It's My Life - Stacie Ramey Page 0,35
“I wanted to talk with you about the tests they’ve got planned.”
Mom turns to look at me, a chipper smile on her face. “You have any questions about what we’re going to do?”
“No, I’m pretty sure I understand what the tests entail. What I want to do is talk about the ‘we’ part. As in what ‘we’ are going to do. The thing is, Mom, I’m the one getting the tests. No ‘we’ about it.”
“Honey, I know. But I have a really good feeling about it this time.”
“Ha!” I say.
She turns to look at me again. “Ha?”
“Well, Mom, in the past, some of these tests or procedures or diets or therapies, well, they haven’t always been the best choice. For me, that is. The only part of the we that is getting poked and prodded and medicated.”
“I know, honey, but we have to keep trying.”
We pass the old lady who does her morning walk every single day. Cold or hot, doesn’t matter—this woman’s out there with her flashlight when it’s dark out and her water bottle when it’s hot. The determined look on her face makes me feel all twisted inside, distracting me from all the things I want to tell Mom.
“Jenna?” Mom prods.
I sigh and glance back at her. “Let’s take a little stroll down memory lane, shall we?”
“Don’t be snippy.” Mom gets a little too emphatic with the brakes at the stop sign at the end of our neighborhood, and we jolt forward. “Sorry.”
“Do you remember when I was eight?” My voice shakes, so that doesn’t help, but I have to say this next part. “We did the Botox treatments? Supposed to be easy, effective, and perfect for someone like me?”
Mom nods. “I know…”
“Major epic fail. Two weeks in the hospital. Incontinent for weeks after that.”
She turns onto the through street but steals a glance at me as she does. The color has leached from her cheeks, leaving her pasty and pitiful. She holds one hand out to me. “Jenna, we are your parents. We only want what’s right for you.”
“Or how about that weird Feldenkrais lady who was also a psychic and said it was my past lives getting in the way of this one?”
Mom smirks a little. “She may have been a mistake. But that method is supposed to be supereffective and with no side effects.”
“Was it effective?”
“Her psychic beliefs may have gotten in the way of a true Feldenkrais experience.”
“How about the ketogenic diet that was just…” I struggle to try find a strong enough word and end up saying, “Disgusting. But we did it because you were convinced it would stop my seizures?”
“I realize not everything we’ve tried has been successful…but you aren’t having seizures anymore, except after the contrast…”
“Mom. Come on. Every time we’ve tried to do things for my benefit, it has backfired.”
Her voice gets sharper. She points at me. Not a good sign. “That’s a wild overgeneralization.”
We are stopped at the traffic light leading into school. I use this for my next argument. My biggest one. “Mom?”
She turns to face me.
“What if this is as good as my CP gets?”
Mom puts her hands on the top of my head, smooths down my hair, and leaves her palms cupping my face. “First of all, this was never about your CP. I don’t even think of things that way. If I did, I’d lose my mind.”
She’d lose her mind?
“It has always been about taking care of you, Jenna, whatever that meant. But, if this is the best it gets, then we’ll take it. We’ll figure out how to make it work for you. But it’s not. I feel it in my bones, Jenna. We are going to figure out how to help with your pain and with your muscle spasms. But you have to trust us.”
The light turns green and some idiot beeps at us. Mom waves a hand in the rearview mirror as if that will make the person behind us suddenly be patient. She’s like that—the perfect combination of drill sergeant and big softie.
I know why she’s worried. I know she goes on those blogs of older people with CP. I’ve caught her, reading over her shoulder before she knew I was there. The blogs are mostly people her age who pushed themselves too hard and now their bodies are deteriorating. Fast. Those who used to be ambulatory are using a wheelchair. And that sucks for them, I guess. But Mom doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand that accepting a wheelchair