It's My Life - Stacie Ramey Page 0,36

or a walker, while it is not every girl’s dream, is a hell of a lot better than not doing things you want. That a wheelchair can be a way to rest and get out from under the pain. Sort of wait it all out.

I’ve looked on some teen blogs, too. The college kids with CP. I hear them say that their bodies need more downtime. But they are living their lives. Aren’t they? “It’s not that I’m uninformed,” I say. “I know what’s possible, and I’m saying if I have to choose between terrible side effects and status quo, I’m thinking what I’ve got is not as bad as it could be.”

Mom parks in the handicapped spot in the front of the school. I’ve got nowhere else to go with this conversation, so I climb out of the car.

“Ben’s driving you home?” I can tell by the way she’s looking at me she’s just trying to say something to make everything right between us.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Love you,” Mom says, and I look away so I don’t see her eyes—because I can tell by her voice that she’s crying a little.

“For God’s sake, Mom, I love you too. I just want to have a say.”

She nods. I shut the door, a little too hard, which I feel kind of bad about, but not bad enough to walk back my stance. So I make myself move forward. When I get to class, I pull out my phone and text Uncle Steve.

Well, that went well.

You talked to your mom?

Yup.

And?

She cried.

Did she listen?

Not sure. Maybe a little. I think.

Baby steps, niece-y. Baby steps.

I want to tell him I’m too old for baby steps, but the bell rings, and that means that in the next few minutes I’ll get to watch Julian enter my classroom. That knowledge pushes all the bad feelings away.

* * *

12:10 P.M.

Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings?

Um…both?

Hedwig or Dobby?

OMG you’re evil! Who could choose between those two?

You can’t keep saying both! You have to choose.

Ok then, chocolate chip or sugar with sprinkles?

Both.

Smiley face emoji.

Favorite food?

Nah. It’s weird.

Now I have to know.

Soup.

That is weird.

OMG I’m never confiding in you again.

Kidding!!! Who doesn’t love a bowl of Campbell’s Chicken and Stars.

Gross. Also, I’m onto you.

What?

You’re hoping that the type of food I like will give you some clue as to who I am. As in right now you’re probably scanning the room looking for some girl eating soup.

Ha!

Don’t deny it.

I didn’t.

Thirteen

When I get home, Mom’s waiting for me, and I wonder if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“Sweetie, sit down.” She pats the couch next to her.

I let my backpack slide off my shoulder and onto the bench where we hang our coats and store our boots. “Sure thing,” I say, but I admit that my mood nose-dives when Dad walks into the room.

Jewish households work this way. You see someone or something out of the ordinary, and you automatically start counting heads. It’s like this: Rena? I just saw her like ten minutes ago as we passed each other. She was heading to rehearsal and stopped to hand me a cookie she’d made in culinary. So she’s probably fine. Eric? Did something happen at his college? Did he fail out? Get hurt? Mom’s not crying so that’s probably not it. All of this goes through my mind, but all I manage is, “Everything okay?”

Dad smiles. “Yes. Everyone’s fine.” He sits in the chair opposite Mom.

Right. So this is about me.

Dad starts, “Mom said we needed to have a little talk.” He holds up his hand in reaction to my balking at the term little. “I mean to say, we need to discuss how you’d like to proceed with the medical…” His hands grope for the words.

“Decisions. I would like to have a say in my medical decisions.”

For Dad, there is always an element of pride when I assert myself. Even when it’s against him. So I’ve got that in my favor.

“Yes. Your medical decisions. And while your mother and I feel that you do have a right to decide what happens to your body, we are worried that you will opt out of some treatment that in the end would be beneficial just because of some short-term pain.”

I try not to answer right away. I try to let his words sink in, but it’s so galling that they believe they should have any say in what happens to my body. I want to text Uncle Steve right then