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
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