braces, having to walk with corrective devices does bring me some sadness. It makes me realize I will be explaining myself to nosy people in grocery stores and restaurants. I know I will have to have a conversation with my mother, who watches Shea once a week, and stress the importance of her wearing the braces, even though she cries and throws fits.
It’s hard to not cave in the face of a crying child. It’s hard to assert strength of will over their tearful objection. This is parenthood, though, right? I’m not acting this way out of some form of malicious intent. I’m trying to help her, I’m trying to prevent long term damage to her skeletal and muscular structures. I have her best interest at heart, right?
So, if all of this is true, then why is this so hard?
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