Dr. Stanley originally recommended the Scottish Rite hospital for my next step. Dr. Greenfield, my far superior specialist (whom I still utilize to this day) had suggested the Shriners. My father and I were both pleased with that recommendation. In 1952, the year my father was born, my great-grandfather was the Potentate of the Alzafar Temple in San Antonio. Although he had passed away several years earlier, we still had several connections with the Shriners. My dad's uncle, Johnny, was (and still is today) very active with the organization. As soon as he heard about my condition, he did everything possible to get me in to see the specialists in Houston.
My sophomore year of high school was, with only a few exceptions, uneventful. I was no longer in the band, and a majority of my classes were far too easy. The one class that actually kept my attention all year was chemistry. Chuck was an awesome teacher with a very unique sense of humor. I'm quite certain that my interest in the sciences would be far less than it currently is had I not taken his class. I also renewed my interest in bowling and joined the junior league once again. Sean decided to join as well, and we ended up on a team with Jason. Together, we were the "Three Fat Alley Cats", and while we didn't do so well during the regular season, we certainly turned up the heat that following summer.
I was a member of Business Professionals of America that particular year, and it was the first school club I'd been in with serious competitions (aside from band) that were further away than San Antonio. Regionals were rather boring, but I did take first place in the Management Concepts event, which consisted of a 50-question multiple choice test on common sense business decisions. A month later, we traveled to Arlington for the state competition. The test was just as easy as before, but I had placed fifth. I was the first alternate for nationals, six weeks later in Orlando. I also realized during that trip that I would probably never be able to enjoy a roller coaster again because it was just impossible to sit in one with my hip problems. Three weeks after State, my teacher received a call. One of the top four from Texas had failed a class and was ineligible to go to Nationals. I was on my way to Orlando!
Most of the time was spent playing around. EPCOT and NASA's Kennedy Space Center were the high points of the trip, until the events were all over. We arrived at the award ceremony early to get good seats, and the emcees called up the top ten to the stage for each event. I was more than surprised to hear my name called when they got to Management Concepts. Awkwardly, I made it to the stage and joined the nine other finalists. My fingers crossed behind my back, I stood there hoping to hear my name again. Third place? Someone else from Texas. Second place? Someone from Ohio. First place? "Justin Burdette, Boerne, Texas"
I was in shock. There were no words to describe how I felt at the time, and I think my teacher was on the verge of having a heart attack when they called my name as well. I stumbled forward to accept my plaque and ribbon, then we shuffled off the stage. Before I could even get a chance to call my father, Sam Champion, the high school principal, called my hotel room to congratulate me. I found out then that I was the first person from Boerne High to ever take first place in a national-level competition. The rest of the year flashed by, but not without a lot of recognition (and my name on the marquee until the last week of school!)
The last day of school came, and everyone celebrated. Sean, Jason and I loaded up in my dad's van for a trip to San Antonio. Our destination was the Columbia 300 bowling ball factory. My father had become friendly with the CEO through his job and was given an invitation for my sister and I, plus our teams, to come see the factory and get new bowling balls for the upcoming state tournament. Sean chose the Beast, Jason went with a Cuda, and I chose the brand new Pulse. At the time, my father was on the board of directors for the bowling alley in Boerne, and as such, he had the keys. We practiced with our new equipment almost every day until the tournament, sometimes bowling as many as fifteen games in an afternoon. Our averages at the end of the season were less than spectacular. I closed out with a 135, Sean with a 131, and Jason with a 127. As the tournament grew close, we were consistently rolling 180 and above. We were confident going in to the tournament, as we knew the lanes at the Boerne Turn Verein were considerably more challenging than almost any other center in the country.
Before the tournament, however, my sister and I had to make the annual summer trip to Tennessee. In most previous years, we would visit for a month, but because of everything else going on, we were only there for ten days. My aunt was disappointed to see the lack of progress with my hip, but she understood what was going on and didn't push too hard. Upon our return, my father and I had a little project to work on. I had earned my driver's license just a few months earlier and, until then, had been borrowing my dad's van when he wasn't at work. One of his co-workers had given me an old junker of a car that needed a lot of work. Apparently it had belonged to one of his kids when they were my age just a few years earlier. This magnificently craptastic automobile was a 1974 Plymouth Valiant...or at least that's what my insurance company called it. I'm pretty sure it was a pile of rust pasted together with raw shit. Our first project was to replace the tires and valve cover gaskets, which we did with almost no problems. I drove it in to town that afternoon for the inspection, and found out that it needed a voltage regulator as the wipers didn't work. One of my father's friends from the bowling alley was able to fix it, and later that afternoon my car was completely legal to drive. The next day, however, I was getting ready to leave Wal-Mart and it just wouldn't start. We tried for almost two hours. It ended up being the timing chain, and my dad's friend was all too happy to fix that as well. Unfortunately, it would take almost a week to repair.
I ended up not missing it most of that week. The very next day, my father came home from work and told my sister that we had to flip a coin to see who got the washing machine first, as our bags had to be packed and ready to go by 3:15 the next morning. At first, he wouldn't tell us where we were going...but he gave us a clue, underestimating my memory. The clue was "17", and I immediately knew what that meant! Amanda and I actually cooperated on laundry for once, and all I told her was to pack for the beach. At 6:05 the next morning, we were airborne and headed for DFW. My sister still didn't know where we were going, and I doubt seeing the bag tags marked "HNL" would have given her a clue. Imagine her surprise when, after breakfast at DFW, we walked to Delta's Gate 17 at DFW to wait for three seats on Flight 17, nonstop to Honolulu!
Traveling as a "non-rev" is not always fun. For the uninitiated, "non-rev" is airline slang for an employee or family member who is flying for free. It sounds nice until you realize that you can only fly when there are empty seats on the plane. Honolulu, being a popular destination year-round, is difficult to get to as a non-rev. We were fortunate, though, and got the last three of the 302 seats on the L-1011. My sister and I opted to switch seats to make things more comfortable for everyone, and in retrospect, I'd rather have been cramped in a window seat instead of what I had to go through.
The woman seated next to me in 24D was in her mid-forties and obviously had not traveled much. She seemed very nervous as the plane taxied to the runway. I generally don't strike up conversations when flying, but she had no problem with it! Over the next seven hours, I learned that she was moving to Hawaii for a job and was going to look for a place to live. She also revealed to me that she had never been married or had children, but she was very proud of her cat! I winced as she reached for her carry-on and pulled out THREE separate photo albums. All of them were pictures of her precious feline. I think that was the only point in my life when the idea of a free-fall from 37,000 feet into the Pacific Ocean was an appealing thought. Fortunately, I fell asleep. I woke up about 30 minutes before landing, now regretting not having a window seat.
Hawaii was amazing. We took in as much of Oahu as we could in the five days we had and did many of the usual tourist activities. Our plan was to go on to Maui for two days before returning home, but that plan was cut short by a phone call at 3AM. At first, I thought my grandmother was drunk when she called us.
"They're evacuating me! What do you want me to do with the dogs?"
"Huh?" I thought, not quite coherent thanks to the time difference. It wasn't a scotch-induced hallucination, the Sheriff and Fire Chief were on our front porch in Boerne with a rubber raft. The Guadalupe River had surged overnight and was ten feet from our front door, with indications that it would come even higher. Normally the river was a good quarter mile away and at least 100 feet below us. With this news, it was decided that we would fly back that afternoon. My grandmother was evacuated safely and was waiting for us, scotch and cigarettes in hand, when we made it back the day after.
It took a few days to get back to normal, but the tournament approached quickly. Arriving on a Friday, we thought it would be smart to roll a practice game or two at the center we'd be competing at the next morning. I thought I was doing quite well with a 196, but Jason surprised us all with is 244. We all went to bed early that night. The next morning proved to be just as great as we were hoping. During the team event that Saturday, we all bowled the best games of our lives, and not a single score on our sheet was under 190. It took me a few frames to really get in a rhythm at first, but I found my spot and closed out the first game with five strikes for a 229. The second game started off much better, but my nerves were being put to the test.
Nine frames down. Nine "X" marks on the screen next to my name. Three more strikes and I'd have my first perfect game. Several of my league members came over to watch and cheer me on as I took a deep breath and stepped up on the right lane's approach. I thought to myself, "Just like before. Right foot lined up with the second dot, focus on the third arrow. Wrist, perfect. Grip, dry...now push off." The ball's fourteen pounds felt like nothing as I came to the peak of my backswing. My slide was perfect, my toes stopping two inches from the foul line. Delivery was almost silent. The ball rolled directly over the third arrow, sliding closer to the right gutter and looking for a dry board to catch. Time slowed to a crawl as the ball gripped and turned left, aimed perfectly at the 1-3 pocket. The pins seem to fall in slow motion, but the sound of another perfect strike snapped me back to reality. Now my nerves were ablaze, as I'd never been this close to perfection. I stepped off the approach, grabbed my lucky towel and rosin bag, and continued breathing deeply. My teammates and fellow Boerne bowlers were cheering me on, and it was all I could do to get them to shut up so I wouldn't be so nervous. My ball came back, and I prepared for my next shot. Wiping the oil track off the ball, then drying my hands, I entered my routine again. Like a cruise missile, I was locked on to the third arrow and ready to go one step closer to perfection. The ball still felt lighter than air as I brought it to meet the lane, but something was amiss and it was too late to stop. Sweaty palms are always the bowler's worst enemy, and this time the sweat had caused my ring finger to lose its grip just a microsecond too soon. The ball rolled right across the third arrow, seemingly aimed at the gutter as before, and it turned to the left at the same spot...only this time, the turn was not as sharp. It entered the rack right between the 3 and 6 pins, taking out six of the ten I originally hoped for. The "wash-out", or 1-2-4-7 combination, remained standing, taunting me. Fortunately it was an easy spare to convert, and I ended game two with a whopping 286. The rest of the tournament went very well, with the lowest game among the three of us being a 194 on the second day.
Again, school approached...what would the next year bring?
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Chapter Four: Operate, Recover, Repeat
Dr. Stanley was quite thorough on my first visit. He took a series of X-rays that kept me on the table for at least an hour. I think I scared a few other patients, though, when he tried to move my leg past a certain point and I let out the most horrific scream I'd ever heard. He explained in great detail what would need to be done. The first step would be to put me under general anaesthesia to test my actual range of motion and inject some kind of steroid into my hip. I'm still not sure what the reason behind the steroid was. The second step, if his thoughts were correct, would be a procedure known as a Kramer Osteotomy. Simply put, a wedge would be cut out of the top of my femur. The bone would then be rotated back in to place and held together with three surgical screws. Dr. Stanley was quite optimistic about it, but I wasn't sure what to think.
We opted to go ahead with the surgery. Meanwhile, things continued to sour between my father and The Bitch. She was sleeping on the couch next to her kids and was given two weeks to find another place to live. Almost a month had passed before my father decided he'd had enough. He left a simple note telling her to be out of the house before he got home from work or he'd have a deputy there to remove her. I had just happened to be sick and staying home from school that day. I'm quite glad I did, as The Bitch tried to take all kinds of things that didn't belong to her. She even tried to take the cookware my grandmother had given me for Christmas! Fortunately, my sister was up early between the time my father left and when everyone else woke up to start their day. We still had a pumpkin on the front porch that had been there since shortly before Halloween. Amanda snuck outside with a knife, cut open the pumpkin, and smeared the rotting innards all over The Bitch's car. After learning about this later in the day, I made sure to give her a high-five when she got home from school! The Bitch claimed that she and her little shits were living out of her car in the small park across the street, although we knew she was taking advantage of a single male neighbor's free space in exchange for...well, you get the idea. After a few days, she just disappeared and left most of her belongings with us. It took a while, but most of the clothes ended up at Goodwill and anything else that couldn't be used or donated went on the burn pile.
February 27, 1996
It was exactly two years after my grandfather had passed away. My grandmother, who normally worries for all of us, was wound up like a Swiss watch spring. My father and I arrived at Santa Rosa Childrens' Hospital at 5 AM. I was nervous as hell, as the only other "surgery" I'd had done was on my toes, and I was fully awake for that one. In the pre-operative ward, they attempted to start an IV and failed miserably. I've always been tough to stick, and I know exactly where I get it from. My other grandmother (on my father's side) once went through twelve attempts to run an IV before surgery. I remember getting the "happy juice", as they called it, and wondering why I still didn't feel all that great. I said goodbye to my father and they wheeled me off to the operating room.
The next thing I remember is waking up an hour later in recovery with my leg strapped into a machine. This machine would flex my leg up to a certain angle slowly and then lower it back to a flat position. It was horrendously uncomfortable, and when my body was finally able to feel pain, I realized that my hip hurt like hell when it got to the top! The doctor kept me in the hospital for three days to make sure I acclimated to the machine. After my release, I had a very busy schedule of physical therapy ahead of me. The doctor's hypothesis was confirmed, and my next surgery was scheduled four weeks after the first. My physical therapy went well. Fortunately, most of it was in a swimming pool, and it actually felt good to get in the warm water. I was able to move more freely than I had in the last six months, and I was very happy about that!
March 26, 1996
It was time for the second operation. I had a strange sense of deja vu as we entered the hospital again at 5 AM. Sure enough, it took two tries to run the IV again, and the happy juice wasn't. The doctor was in a better mood, which gave me a little reassurance that this would go well and perhaps I would be back to normal after a few months. This time, when I woke up (five hours later) I was not strapped in to the machine. I was somewhat relieved. It was only a few minutes later that I discovered the joys of the morphine button. By the time Leno started, I was high as a kite and watching Univision. Now, I don't speak a word of Spanish beyond the menu at Taco Cabana, but it was apparently the funniest thing in the world to me!
By the next morning, they had cut back my morphine and wanted me to try standing up with a walker. No weight bearing on my hip for at least two weeks. By my second day up and about, I was making it down the hall to the nurses' station and back with almost no trouble. The walker was easier than I expected. Five days after surgery, the doctor cleared me to go home and told me to start using the infernal contraption again, starting off at a very low setting. It was decided that, since my father's work schedule would leave me home alone most of the day, I would stay with my mother for the first two weeks. This had several down sides, although being able to get help whenever I needed it managed to counter all of them. I slept in the recliner for the first two nights because I was afraid I wouldn't be able to get out of the bed. As things improved, I started walking around more with my crutches and was able to negotiate the stairs outside with almost no difficulty. The machine still hurt like hell, but that was to be expected. It was also at this time that I started getting serious about tinkering with computers. My mother had a 386 machine that had never worked properly, and with my downtime, a friend of hers let me borrow "The Computer Bible", which at the time was about six inches thick. One day my mother decided to go grocery shopping. I asked her to put the computer up on the dining room table so I could see exactly what I was reading about. A few minutes after she left, I hobbled my way into the kitchen and grabbed a screwdriver from the drawer. By the time she returned, the computer was stripped down to nothing with each piece labeled and sorted on the table. To say she was furious would have been an understatement. I told her that since it had never worked in the first place that there was no harm in trying to see what was wrong. Sure enough, when I put it back together, it powered on and loaded Windows 3.1! From that moment on, I was hooked.
I made it to my first follow-up with the doctor, and he was pleased with the results at that point. I began physical therapy three times a week and the doctor cleared me to go back to school. With Boerne High being so spread out though, the doctor thought it wise for me to finish the school year in a wheelchair. On my first day back, I had a miserable time trying to get through doors and make it to my classes. Most people ignored the fact that I was even there. When I made it to my locker, however, someone was kind enough to help me get my books together and get my belongings situated on the back of the chair. This guy had the locker next to mine. He was a sophomore at the time, a year above me, and had transferred to Boerne shortly after I originally broke my hip. We'd said hi a few times in passing, but this was the first time we really talked. Sean quickly became one of my best friends (and still is to this day) and I will never forget how he took the time to help someone he barely knew just because it was the decent thing to do.
With the end of school came, for the most part, the end of the wheelchair. I still kept it for going places like the mall and anything else that would have otherwise required a lot of walking. My physical therapy increased for the summer. I was now going in four days a week. With my father's schedule, we realized it would be easier if I went in with him at 3AM and hung out in the break room at the airport. For the first few days, I just sat in there and read for hours on end. I started with some computer books, then moved on to other topics that interested me.
By this time, my father had recovered from his relationship with The Bitch. He even started dating someone else, a co-worker from the airport. Cindy was tall, attractive, and very kind to all of us. She had five children, two boys that were a year off of my age in either direction, a girl a year younger than my sister, and two very young ones who were perfect angels compared to the two we'd dealt with just a few months before. The two boys and I hit it off rather well, and they would come in on my therapy days to keep me company. It was only two days before we decided that we couldn't find any decent trouble to get in at the airport, so we begged for bus passes so we could start spending our days at the mall. The walking turned out to be great therapy for my hip, and it was great to have a couple of friends that I could connect with. Unfortunately, my father's relationship with Cindy didn't go very far. She wanted more children, which my father wasn't too keen on (aside from the fact that it wouldn't have been possible anyway).
Physical therapy kept me busy for most of the summer, but no matter what I did, my range of motion didn't seem to improve like the doctor had hoped. Nothing showed up on the X-rays at my follow-up visits until December. By that time, I was walking and bowling again, although with a limp just as bad as before my hip had been broken.
At my December follow-up, the doctor conferred with other orthopaedic surgeons in his office, then came in the room to give me the bad news. Apparently, the surgery had been done too late after the injury for it to heal as he'd expected. It was a possibility he'd mentioned before, although the odds were not all that much to be concerned about at the time. He gave us a list of other hip specialists to see, and I realized that this would not be over any time soon, and it was time to make some new plans. My next appointment was for a second opinion from an excellent surgeon with a far better bedside manner than the last. He took his own series of X-rays and sadly came to the same conclusion.
We opted to go ahead with the surgery. Meanwhile, things continued to sour between my father and The Bitch. She was sleeping on the couch next to her kids and was given two weeks to find another place to live. Almost a month had passed before my father decided he'd had enough. He left a simple note telling her to be out of the house before he got home from work or he'd have a deputy there to remove her. I had just happened to be sick and staying home from school that day. I'm quite glad I did, as The Bitch tried to take all kinds of things that didn't belong to her. She even tried to take the cookware my grandmother had given me for Christmas! Fortunately, my sister was up early between the time my father left and when everyone else woke up to start their day. We still had a pumpkin on the front porch that had been there since shortly before Halloween. Amanda snuck outside with a knife, cut open the pumpkin, and smeared the rotting innards all over The Bitch's car. After learning about this later in the day, I made sure to give her a high-five when she got home from school! The Bitch claimed that she and her little shits were living out of her car in the small park across the street, although we knew she was taking advantage of a single male neighbor's free space in exchange for...well, you get the idea. After a few days, she just disappeared and left most of her belongings with us. It took a while, but most of the clothes ended up at Goodwill and anything else that couldn't be used or donated went on the burn pile.
February 27, 1996
It was exactly two years after my grandfather had passed away. My grandmother, who normally worries for all of us, was wound up like a Swiss watch spring. My father and I arrived at Santa Rosa Childrens' Hospital at 5 AM. I was nervous as hell, as the only other "surgery" I'd had done was on my toes, and I was fully awake for that one. In the pre-operative ward, they attempted to start an IV and failed miserably. I've always been tough to stick, and I know exactly where I get it from. My other grandmother (on my father's side) once went through twelve attempts to run an IV before surgery. I remember getting the "happy juice", as they called it, and wondering why I still didn't feel all that great. I said goodbye to my father and they wheeled me off to the operating room.
The next thing I remember is waking up an hour later in recovery with my leg strapped into a machine. This machine would flex my leg up to a certain angle slowly and then lower it back to a flat position. It was horrendously uncomfortable, and when my body was finally able to feel pain, I realized that my hip hurt like hell when it got to the top! The doctor kept me in the hospital for three days to make sure I acclimated to the machine. After my release, I had a very busy schedule of physical therapy ahead of me. The doctor's hypothesis was confirmed, and my next surgery was scheduled four weeks after the first. My physical therapy went well. Fortunately, most of it was in a swimming pool, and it actually felt good to get in the warm water. I was able to move more freely than I had in the last six months, and I was very happy about that!
March 26, 1996
It was time for the second operation. I had a strange sense of deja vu as we entered the hospital again at 5 AM. Sure enough, it took two tries to run the IV again, and the happy juice wasn't. The doctor was in a better mood, which gave me a little reassurance that this would go well and perhaps I would be back to normal after a few months. This time, when I woke up (five hours later) I was not strapped in to the machine. I was somewhat relieved. It was only a few minutes later that I discovered the joys of the morphine button. By the time Leno started, I was high as a kite and watching Univision. Now, I don't speak a word of Spanish beyond the menu at Taco Cabana, but it was apparently the funniest thing in the world to me!
By the next morning, they had cut back my morphine and wanted me to try standing up with a walker. No weight bearing on my hip for at least two weeks. By my second day up and about, I was making it down the hall to the nurses' station and back with almost no trouble. The walker was easier than I expected. Five days after surgery, the doctor cleared me to go home and told me to start using the infernal contraption again, starting off at a very low setting. It was decided that, since my father's work schedule would leave me home alone most of the day, I would stay with my mother for the first two weeks. This had several down sides, although being able to get help whenever I needed it managed to counter all of them. I slept in the recliner for the first two nights because I was afraid I wouldn't be able to get out of the bed. As things improved, I started walking around more with my crutches and was able to negotiate the stairs outside with almost no difficulty. The machine still hurt like hell, but that was to be expected. It was also at this time that I started getting serious about tinkering with computers. My mother had a 386 machine that had never worked properly, and with my downtime, a friend of hers let me borrow "The Computer Bible", which at the time was about six inches thick. One day my mother decided to go grocery shopping. I asked her to put the computer up on the dining room table so I could see exactly what I was reading about. A few minutes after she left, I hobbled my way into the kitchen and grabbed a screwdriver from the drawer. By the time she returned, the computer was stripped down to nothing with each piece labeled and sorted on the table. To say she was furious would have been an understatement. I told her that since it had never worked in the first place that there was no harm in trying to see what was wrong. Sure enough, when I put it back together, it powered on and loaded Windows 3.1! From that moment on, I was hooked.
I made it to my first follow-up with the doctor, and he was pleased with the results at that point. I began physical therapy three times a week and the doctor cleared me to go back to school. With Boerne High being so spread out though, the doctor thought it wise for me to finish the school year in a wheelchair. On my first day back, I had a miserable time trying to get through doors and make it to my classes. Most people ignored the fact that I was even there. When I made it to my locker, however, someone was kind enough to help me get my books together and get my belongings situated on the back of the chair. This guy had the locker next to mine. He was a sophomore at the time, a year above me, and had transferred to Boerne shortly after I originally broke my hip. We'd said hi a few times in passing, but this was the first time we really talked. Sean quickly became one of my best friends (and still is to this day) and I will never forget how he took the time to help someone he barely knew just because it was the decent thing to do.
With the end of school came, for the most part, the end of the wheelchair. I still kept it for going places like the mall and anything else that would have otherwise required a lot of walking. My physical therapy increased for the summer. I was now going in four days a week. With my father's schedule, we realized it would be easier if I went in with him at 3AM and hung out in the break room at the airport. For the first few days, I just sat in there and read for hours on end. I started with some computer books, then moved on to other topics that interested me.
By this time, my father had recovered from his relationship with The Bitch. He even started dating someone else, a co-worker from the airport. Cindy was tall, attractive, and very kind to all of us. She had five children, two boys that were a year off of my age in either direction, a girl a year younger than my sister, and two very young ones who were perfect angels compared to the two we'd dealt with just a few months before. The two boys and I hit it off rather well, and they would come in on my therapy days to keep me company. It was only two days before we decided that we couldn't find any decent trouble to get in at the airport, so we begged for bus passes so we could start spending our days at the mall. The walking turned out to be great therapy for my hip, and it was great to have a couple of friends that I could connect with. Unfortunately, my father's relationship with Cindy didn't go very far. She wanted more children, which my father wasn't too keen on (aside from the fact that it wouldn't have been possible anyway).
Physical therapy kept me busy for most of the summer, but no matter what I did, my range of motion didn't seem to improve like the doctor had hoped. Nothing showed up on the X-rays at my follow-up visits until December. By that time, I was walking and bowling again, although with a limp just as bad as before my hip had been broken.
At my December follow-up, the doctor conferred with other orthopaedic surgeons in his office, then came in the room to give me the bad news. Apparently, the surgery had been done too late after the injury for it to heal as he'd expected. It was a possibility he'd mentioned before, although the odds were not all that much to be concerned about at the time. He gave us a list of other hip specialists to see, and I realized that this would not be over any time soon, and it was time to make some new plans. My next appointment was for a second opinion from an excellent surgeon with a far better bedside manner than the last. He took his own series of X-rays and sadly came to the same conclusion.
Chapter Three: Muted Screams
We move on to the following week. It's October 9th, 2005. Everyone is still talking about the OJ Simpson verdict, although I really didn't give a damn. My situation is about to get even worse...
My father's new girlfriend apparently had a chat with him over the weekend regarding my injury, and somehow convinced him that this was an elaborate scheme to get out of doing chores. I was still in so much pain that I could barely get out of bed or stand up, and *any* weight on my right hip brought me to tears. The chiropractor wasn't helping so far. On Monday morning, I woke up and struggled to get dressed for school. I missed the bus, so my father drove me to school. The whole reason I missed the bus was because he took away my crutches the night before, stating that I'd "been on them long enough and would never get better" if I kept using them. It took me five minutes to make it from my bed to the toilet across the hall, and almost fifteen to make it to the living room. I think I actually ran out of tears at one point.
My father got me to school well before the bus would have. I was dropped off in front of the auditorium (instead of near the building where my class was, almost half a mile away on the other side of campus) around 7:15.
Boerne High School is a fairly large and spread out campus, with ten separate buildings, two gymnasiums, and around 1200 students at the time. It was also very fortunate to have had one of the most amazing administrators at the time, Mr. Sam Champion. He made an effort to get to know every one of his students and always addressed them by name when he saw them. He had known me since my days in elementary school, thanks to winning the spelling bee and several other accomplishments. I'll write much more about him later, but it is at this point that he enters the story.
By 7:30, I had progressed about forty feet from where I got out of my father's van. Mr. Champion arrived and parked in the faculty lot directly in front of the auditorium. In retrospect, I was lucky to have been dropped off where I was. Still in tears, I tried my hardest to keep moving while carrying a heavy backpack and being unable to bear any weight on my right side. Sam approached me on his way to the office, and, having seen me on crutches for the previous week, asked me if everything was OK. One look at my face gave him the answer. He helped me hobble to the nearest bench, about ten more feet from where I was, and told me to sit down while he would try to make arrangements for some help. He wasn't sure if the athletic office would have crutches or a wheelchair that I could use for the day, but he was prepared to call just about anywhere to help find something for me. Fortunately, the athletic office had a wheelchair for injured players. He brought it to me, got me situated in it, and then pushed me to his office so I could bring him up to speed. I told him about the fall, what the chiropractor had said, and the argument my father and I went through the night before about my crutches. He must have called my father later in the day. When I finished with after-school band practice, my father was there again to pick me up and he brought my crutches with him. At the time, getting my father to admit he was wrong about something was only slightly easier than gaining access to Area 51. Sam must have been very persuasive.
My father relented on the crutches but still expected me to do "my share" around the house, which included carrying out the trash twice a week. Carrying a 20-30 pound trash bag down a rocky driveway is no easy task with crutches. To make matters worse, the little hellions I mentioned before managed to get away with everything and blame it on me. I became the whipping boy of the house.
The chiropractor gave me a series of exercises to do every day at home to help with my hip. I did them every day and wouldn't stop until the pain was so bad that I was afraid I would pass out. This played heavily into the arguments I would have with my father on an almost nightly basis. I begged him to take me to a real doctor because I wasn't getting any better, and he would always refuse with the same excuse:
"If I take you to a specialist, they're going to call the chiropractor. She'll say that you haven't been doing your exercises and they'll tell you that they won't be able to help you."
The argument would escalate, and my father would start ranting about how I didn't respect him or his authority. It would frequently end with me getting slapped across the face or shoved into a piece of furniture, causing me even more pain. One night I even threatened to call the sheriff...he told me "go ahead, they can't do a thing...and you'll regret it." Like a fool, I chickened out. All I wanted was to get some kind of real help, as it was obvious to me (and apparently, only me!) that the chiropractor was full of shit.
Elsewhere at home, things continued in the downward spiral. My dad's girlfriend (from now on, she'll be known as The Bitch) tried even harder to get my sister and me to leave and live with our mother. Her kids would frequently make messes that would later be blamed on one of us, prompting another argument. Many nights I would lay awake and wish for a quick and painless escape from all of it.
The holidays came, and I spent Thanksgiving at my mother's. It was only the second time since the fall that I had seen my mother, the first being the weekend that it happened. Even her husband noticed that something much more serious was wrong and that the chiropractor was not helping.
During the second week of December, my sister ran away from home. She didn't even ride the bus home that afternoon, opting instead to catch a ride with a neighbor who was a good friend of hers. She told me that morning that she would not be coming home and that I could find her at Kim's, but I was sworn to secrecy. I never said a word. The Bitch threatened to hit me with various kitchen instruments and at one point swung a frying pan at my head when I wouldn't tell her where Amanda was. She remained at Kim's all night and got on the bus from there the next morning. My father, for the most part, ignored it. He never knew about what happened just three days later. Fearing that I would be stuck without the ability to walk for the rest of my life, having every plea for help ignored or answered with abuse, and not having any other way out, I grabbed my crutches that Friday and left. I didn't tell anyone where I was going. I crutched my way over a mile to the Guadalupe River Bridge and stood at the edge. Over the guardrail was a drop of almost two hundred feet, with shallow water and plenty of rocks at the bottom. I stood there on the bridge for almost an hour and chain-smoked the cigarettes I stole from my grandmother's bedroom. I kept thinking that if I went through with it, maybe it would be a wake-up call to my father and, at the very least, things could be better for my sister. I cried as I contemplated the plunge. I had just finished my last cigarette as Mike and his mother were approaching the bridge to come home. They saw me there on the bridge and pulled over. Mike asked what I was doing there, and I told him that since I had no options left, I was going to do my damnedest to make my sister's situation a little better. He gave me a hug and told me to get in the van. We sat at his house drinking coffee for almost four hours, and I made it home just five minutes before my father. The Bitch was furious yet again, demanding to know where I was. I hit her in the stomach with my crutch and told her to fuck off as I had homework to do.
As we progressed toward Christmas, plans were made to send me and my sister off to Tennessee to visit with my grandmother, aunt, and uncle. During the last week of school, we made a visit to Wal-Mart and I left the group for the hardware section. My father finally found me picking out a locking doorknob for my bedroom. He asked why, and I told him "I'm not leaving for a week and giving those little shits unrestricted access to my bedroom. The door will be locked and the key will be with me in Tennessee." I think he finally realized how bad things had become when he wasn't around, and that night the plans were made to send the little hellions to their grandparents' for the same week.
Visiting in Tennessee was more of the usual. My aunt, however, jumped on the bandwagon about the exercises I allegedly wasn't doing. I made a point to show her that I was and that it had done nothing to help the problem. When we flew back, she still wasn't convinced. Fortunately, my grandmother flew back with us to spend two weeks in Texas. After my birthday, we went to my mother's for a few days to repeat the holiday festivities. During the weekend, my grandmother convinced my mom to take me to a real doctor before sending me back to my dad's.
January 2, 1996
We arrived at Dr. Mitchell's office early that morning. I was the first patient to be seen, and I was quite thankful as it turned out to be an all-day affair. The doctor was the only one in the small town of Comfort at the time, but was an excellent osteopath and family physician. After a brief exam, he sent me off to Kerrville for x-rays. Five hours later, films in hand, we were back in his office. It took him all of five seconds to fully process what he saw, and his first words were something to the extent of "And how is it you're even able to stand up without passing out???" He showed me exactly what the problem was. I broke the neck of my femur, separating the main portion of the bone from the ball in my hip socket. Over the three months that had elapsed since the original injury, the femur had attempted to heal directly to my pelvis.
I returned home that evening with my x-rays and an appointment set to see Dr. Earl Stanley, a local pediatric orthopedic surgeon, in a couple of weeks. I told my father to look at the x-ray films and decide again if I had been faking it all along. It took hours for the color to return to his face...
More to come again soon!
My father's new girlfriend apparently had a chat with him over the weekend regarding my injury, and somehow convinced him that this was an elaborate scheme to get out of doing chores. I was still in so much pain that I could barely get out of bed or stand up, and *any* weight on my right hip brought me to tears. The chiropractor wasn't helping so far. On Monday morning, I woke up and struggled to get dressed for school. I missed the bus, so my father drove me to school. The whole reason I missed the bus was because he took away my crutches the night before, stating that I'd "been on them long enough and would never get better" if I kept using them. It took me five minutes to make it from my bed to the toilet across the hall, and almost fifteen to make it to the living room. I think I actually ran out of tears at one point.
My father got me to school well before the bus would have. I was dropped off in front of the auditorium (instead of near the building where my class was, almost half a mile away on the other side of campus) around 7:15.
Boerne High School is a fairly large and spread out campus, with ten separate buildings, two gymnasiums, and around 1200 students at the time. It was also very fortunate to have had one of the most amazing administrators at the time, Mr. Sam Champion. He made an effort to get to know every one of his students and always addressed them by name when he saw them. He had known me since my days in elementary school, thanks to winning the spelling bee and several other accomplishments. I'll write much more about him later, but it is at this point that he enters the story.
By 7:30, I had progressed about forty feet from where I got out of my father's van. Mr. Champion arrived and parked in the faculty lot directly in front of the auditorium. In retrospect, I was lucky to have been dropped off where I was. Still in tears, I tried my hardest to keep moving while carrying a heavy backpack and being unable to bear any weight on my right side. Sam approached me on his way to the office, and, having seen me on crutches for the previous week, asked me if everything was OK. One look at my face gave him the answer. He helped me hobble to the nearest bench, about ten more feet from where I was, and told me to sit down while he would try to make arrangements for some help. He wasn't sure if the athletic office would have crutches or a wheelchair that I could use for the day, but he was prepared to call just about anywhere to help find something for me. Fortunately, the athletic office had a wheelchair for injured players. He brought it to me, got me situated in it, and then pushed me to his office so I could bring him up to speed. I told him about the fall, what the chiropractor had said, and the argument my father and I went through the night before about my crutches. He must have called my father later in the day. When I finished with after-school band practice, my father was there again to pick me up and he brought my crutches with him. At the time, getting my father to admit he was wrong about something was only slightly easier than gaining access to Area 51. Sam must have been very persuasive.
My father relented on the crutches but still expected me to do "my share" around the house, which included carrying out the trash twice a week. Carrying a 20-30 pound trash bag down a rocky driveway is no easy task with crutches. To make matters worse, the little hellions I mentioned before managed to get away with everything and blame it on me. I became the whipping boy of the house.
The chiropractor gave me a series of exercises to do every day at home to help with my hip. I did them every day and wouldn't stop until the pain was so bad that I was afraid I would pass out. This played heavily into the arguments I would have with my father on an almost nightly basis. I begged him to take me to a real doctor because I wasn't getting any better, and he would always refuse with the same excuse:
"If I take you to a specialist, they're going to call the chiropractor. She'll say that you haven't been doing your exercises and they'll tell you that they won't be able to help you."
The argument would escalate, and my father would start ranting about how I didn't respect him or his authority. It would frequently end with me getting slapped across the face or shoved into a piece of furniture, causing me even more pain. One night I even threatened to call the sheriff...he told me "go ahead, they can't do a thing...and you'll regret it." Like a fool, I chickened out. All I wanted was to get some kind of real help, as it was obvious to me (and apparently, only me!) that the chiropractor was full of shit.
Elsewhere at home, things continued in the downward spiral. My dad's girlfriend (from now on, she'll be known as The Bitch) tried even harder to get my sister and me to leave and live with our mother. Her kids would frequently make messes that would later be blamed on one of us, prompting another argument. Many nights I would lay awake and wish for a quick and painless escape from all of it.
The holidays came, and I spent Thanksgiving at my mother's. It was only the second time since the fall that I had seen my mother, the first being the weekend that it happened. Even her husband noticed that something much more serious was wrong and that the chiropractor was not helping.
During the second week of December, my sister ran away from home. She didn't even ride the bus home that afternoon, opting instead to catch a ride with a neighbor who was a good friend of hers. She told me that morning that she would not be coming home and that I could find her at Kim's, but I was sworn to secrecy. I never said a word. The Bitch threatened to hit me with various kitchen instruments and at one point swung a frying pan at my head when I wouldn't tell her where Amanda was. She remained at Kim's all night and got on the bus from there the next morning. My father, for the most part, ignored it. He never knew about what happened just three days later. Fearing that I would be stuck without the ability to walk for the rest of my life, having every plea for help ignored or answered with abuse, and not having any other way out, I grabbed my crutches that Friday and left. I didn't tell anyone where I was going. I crutched my way over a mile to the Guadalupe River Bridge and stood at the edge. Over the guardrail was a drop of almost two hundred feet, with shallow water and plenty of rocks at the bottom. I stood there on the bridge for almost an hour and chain-smoked the cigarettes I stole from my grandmother's bedroom. I kept thinking that if I went through with it, maybe it would be a wake-up call to my father and, at the very least, things could be better for my sister. I cried as I contemplated the plunge. I had just finished my last cigarette as Mike and his mother were approaching the bridge to come home. They saw me there on the bridge and pulled over. Mike asked what I was doing there, and I told him that since I had no options left, I was going to do my damnedest to make my sister's situation a little better. He gave me a hug and told me to get in the van. We sat at his house drinking coffee for almost four hours, and I made it home just five minutes before my father. The Bitch was furious yet again, demanding to know where I was. I hit her in the stomach with my crutch and told her to fuck off as I had homework to do.
As we progressed toward Christmas, plans were made to send me and my sister off to Tennessee to visit with my grandmother, aunt, and uncle. During the last week of school, we made a visit to Wal-Mart and I left the group for the hardware section. My father finally found me picking out a locking doorknob for my bedroom. He asked why, and I told him "I'm not leaving for a week and giving those little shits unrestricted access to my bedroom. The door will be locked and the key will be with me in Tennessee." I think he finally realized how bad things had become when he wasn't around, and that night the plans were made to send the little hellions to their grandparents' for the same week.
Visiting in Tennessee was more of the usual. My aunt, however, jumped on the bandwagon about the exercises I allegedly wasn't doing. I made a point to show her that I was and that it had done nothing to help the problem. When we flew back, she still wasn't convinced. Fortunately, my grandmother flew back with us to spend two weeks in Texas. After my birthday, we went to my mother's for a few days to repeat the holiday festivities. During the weekend, my grandmother convinced my mom to take me to a real doctor before sending me back to my dad's.
January 2, 1996
We arrived at Dr. Mitchell's office early that morning. I was the first patient to be seen, and I was quite thankful as it turned out to be an all-day affair. The doctor was the only one in the small town of Comfort at the time, but was an excellent osteopath and family physician. After a brief exam, he sent me off to Kerrville for x-rays. Five hours later, films in hand, we were back in his office. It took him all of five seconds to fully process what he saw, and his first words were something to the extent of "And how is it you're even able to stand up without passing out???" He showed me exactly what the problem was. I broke the neck of my femur, separating the main portion of the bone from the ball in my hip socket. Over the three months that had elapsed since the original injury, the femur had attempted to heal directly to my pelvis.
I returned home that evening with my x-rays and an appointment set to see Dr. Earl Stanley, a local pediatric orthopedic surgeon, in a couple of weeks. I told my father to look at the x-ray films and decide again if I had been faking it all along. It took hours for the color to return to his face...
More to come again soon!
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Chapter Two: Doctor Quackenbush, or: How I Learned to NEVER Trust Chiropractors
When we last left the story, I mentioned that I had been given a referral to a chiropractor from a friend at the bowling alley. I also mentioned that this would be Big Mistake #2.
Mid-July 1995
The pain continued to plague my day-to-day routines and it became more difficult for me to walk. My limp became more severe with each passing day. I had an appointment scheduled with a local chiropractor who, at first, seemed to be reasonably competent. My grandmother always swore by chiropractors for her back and neck problems, so I went in with an open mind. During the initial visit, several x-rays were taken of my back, hips, and right knee. It was then that someone finally figured out what was wrong! Apparently, in the struggle to free myself from the canoe, I managed to summon enough force to twist my pelvis out of alignment. Not just a millimeter or two, but by a pretty noticeable margin on the x-ray films. My pelvis had been rotated forward, causing my lower back pain, and was also shifted in relation to my spine to make it appear that one leg was almost four inches longer than the other.
The chiropractor believed that, with a series of treatments and physical therapy, my pelvis could be adjusted back to an angle reasonably close to "normal" and probably minimize the limp. It seemed to be working as I noticed I was not having as much trouble walking around the house.
August came, and with it arrived the band preparation camp. Two weeks before the start of the school year, we met every day to learn songs we would be playing regularly and learn the "right" way to march. (That's in quotes only because it's *not* the right way to march. Go on YouTube and search for the Fightin' Texas Aggie Band to see it done right. Real bands don't prance.) My limp was still enough of a problem that marching was quite difficult, and the chiropractor gave me orders not to march. I wasn't bothered by it in the least.
About this same time, my grandmother decided to play matchmaker. She was in a nursing home in Boerne at the time and thought that one of the orderlies would be a good match for my father. Since my parents' divorce two years earlier, my father hadn't even been on a date. They agreed to go out, and after only 3 dates, she was moving in. My sister and I were happy about it as we thought she was pretty cool. This would later become Big Mistake #3 and #4. Just as the school year began, the decision was made that her children would come live with us instead of their grandparents.
Dictionary.com defines "hellion" as "a disorderly, troublesome, rowdy, or mischievous person," and for a reference provides a picture of these two children during the two or three seconds they actually managed to remain still in their lifetimes. I admit, I was fortunate being brought up reading from an early age, taught things like manners and proper behavior, and generally respecting other people. These two were as territorial as wolves. It's a wonder they didn't pee on things to claim ownership. As we all settled in to the situation, the rules changed. My room was no longer "mine." It was to be shared with the kids any time they wanted to play video games or watch TV. Never mind that they had their own game systems in the living room, or the fact that I was in high school and actually had homework to do...if they wanted in, I was powerless to stop them. Everything changed to favor them, or to treat us (I was 14, my sister was 12) as though we were their age (9 and 6). It was not a happy home.
Friday, September 29, 1995
The date will always stand out in my mind. I'd had two treatments from the chiropractor that week and bowled a fairly decent 165 that Wednesday. The Boerne Greyhounds had a football game that night, and as a member of the band, I was required to be there. Even though I could not march, I had to be in the stands with the band to play during the game. Being that we had a game, there was no band practice after school that day. I took the bus home, checking the mail as I usually did before walking up the driveway. To this day, I swear the rock jumped out in front of me. I'd only been walking up the same driveway for twelve years without incident! I flipped through the mail to see if anything was for me, which of course, was almost never the case. I wasn't watching where I was going and tripped on a rather large rock just as the driveway leveled out. At this point in my life, I was 6'0" and weighed right around 375. I landed hard on my right knee and tumbled (or rather flopped) into the grass. Dusting myself off, I stood up and walked inside, noticing that it hurt a little more than usual every time I put weight on my right leg.
I don't remember who the Greyhounds played that night, nor do I remember who won. I do, however, remember being picked up afterward and getting in the van. Because of the problems that had plagued me over the past year, I had developed a relatively painless method of getting in the van. I would face off to the side, get my butt up on the seat, and then turn in with the help of the "Oh, Shit!" handle while swinging my legs inside. That night, as I began to turn and pull my legs in, I felt a tremendous pop in my right hip. It hurt so much that I was in tears by the time we made it home, and it took me almost ten minutes to walk from the van to the front door. Normally this would be a 30-45 second walk.
The next morning, my mother came to pick us up for the weekend. The pain was unbearable and I was having to flail my arms wildly with each step. My mother noticed the trouble I was having, and I told her about the fall and that I think I just needed to go back to the chiropractor. I hobbled around her house as little as possible for the rest of the weekend until it was time to return home. My best friend Mike's little sister, Courtney, was having her birthday party at the local pizza place that Sunday, and of course, my sister and I were invited to join. Everyone could see how much pain I was in and kept asking me if I was OK. After the party, I rode with Mike and his parents out to their house in the neighborhood where I lived. We hung around for a while, and when I tried to walk out to the back yard to get in the hot tub, my hip had taken the last bit of stress it could. I stopped dead in my tracks and began to cry again.
Mike's mom and stepfather, Wanda and Jason, were very helpful. They helped me get inside and got me to a chair while Mike called my father to come get me. I was fortunate that my father had been through knee surgery a few times and had a pair of crutches in his closet! We made it back home and went straight to the chiropractor the next morning.
No x-rays were taken. The chiropractor watched me attempt to walk, felt around my hip and lower back, and told me that I had dislocated my hip. She had me lay face-down on the table while she pushed, pulled, poked, and prodded me to the point where my screams probably woke the dead halfway across the continent. She then told me that I would need to come in every day that week and that it was OK to use the crutches. Unfortunately, at that point, I was in so much agony that I couldn't even stand up. I went to school the rest of the week, seeing the chiropractor every day after school and then crutching my way to the bowling alley to wait for a ride home.
More to come in the next chapter! Justin
Mid-July 1995
The pain continued to plague my day-to-day routines and it became more difficult for me to walk. My limp became more severe with each passing day. I had an appointment scheduled with a local chiropractor who, at first, seemed to be reasonably competent. My grandmother always swore by chiropractors for her back and neck problems, so I went in with an open mind. During the initial visit, several x-rays were taken of my back, hips, and right knee. It was then that someone finally figured out what was wrong! Apparently, in the struggle to free myself from the canoe, I managed to summon enough force to twist my pelvis out of alignment. Not just a millimeter or two, but by a pretty noticeable margin on the x-ray films. My pelvis had been rotated forward, causing my lower back pain, and was also shifted in relation to my spine to make it appear that one leg was almost four inches longer than the other.
The chiropractor believed that, with a series of treatments and physical therapy, my pelvis could be adjusted back to an angle reasonably close to "normal" and probably minimize the limp. It seemed to be working as I noticed I was not having as much trouble walking around the house.
August came, and with it arrived the band preparation camp. Two weeks before the start of the school year, we met every day to learn songs we would be playing regularly and learn the "right" way to march. (That's in quotes only because it's *not* the right way to march. Go on YouTube and search for the Fightin' Texas Aggie Band to see it done right. Real bands don't prance.) My limp was still enough of a problem that marching was quite difficult, and the chiropractor gave me orders not to march. I wasn't bothered by it in the least.
About this same time, my grandmother decided to play matchmaker. She was in a nursing home in Boerne at the time and thought that one of the orderlies would be a good match for my father. Since my parents' divorce two years earlier, my father hadn't even been on a date. They agreed to go out, and after only 3 dates, she was moving in. My sister and I were happy about it as we thought she was pretty cool. This would later become Big Mistake #3 and #4. Just as the school year began, the decision was made that her children would come live with us instead of their grandparents.
Dictionary.com defines "hellion" as "a disorderly, troublesome, rowdy, or mischievous person," and for a reference provides a picture of these two children during the two or three seconds they actually managed to remain still in their lifetimes. I admit, I was fortunate being brought up reading from an early age, taught things like manners and proper behavior, and generally respecting other people. These two were as territorial as wolves. It's a wonder they didn't pee on things to claim ownership. As we all settled in to the situation, the rules changed. My room was no longer "mine." It was to be shared with the kids any time they wanted to play video games or watch TV. Never mind that they had their own game systems in the living room, or the fact that I was in high school and actually had homework to do...if they wanted in, I was powerless to stop them. Everything changed to favor them, or to treat us (I was 14, my sister was 12) as though we were their age (9 and 6). It was not a happy home.
Friday, September 29, 1995
The date will always stand out in my mind. I'd had two treatments from the chiropractor that week and bowled a fairly decent 165 that Wednesday. The Boerne Greyhounds had a football game that night, and as a member of the band, I was required to be there. Even though I could not march, I had to be in the stands with the band to play during the game. Being that we had a game, there was no band practice after school that day. I took the bus home, checking the mail as I usually did before walking up the driveway. To this day, I swear the rock jumped out in front of me. I'd only been walking up the same driveway for twelve years without incident! I flipped through the mail to see if anything was for me, which of course, was almost never the case. I wasn't watching where I was going and tripped on a rather large rock just as the driveway leveled out. At this point in my life, I was 6'0" and weighed right around 375. I landed hard on my right knee and tumbled (or rather flopped) into the grass. Dusting myself off, I stood up and walked inside, noticing that it hurt a little more than usual every time I put weight on my right leg.
I don't remember who the Greyhounds played that night, nor do I remember who won. I do, however, remember being picked up afterward and getting in the van. Because of the problems that had plagued me over the past year, I had developed a relatively painless method of getting in the van. I would face off to the side, get my butt up on the seat, and then turn in with the help of the "Oh, Shit!" handle while swinging my legs inside. That night, as I began to turn and pull my legs in, I felt a tremendous pop in my right hip. It hurt so much that I was in tears by the time we made it home, and it took me almost ten minutes to walk from the van to the front door. Normally this would be a 30-45 second walk.
The next morning, my mother came to pick us up for the weekend. The pain was unbearable and I was having to flail my arms wildly with each step. My mother noticed the trouble I was having, and I told her about the fall and that I think I just needed to go back to the chiropractor. I hobbled around her house as little as possible for the rest of the weekend until it was time to return home. My best friend Mike's little sister, Courtney, was having her birthday party at the local pizza place that Sunday, and of course, my sister and I were invited to join. Everyone could see how much pain I was in and kept asking me if I was OK. After the party, I rode with Mike and his parents out to their house in the neighborhood where I lived. We hung around for a while, and when I tried to walk out to the back yard to get in the hot tub, my hip had taken the last bit of stress it could. I stopped dead in my tracks and began to cry again.
Mike's mom and stepfather, Wanda and Jason, were very helpful. They helped me get inside and got me to a chair while Mike called my father to come get me. I was fortunate that my father had been through knee surgery a few times and had a pair of crutches in his closet! We made it back home and went straight to the chiropractor the next morning.
No x-rays were taken. The chiropractor watched me attempt to walk, felt around my hip and lower back, and told me that I had dislocated my hip. She had me lay face-down on the table while she pushed, pulled, poked, and prodded me to the point where my screams probably woke the dead halfway across the continent. She then told me that I would need to come in every day that week and that it was OK to use the crutches. Unfortunately, at that point, I was in so much agony that I couldn't even stand up. I went to school the rest of the week, seeing the chiropractor every day after school and then crutching my way to the bowling alley to wait for a ride home.
More to come in the next chapter! Justin
Chapter One: In The Beginning...
Date: July 10, 1994
Location: Buffalo River, somewhere near Linden, Tennessee
It was my first visit to see my aunt, uncle, and grandmother since my grandfather had passed away that February, and a year to the day after my mother told us she was leaving. My sister and I flew up to Tennessee shortly after school had let out for the summer, and my father came up to join us for a few days before returning to Texas. This was our summer tradition just about every year, although before my grandfather passed on, my sister and I would take a road trip with our grandparents and their travel trailer bound for Rhinebeck, New York. This was the first year we weren't able to make the journey. Instead, we loaded up in my grandmother's van and headed for the Buffalo River for the day...something to take our minds off of everything and enjoy nature for a while.
This was the second time my sister and I had been down the Buffalo in a canoe. The first was uneventful but fun...I only wish I could say the same about this trip. It started off just fine. My aunt, uncle, and grandmother took one canoe. My sister and father joined me in the second. We started off down the river with an ice chest full of beer and soda. I sat in the front of the canoe to steer for a while and started to enjoy myself. After taking a break to eat some lunch, my sister insisted that she get to sit up front and take a paddle for a while. This would have been fine if the canoe had 3 benches to sit on or if I happened to be a little shorter. I had to sit in the middle with my legs stretched out under the crossbars. This was Big Mistake #1.
After another hour or so, we came to a spot in the river that would change my life completely. A tree was hanging down into the river, covering all but a three foot gap on the left side. My aunt, who is amazing with anything that works on the water, navigated it perfectly and didn't even brush the tree limbs. We were just behind them and attempted to hit that same spot...but our inexperience got the best of us and we went straight into the tree branches. My sister started moving from side to side trying to dodge the larger branches, and my father (in the back) tried to counter her movements to keep us from flipping the canoe. I sat in the middle and just tried not to move.
Sure enough, the canoe flipped, sending all of us underwater. Since they were on the bench seats, my father and sister were clear of the capsized canoe within a few seconds. My legs were caught under the crossbar and I was stuck underwater, fighting to break free. My hands found the sides of the canoe and I tried to push off, but my legs weren't entirely free yet. The right leg came free first, and apparently the survival instinct kicked in and I put every ounce of strength I had into getting my left leg out. I was more worried about breathing than anything else, so I finally surfaced and gasped for air, not really paying attention to the pain in my hips and lower back. After I caught my breath, I helped to get the canoe upright so we could all get back in and I noticed that a leech had attached itself to my leg while I was out of the canoe. Naturally, being 13 at the time, I freaked out...but my father pulled it off and suggested I check *elsewhere* just in case...no more leeches, thankfully!
After a few good laughs from my aunt, who saw the whole thing, we continued on down the river. It wasn't until we returned to the house that night that my aunt noticed I was limping. I told her how much I had struggled to get out of the canoe and that my back and hips had been hurting ever since. She wasn't sure what to make of it at the time, so I just kept on limping because I knew no other way to walk.
It wasn't until a year later, after much teasing at school, that I would find out what had actually happened. The pain had transferred to my right knee over time and I assumed that the real problem was there. None of the doctors could find anything wrong with my knee, but a friend from the bowling alley suggested that I go see the chiropractor that she worked with. This would turn out to be Big Mistake #2...
To be continued...I'm copying these over from MySpace one at a time and making a few minor edits. Justin
It was my first visit to see my aunt, uncle, and grandmother since my grandfather had passed away that February, and a year to the day after my mother told us she was leaving. My sister and I flew up to Tennessee shortly after school had let out for the summer, and my father came up to join us for a few days before returning to Texas. This was our summer tradition just about every year, although before my grandfather passed on, my sister and I would take a road trip with our grandparents and their travel trailer bound for Rhinebeck, New York. This was the first year we weren't able to make the journey. Instead, we loaded up in my grandmother's van and headed for the Buffalo River for the day...something to take our minds off of everything and enjoy nature for a while.
This was the second time my sister and I had been down the Buffalo in a canoe. The first was uneventful but fun...I only wish I could say the same about this trip. It started off just fine. My aunt, uncle, and grandmother took one canoe. My sister and father joined me in the second. We started off down the river with an ice chest full of beer and soda. I sat in the front of the canoe to steer for a while and started to enjoy myself. After taking a break to eat some lunch, my sister insisted that she get to sit up front and take a paddle for a while. This would have been fine if the canoe had 3 benches to sit on or if I happened to be a little shorter. I had to sit in the middle with my legs stretched out under the crossbars. This was Big Mistake #1.
After another hour or so, we came to a spot in the river that would change my life completely. A tree was hanging down into the river, covering all but a three foot gap on the left side. My aunt, who is amazing with anything that works on the water, navigated it perfectly and didn't even brush the tree limbs. We were just behind them and attempted to hit that same spot...but our inexperience got the best of us and we went straight into the tree branches. My sister started moving from side to side trying to dodge the larger branches, and my father (in the back) tried to counter her movements to keep us from flipping the canoe. I sat in the middle and just tried not to move.
Sure enough, the canoe flipped, sending all of us underwater. Since they were on the bench seats, my father and sister were clear of the capsized canoe within a few seconds. My legs were caught under the crossbar and I was stuck underwater, fighting to break free. My hands found the sides of the canoe and I tried to push off, but my legs weren't entirely free yet. The right leg came free first, and apparently the survival instinct kicked in and I put every ounce of strength I had into getting my left leg out. I was more worried about breathing than anything else, so I finally surfaced and gasped for air, not really paying attention to the pain in my hips and lower back. After I caught my breath, I helped to get the canoe upright so we could all get back in and I noticed that a leech had attached itself to my leg while I was out of the canoe. Naturally, being 13 at the time, I freaked out...but my father pulled it off and suggested I check *elsewhere* just in case...no more leeches, thankfully!
After a few good laughs from my aunt, who saw the whole thing, we continued on down the river. It wasn't until we returned to the house that night that my aunt noticed I was limping. I told her how much I had struggled to get out of the canoe and that my back and hips had been hurting ever since. She wasn't sure what to make of it at the time, so I just kept on limping because I knew no other way to walk.
It wasn't until a year later, after much teasing at school, that I would find out what had actually happened. The pain had transferred to my right knee over time and I assumed that the real problem was there. None of the doctors could find anything wrong with my knee, but a friend from the bowling alley suggested that I go see the chiropractor that she worked with. This would turn out to be Big Mistake #2...
To be continued...I'm copying these over from MySpace one at a time and making a few minor edits. Justin
Introduction
Greetings! I am Justin, and this is my true story. Unfortunately, the chapters will appear backward as I am unable to change this to post with the newest additions at the bottom. I'm sharing this story with anyone who wants to read partially because I want to raise awareness about certain issues, and also because several friends have convinced me that I'm fairly good at getting my thoughts written out.
As I said before, this story is true. A few minor things, such as quotes, are from memory and might not be completely accurate, or they may be slightly rephrased for dramatic effect. Unfortunately, there are some parts that may be disturbing to certain readers, and that can't really be helped. The things I have been through over the years could make for a great novel or film, but that's not what I'm looking for right now.
As you read the story, please keep in mind that even as I approach the present day, the story is still without an ending, happy or otherwise. My third and possibly most important reason for sharing this is the hope that people may wish to open their hearts and provide support as I enter another tough chapter in my life. I don't wish to spoil the whole story, but the short and relatively spoiler-free version is this: I am currently awaiting a hip replacement, but am unable to get adequate insurance to cover it and have no way to afford the operation or the rehabilitation and physical therapy that will take up quite a bit of time afterward. I have set up a donation link with PayPal for those who wish to help so that some day I may walk again without pain and possibly start doing things that I haven't been able to attempt in years. I'm not asking for people to unload their life savings, but a little help spread around can go a long way.
I will have the whole story up to the present before I can possibly get the surgery I need. When I reach that point, I will keep everyone updated here and through my MySpace profile. Also, when I do go in for surgery and begin rehabilitation and therapy, I will post daily updates of my progress and share some more true stories that didn't make the final cut for what I'm writing now.
I also want to take the time to thank everyone in advance for reading and hopefully for your support, whether it be kind words or a couple of dollars toward the operation that will get me walking again. What I hope for most of all though is that no one will have to go through what I've endured over the years. You'll see what I mean as I bring the posts over from MySpace. Every post here will also be copied there.
Thanks again to everyone, and I hope you enjoy the "real" me! Justin
As I said before, this story is true. A few minor things, such as quotes, are from memory and might not be completely accurate, or they may be slightly rephrased for dramatic effect. Unfortunately, there are some parts that may be disturbing to certain readers, and that can't really be helped. The things I have been through over the years could make for a great novel or film, but that's not what I'm looking for right now.
As you read the story, please keep in mind that even as I approach the present day, the story is still without an ending, happy or otherwise. My third and possibly most important reason for sharing this is the hope that people may wish to open their hearts and provide support as I enter another tough chapter in my life. I don't wish to spoil the whole story, but the short and relatively spoiler-free version is this: I am currently awaiting a hip replacement, but am unable to get adequate insurance to cover it and have no way to afford the operation or the rehabilitation and physical therapy that will take up quite a bit of time afterward. I have set up a donation link with PayPal for those who wish to help so that some day I may walk again without pain and possibly start doing things that I haven't been able to attempt in years. I'm not asking for people to unload their life savings, but a little help spread around can go a long way.
I will have the whole story up to the present before I can possibly get the surgery I need. When I reach that point, I will keep everyone updated here and through my MySpace profile. Also, when I do go in for surgery and begin rehabilitation and therapy, I will post daily updates of my progress and share some more true stories that didn't make the final cut for what I'm writing now.
I also want to take the time to thank everyone in advance for reading and hopefully for your support, whether it be kind words or a couple of dollars toward the operation that will get me walking again. What I hope for most of all though is that no one will have to go through what I've endured over the years. You'll see what I mean as I bring the posts over from MySpace. Every post here will also be copied there.
Thanks again to everyone, and I hope you enjoy the "real" me! Justin
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
