It's My Life - Stacie Ramey Page 0,24

I don’t want to be part of.

“Maybe we should ask her what she thinks?” I say.

Dad ignores my outburst and leans forward, his hands clasped together so it’s like he’s having a private convo with the doctor. Dr. Rodriguez flips a page in my chart, reads, and flips it again. Reads some more. His finger starts at his mouth, but makes its way to something in my chart. He looks at me.

“My concern is that you won’t be able to tolerate the baclofen. Even in the pump.” He leans back. Rubs the area over his eye.

Dad says, “But don’t we all feel that’s Jenna’s best chance at gaining better muscular control?”

Mom nods.

So does Dr. Rodriguez. “Yes. If she tolerates it, it’s the best course for her.”

Are they talking my doctor into this? They can’t actually think that’s a good idea, right? All of my sass and my bravado disappears; this is just nuts. I stare at the ceiling. It’s got an ugly water stain in the corner, which detracts from the “healing green” color of the office.

Dad asks, “What are our options?”

“Our options?” I ask—obviously from the cheap seats.

“We could put her in the hospital for a few days. That would allow us the flexibility to run some tests. Find out if we can make this thing happen.”

“How long?” I ask.

“Two days. Three at most.”

Tears burn the back of my eyelids. I shake my head without even meaning to.

Mom looks at me, and I’m glad she caught my response to all of this.

Dr. Rodriguez addresses just me this time. “I know you are not in favor of a hospital stay, Jenna. But the protocol calls for tests before surgery. Let’s see how those tests go before we go any further. And let’s keep you are under medical care for a little while after so we can help alleviate any potential side effects.” He looks to both Mom and Dad and sweeps across the room with an open-palmed gesture, which sickens me. “We all believe it’s in your best interest.”

“Talk to my lawyer,” I say.

Dr. Rodriguez smiles. Patronizing me. Trying to be a good guy, maybe. I smirk back. Because I know all I have to do is snap my fingers and Uncle Steve will serve the papers. But then what will happen? I mean, if left to my own decisions, what would I want the doctors to do? I haven’t figured that part out yet.

“When?” Dad asks.

“Well…” Dr. Rodriguez shifts his attention to his computer. “Schedule is open for next Thursday.”

“That’s right before her birthday.” Mom’s voice sounds choked up.

“Maybe figuring out how we can finally give her the baclofen pump and give her the best chance at normal mobility would be the best birthday present ever,” Dad says.

Oh my God, he said it. He said “normal.” We have outlawed, banned, and forever exiled that word from our vocabulary.

Mom stares at him. He crosses his arms.

I want to scream at him. I want to shriek. I want to blast him for being so effing insensitive. But I get where he’s coming from. If I become “normal,” then he can let himself off the hook for not picking up at his first meeting with Dr. Jacoby what a d-bag of a doctor he was.

My cell vibrates. I almost pull it out, but I need to stay strong.

Mom dries her eyes. “I’m not so sure…”

“She will be able to participate fully in birthday activities by Sunday at the latest.”

Around me the conversation starts up again, as if they never really expected me to participate.

“Jenna? Are you even listening? Honestly, I wish you’d try to care about these next steps,” Mom asks.

I turn to her, anger coursing through me. “What I want doesn’t matter. You know I don’t want this. You know I don’t want the surgery. You know all of this, and yet you keep going.”

Mom’s expression goes from annoyed to incredibly sad. She brings a tissue to her nose. “We just want to help you.”

Her sadness breaks through my wall of anger, and I see past all of my shit and straight into her heart. When this all started—my life, I mean—I was just a kid she wanted. I mean, she didn’t ask for me to be so much work, did she? She probably envisioned a normal kid. There’s that word again. Even after being banished from our house as if the word alone is responsible for all of this.

“Jenna?” Mom moves my hair away from my eyes. “You here?”

“I’m here,”