Again, I have been neglecting writing in here with any sort of regularity but, whatever, it’s my blog. lol! Plus, I really only come in here when I need to blow off steam.

Been crazy busy. For someone who is, essentially, unemployed, I sure have spent a whole lot of time outside my house working. Yesterday was my last official full day as intern at Chicago Public Radio. Can’t really say I learned much though. Was basically doing all the stuff that I’d already learned to do at Radio Arte, but on waaay better equipment. AND no on-air time. On Monday will be the first time in 3 months that I will get to be on-air, and only for an hour. On the plus side, the ppl I worked with are really cool, so no complaints there.

Since yesterday was my last day there, it was pretty mellow. I only had to set up one interview, and that was easy. Took me all of five minutes. lol! In fact, I was BORED.

My day would have been all good had the PACE people not fucked it up for me. Their service usually sucks ass but, at six bucks roundtrip, I can deal with it. However, sometimes, they are just awful. Yes, it’s cheap, but not free. Lately, I’ve been doing some translation work for HOY Newspaper, so I had set up a ride with PACE on the paratransit service (aka it’s like a bus for crippled folks). They were supposed to take me from Navy Pier, where Chicago Public Radio (CPR) is to Tribune Tower, where HOY is. They’re a short driving distance from each other, so my trip was set for 2:09pm, and I had to be at the Trib as soon as I was done at CPR . Which is at 2p. I figured a few minutes late would be no biggie ’cause work is usually super slow. In fact, I’m typing this as I wait for more translation work from them.

Anyway, CPR is at the back-end of Navy Pier inside a parking lot, so I sat there on a bench waiting for my ride to show up.

2:14p— No ride in sight, so I call PACE dispatch to find out what’s going on, and I’m told that the vehicle is at the front of the building ( main entrance of NAVY PIER). They are only supposed to wait for someone for a max. of 5 minutes, but I inform them that I physically would not be able to walk to the main entrance in that time. I am put on hold ’cause the dispatcher was gonna tell the driver to go around toward the back.

While I’m on the phone with her, on speaker, I kept trying to find someone to help me stop the vehicle from leaving. I’m so stressed and angry that my eyes start watering. No one stops to help me. By this point I am hella desperate, and wishing I could run.

Finally, a lady stops and tries to help me by getting one of the security peeps to see what they could do…

2:19p– still no ride in sight. WTF? You’ve gotta be kidding me. I call PACE again and am put on hold for about 4 minutes. The person picks up only to inform me that the driver made me a no-show because the SUPERVISOR told him/her that all pick-ups at NAVY PIER must be made at the entrance and NOT to come around toward the back. By this point, I am really pissed off. What kind of fucken service is this?? Are they sure it’s for crippled folks ’cause I sure as hell know I can’t walk around ALL of Navy Pier in under 5 minutes! Hell, even normal peeps wouldn’t be able to. The damn place is massive. “Why didn’t anyone tell me this before? I had always been picked up at Entrance 1 (aka where I was),” I tell the lady.

2:34– I am already late for work and to top it off this dumb ass lady is on the phone with me saying, “I understand, but all I can do is send another vehicle back for you”. She tells me the next one available should arrive at 3:30pm. Obviously, she DOES NOT UNDERSTAND. They’ve already made me late, AND I have to wait another hour. I have her book the trip anyway.

2:36– I call my supervisor at HOY to let her know I will be late, but I will be there. Now, I’m just fucken crying like a baby AFTER hanging up the phone. I considered taking a cab, but no cash on me. A credit card would have been my other option, but it expired this month and I am still waiting to get the new one from the bank. I tried calling friends who work downtown to see if they could give me a lift to the Trib. No one answers. Here I am thinking, “If I don’t get to the Trib, then I’ll miss my ride to get home too.” I usually never say FML, but FUCK!!!!!!!!. I have no other choice but to wait.

3:42pm My supervisor calls me back in answer to my voicemail message. “Yes, I’ll be there. They said a vehicle should be here in a few minutes,” I tell her. This entire time I am still outside and it’s cold. I’m crying ’cause I’m frustrated, stressed and pissed off. People just stare and walk by but, again, no one even asks if they can help. Great. My cell phone battery is dying. I’ve only got a few seconds left of phone time. I had planned on charging my phone once I got to the Trib. Como dice mi mamá, “Lo pendejo se paga en la otra tienda”.

3:48p– A Navy Pier security officer comes to me and says, “Are you Garcia?” I answer, “yes,” and he walkie-talkies someone. Finally!! After almost two hours I was finally headed over to the Trib. I had already gone back in the building a few minutes prior to wipe my eyes and pull myself back together, but I was still really angry at the first driver and the supervisor who told him NOT to go around. YAY! Navy Pier Security!! They had forced the second driver to come around to the entrance where I was. I say thanks and get into the vehicle.

4:00p– I walk into the Trib feeling bad that I am so late. I’m tired, and my eyes are still a lil red, but nothing major. No one had any clue. I was 2 hrs late, but I got everything done, but FUCK. My paycheck will be smaller. oh well, at least I wasn’t gonna be stranded downtown. My mom was working, and my dad wasn’t even home, so I would have been stuck outside CPR until at least 10p.

Antes de seguir llenando las paginas de mi diario, quiero advertir que no me interesa que sea perfecto ni tampoco me interesa ser propia, refinada, y bien educada. Asi que, probablemente, estas paginas no seran aptas para menores y/o personas que se ofenden facilmente.

Siempre he pensado que mi vida fue marcada para, y por, el drama. Claro, esto sin yo proponérmelo. Ni que telenovela ni que nada!!

La historia comienza la noche del 6 de septiembre de 19XX. Mi padre trabajaba el tercer turno en una fábrica de dulces muy reconocida, y mi madre miraba una telenovela mientras planchaba. A las pocas horas, ella describe haber comenzado a sentir un dolor tipo cólico. Con solo 23 semanas de embarazo, perfecta salud, y 25 años de edad, por que tendría que ser algo mas?

Mi madre, en ese entonces, no sabía manejar y era de las que le daba pena pedir ayuda a los vecinos pero, tal vez, en esa ocasión hubiera hecho bien en hacerlo. Ella esperaba que mi padre llegara del trabajo para darle de cenar. Mientras tanto, el dolor ya se había vuelto insoportable. Entro al baño y ahí fue que se dio cuenta que estaba sangrando. Dejo que mi papa cenara antes de avisarle que se sentía mal, y necesitaba ir al hospital. Inmediatamente, el corrió a traer el coche y llevarla a la sala de emergencias.

Ni la toalla sanitaria, ni todo el papel higiénico del mundo, podrían haber detenido la cantidad de sangre que le escurría entre las piernas a mi madre. Aun así, el personal del hospital no la atendió hasta que se llenaran los formularios requeridos. Ella se quejaba que no podía respirar bien, pero no le pusieron ni atención, ni mascara de oxigeno. Cuando por fin la pasaron a un cuarto, mi papa se fue a llevar a mi hermana, que solo tenia tres años, a dormir en casa de una vecina. Ya era de madrugada. A mi mama lo único que le dijeron fue que no podían hacer nada, yo ya iba nacer. Pero no fue un parto, en realidad fue lo que, mas bien, es conocido como un aborto espontáneo. La hemorragia, y la falta de oxigeno, eran tan severas que mi madre perdió el conocimiento. Volvió en si, momentáneamente, solo para darse cuenta que la llevaban al quirófano. Le practicarían una cesárea, y su huella dactilar impresa con tinta era el “consentimiento”.

Mi papa regreso, en poco rato, para enterarse que mi madre estaba en la sala de operaciones. Desvelado, agotado, y preocupado, no le quedaba más remedio que esperar noticias.

Nadie pensaría que, días antes, la joven madre fue a su revisión medica, y todo estaba perfectamente bien…

Bueno, nunca había tomado la oportunidad de escribir algo en mi diario en español pero, para todo, siempre hay una primera vez. Para mi, todo esto comenzó como un experimento, una manera de sacar mis miedos, frustraciones y, por que no?, dar a conocer un poco de lo que es mi vida.

Pero, en esta ocasión, tengo que empezar desde el principio. Soy INVÁLIDA. Si, lo dije y que? No tiene nada de malo. La verdad es la verdad pese a quien le pese, incluyéndome a mi misma. No estoy “enfermita” ni tampoco me considero “pobrecita,” como muchos dicen en voz baja. El termino correcto, técnicamente hablando, seria discapacitada, pero a mi la palabra invalida no me espanta. Total, el término que se utilice no cambia mi situación.

Nací increíblemente prematura. De hecho, ningún medico, hasta la fecha, se explica como es que estoy viva. Con solo cinco meses y tres semanas de gestación, a mi madre se le adelanto el parto y, a consecuencia, tengo parálisis cerebral (CP por sus siglas en ingles). Esto también gracias a negligencia medica, pero eso lo detallare después.

El caso es que, hoy en día, tengo 26 años, y toda una colección de experiencias que quiero compartir con ustedes. Pero vamos por partes. Se preguntaran que es CP? La condición se caracteriza por afectar el sistema nervioso central de las personas. En mi caso, fue como sufrir asfixia en el vientre de mi madre. Esto causo que yo sufriera daños a la parte del cerebro que controla los movimientos. Por ende, he pasado toda mi vida luchando por algo que muchos ya tienen pero nunca valoran—EL PODER CAMINAR.

Por lo general, yo diría que los seres humanos siempre tenemos algo de ingratos. No tomamos muy en cuenta las cosas más sencillas pero muy valiosas que tenemos, el poder ver, el poder escuchar, etc. Los cinco sentidos, entre otras cosas, hacen de la vida una experiencia única, pero no todos tenemos la dicha de tener todas esas cosas…

Half the time, I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to be doing with my life, and the other half I’m probably in the hospital undergoing surgery.

Sad but true. Every time things in my life seem to be goin’ right, somebody does their part to screw me over, or I have to stop what I was doing for medical reasons. I really wasn’t going to keep up this blog thing because I figured, “Who the fuck cares really?” Then, I thought, “Why the fuck do I care so much who cares about what I write?”

When I started this thing, I did it FOR ME. I needed a place to vent, and if others wanted to share in my misery, so much the better. It really messed me up when I lost my producer spot at Radio Arte. I did nothing to deserve being given the boot, and yet they didn’t think twice. Since then (early March), I’ve been a jobless bum. lol! Honestly though, IT DRIVES ME CRAZY! I don’t like being at home all day. It’s just not me. I need mental stimulation. I need to be doin’ somethin’ productive or I get depressed.

Depression, unfortunately, has been a faithful companion of mine since I was a little girl. It’s not that I’m not ever happy, it’s that I always wonder, “What if?” With friends and fam I always put up a front. I don’t like people seeing me cry or knowing that I don’t feel happy.

This is especially true of my sisters. I will admit, sometimes, I am JEALOUS. No lie. I get sick of people using me to get to them, or telling me how pretty they are while totally blowing me off. No one likes to be treated like they are second best, but I get that a lot.
At any rate, I know it’s not their fault, so I am not goin’ to hold it against them.

It just has gotten really hard on me to have to start over, career-wise, over and over again. I get pissed ’cause I see folks take from me, opportunities they didn’t earn– they just got them because they “knew someone” or because they look good. I know lots of people, but even those people seem unwilling to lend me a hand when I need it.

If I could walk, I’d be waitressing, cleaning houses or whatever, but I don’t have that option. It’s a shame that, even by family, I will get treated like I can’t work, or like it’s wrong for me to do certain jobs. For example, my mom works as a cleaning lady in downtown Chi (she also cleans houses as a side gig). One time, I asked her to take me to one of the houses she cleans ’cause she always takes someone as an assistant. She looks at me like I’d just said a nasty swear word and says, “Oh no! What is the lady going to think?!” That made me mad, but I didn’t say anything. Why is it okay for me to clean the house AND be used as the on-call babysitter for nieces/nephews, and my lil sis, but it’s not okay for me to do the same where I can get paid for it? I really get fed up with this kind of CRAP. As long as I know how to do a job, why should my disability make a difference? That’s bullshit.

In the meantime, I’ve been doing some freelance work as a reporter, but I really would like steady work. It hasn’t happened yet, but it better happen soon ’cause I don’t know how much longer I can stand feeling useless. You know, I almost wish there were two of me, so I could test my “what if” thoughts– a crippled me, and a non-crippled me. How much does having a disability actually hold someone back?

Wow! It’s been over two weeks since I’ve written anything in here. Well, let’s see, what have I been up to? My number one priority, for the past couple of weeks, has been going to my physical therapies, and exercising at home. I also had new braces that go inside my sneakers, like insoles, made and I’m breaking those in. They said it takes up to a week, but these things are death on my feet. It’s difficult to walk around with hard plastic in your shoes. I’ve had to go easy with the exercise because of this.

My energy levels, physically, are on the floor. I don’t really feel like doing much ’cause I feel sleepy all the time. Blah! Haven’t been out much lately, but the coming days are going to be very busy. Hopefully, things will pick back up.

I’ve got some bad news, and good news too peeps. The bad news is that I wasn’t accepted for the Stone & Holt Weeks Fellowship. It was one of the main reasons I started this blog but, oh well, it’s their loss. The good news is that I was denied an internship with Chicago Public Radio for this summer, but there is a possibility of interning this fall. Keep your fingers crossed.

I’ve also been watching the World Cup for the past four days. There have been several ties, some amazing goals, and a couple of “snoozers” too. I really like soccer, the World Cup especially. I always root for Mexico. Love them!!!! I’ve noticed, over the years, the number of women at various sporting events has gone up. I think this is awesome ’cause it’s fun, and it’s a good way to meet people. Girls, it is almost a guarantee that no guy will turn you down if you ask them out to a sporting event– avoid cheerleading though, as it is, generally, not considered a sport. NFL with cheerleaders is the exception. Figure skating would, probably, be a “no” too. ;p

When I was younger and would beg my dad to take me to a pro soccer game, he would refuse claiming that it was just for men. Now, I solved that problem by buying the tickets, and he comes w/ me. Too bad I couldn’t do that when I was eleven (the World Cup was here in the U.S. then).

Meanwhile, as a marketer, I have one piece of advice for FIFA (Joseph Blatter I’m pointing at you): PLEASE LET THE PLAYERS REMOVE THEIR JERSEY’S WHEN THEY MAKE A GOAL. More women will pay attention, and you’d probably sell more merchandise to female fans. Also, if you can please force Maradona to keep his clothes on, if Argentina wins, that would be much appreciated. Maradona, as a soccer superstar we love you, but you’re not exactly male-model material at this point. LO SIENTO. Plus, isn’t it winter in S. Africa?

At any given time in a person’s life, he/she may feel like they need a dating how-to manual, a “Dating for Dummies”. Relationships, of any kind, would be so much simpler if they came with instructions, but they don’t. And, like the dumbasses we can sometimes be, we fuck up. But messing up is no biggie. Not learning from the mess-ups, or not experiencing them because of fear (or something else that holds us back) is the problem.

I never really thought about this kind of stuff until I got older, even though it affected me my entire life. Growing up, there were constantly moments when others made me feel inadequate: people teasing me ’cause I was too skinny, being picked on (or completely ignored) ’cause I “walked funny”. Even at home, I was the “smart one”, and my sisters were the “pretty ones”. What was this supposed to mean? I was ugly, and my sisters were dumb? People were always making comparisons among us, and that bothered me. Just because people are related, this doesn’t mean they should be expected to have the same talent, looks, etc. We are all individuals.

Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem having a brain, but no guy ever says, “Look at the mind on that one”. You know what I mean? Intelligence doesn’t come into play until you establish a relationship with someone. We are visual creatures no doubt but, sometimes, this is taken too far. TV’s always bombarding people, especially women, with images of what is considered attractive or sexy. And none of those images is ever anyone with a disability. A disability is considered a flaw, and flaws are considered unacceptable.

Last year, during a trip to Mexico, I kind of got another refresher on “why I’m inadequate”. In my parents’ hometown, it’s a “custom” during festivals/festivities, etc. to walk around the plaza. Guys to one side, and girls to the other. It’s kind of what I like to call a singles meat market. Always thought this was strange ’cause peeps just keep checkin’ the other peeps out as they walk by, and you have no choice in participation ’cause you can’t get through the plaza if you don’t follow the crowd, literally.

On one of those weekends, I was minding my business trying to get to the taco stand when I overheard a guy say, “She’s really pretty, I want to go ask her out”. The girl next to him responded, “But she can’t walk…”. Ouch. Apparently, being crippled also makes me ugly, and unworthy of being asked out, or so she thinks, as do lots of other folks.

For my 23rd birthday, my sisters, brothers-in-law, and me decided to celebrate early ’cause a cousin came from Cali to meet us for the first time. It was so much fun but, it seems, people are intent on not letting me forget I have a disability, if even for just a moment. So, the first fun of the night was going to a meet n’ greet. I had invited a friend, who works in radio, to come celebrate my b-day, but he said he couldn’t ’cause he had to work (at the meet n’ greet), so he invited me to attend instead. Yay! My sisters had insisted I dress sexy. Unless I’m at the beach, sexy and me don’t associate, but that day was the exception. I wore my hip-hugger jeans, and a bright blue top which was tied up to show my stomach. Up until then, I had never realized my stomach was so toned and, as an added bonus, I had just been to the beach, so I had a nice tan going. I exercise lots, but don’t spend much time in the mirror ’cause I will pick myself apart like a vulture, so I choose not to look. At any rate, we got so much attention, it was crazy!! A couple of dudes even tried blocking the exit so we wouldn’t leave. It was funny. After that, we made our way to a Chicago night club. The bouncer at the door looks at me and says, “It’s about time you all brought this girl out”! (Again with the bringing me out thing but, at least this time, it was from a positive angle). Then, another club staffer comes out and he says, we don’t make ourselves responsible if she drinks and falls over. This kind of pissed me off. I don’t see them given this disclaimer to all the other clubbers. That was bogus, but I was not about to let that ignorant fool ruin my night.

As we walk into the club, I overhear the cops say, “God Bless America”. Hilarious. We are all chillin’ gettin’ our drink on. My walker is folded and set aside,so it wouldn’t get in anyone’s way. My cousin, and the rest of my “entourage”, decide to leave the table and go dance. In the five minutes they danced, I had been asked to dance 15 times (After the first two I made a game of counting how many guys would ask during one song). I would say, “no” and they would keep insisting, until I pointed to my walker. This made me feel a little sad.

When my peeps came back we were offered to go into the VIP area. Meanwhile, my cousin, sisters, and brothers-in-law, got me up to dance. I don’t know if you could call what I do “dancing”, but whatever. I was just going to have fun, and I did. It was a blast, and I don’t think I’d ever felt so good about myself. Even so, it reminded me how my walker scares guys off…

THE END (OF COLLEGE) IS NEAR

After eight years which included: a middle school diploma with honors, a high school diploma with offers of college scholarships, and an associate’s degree with the distinction of valedictorian, my body was on the brink of collapse. The lack of sleep was affecting my immune system, and I was constantly getting sick. It was also causing me severe depression. Even then, I avoided missing school ‘cause I had no time to be doing make-up work. That would have added to my stress. I did not have time for weakness. I had a bachelor’s degree calling my name that year. I could not give up during my last semester. I knew if I took that semester off, I would not go back to school. Even my professors were realizing how messed up I was. I think the giant black bags under my eyes were a dead giveaway, or maybe my everyday colds??? I don’t know. What ever it was, two of them were kind enough to allow me more time to complete assignments. I owe them being able to graduate and not ending up in the hospital again. A nervous breakdown, unfortunately, had been calling my name too. Guys were the least of my worries, I just wanted rest. For my 21st birthday, I gave myself the gift of Cancun, Mexico. It was the first time in eight years I had taken a vacation. It was only three days, but it helped a lot. I got sun, I had fun but, most importantly, I finally got more than three hours of sleep!!!

Meanwhile, at 21 years old, I had a bunch of diplomas on my shelf, but I’d still never been on a date. Honestly though, with all the things I’d been going through, I did not give a sh@!. Getting asked out didn’t happen often, but it did happen. Unfortunately for me, it was never by the types of guys I wanted to date. For instance, stalkers are a major no-no. If you follow me around the entire college campus, know my schedule to perfection, but you never bothered talking to me sorry, but that’s far beyond shyness and creeps me out. Second, offering me money to go out with you… are you serious? I don’t know what kind of person you think I am, but you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not looking for a sugar-daddy. Put your money in your pocket, turn around, and get gone. These were just two of the scenarios I dealt with, but it was a very whatever-type thing then ‘cause, eh, I had more important stuff on my plate…

TIME GOES ON…

I never thought, at 26 years old, I’d still be living at home with my parents. My parents have never really wanted me to work, but I like to earn my money. Plus, I like to be able to help my family and not depend on someone. On top of this, I’m not much of a home-body. It makes me depressed. I need mental stimulation, and I need to be doing something productive. In the five years since graduating college, I’ve been blessed with some really awesome experiences: travel, concerts, parties, internships, new additions to the family, and new friends too.

I did, eventually, go out on a date and, I have to say, it was pretty awesome. But, some relationships work better as friendships, or allowing them to fade away ’til they disappear. Such is life, I guess…

He was dead, I was confused, depressed, and I had been left—after almost three years—just barely walking by holding on to furniture.

For two-and-a-half years the only people I saw were family and hospital staff. I ate, did physical therapy, did homework, and slept. After so many years, even though I was not, physically, much better my physical therapist decided it would be best for me to go back to school. I did, but I did so in a motorized wheelchair. It was the middle of my sophomore year, and I was not too sure about it ‘cause I would still be going to the hospital for therapy, every morning, before school.

My mother and I went sleepless for three years (these not counting all the years of therapy since I was three). I was broken, inside and out. I didn’t want to do this anymore. Shortly before turning 17, I called it quits on therapy. The only thing that had progressed was my exhaustion. The therapy was not working, and I couldn’t deal with it. I cried myself to sleep when my legs got crooked, and now I cried myself to sleep ‘cause they were straighter but damn near useless.

Quitting was not really quitting, it was changing what wasn’t working and doing what was best for my mom and me. With that, I focused on college. It was cool to start my first year of college before my 18th birthday. Dates and boyfriends, still, would not be at the top of my to-do list. School had to come first. Otherwise, my academic scholarships would be revoked, and I would never graduate. Even though I didn’t go to the hospital anymore, physical therapy was still second. I had used some of my left over scholarship money to buy myself a treadmill. I was sick of following orders that didn’t work, so I was going to do things MY WAY. I started first by breaking down the knots in my leg muscles using a personal massager—something therapists warned me not to do. It worked! Next, it was treadmill time. Walking very slowly, I could only walk five minutes, but I kept at it, and did other exercises that didn’t require being on my feet. Within six months, I was able to walk more freely around the house (still using furniture), and I could walk on the treadmill for over an hour. Mostly, I was happy it wasn’t going to take me twenty minutes to get from the kitchen to the living room. All through college, I had to do three hours of rehab, a number recommended by my ex-physical therapist. This advice I followed…

My mami constantly pressed nurses about what was happening to me. She got really angry when I rolled onto my back, and showed her the plastic patches nurses had placed on my hip bones to keep them from coming through the skin. Eventually, I was given special permission to eat in my room, so I could eat sitting up with my legs outstretched. It was hoped not having to eat while lying on my stomach would avoid the vomiting by getting rid of the pressure. It didn’t.

Even with all this going on, I couldn’t slack in school. I was not about to repeat a grade; it would have humiliated to me. I was accustomed to being ahead one grade. I was proud of that and determined to keep it that way. Plus, if I had any intention of going to college, my grades had to be, as they say, da bomb. When the whole surgery thing happened, the eighth grade had just started, and I had barely had time to make any friends.

New Year’s came and went as well, the nurses “looked the other way” when my parents and siblings stayed ‘til after midnight, and we watched the countdown on TV.

By then, doctors had done an ultrasound of my already small stomach and discovered it had shrunk to the size of a golf ball. In addition, I no longer felt hunger– just looking at food made me want to hurl.

A few days before I was discharged from the hospital, I was finally able to stand. When I did so, someone pulled up a full-length mirror so I could see myself. It was the first time, in nearly two months, that I had looked into a mirror. I wished I hadn’t looked. The image in the mirror wasn’t me. It was a living, breathing skeleton. Every single bone in my body was clearly visible. I could see an artery, which runs through the stomach, pulsate. My skin was papery, and yellow. Skinny I could handle, but this was entirely too much.

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS

At 5’3”, I returned home from the hospital weighing a mere 60 pounds. My first few weeks at home were tough. Sitting still hurt ‘cause of the knotted muscles, I still couldn’t walk, or eat without vomiting. I had to learn to feel hunger again. Thing is, taking 15 pounds off an already thin person, is like taking 200 off a 400 pound person. I had even lost my periods and thought I might end up sterile.

Thankfully, eventually, I started feeling hunger again, but then I didn’t know full, so I would end up vomiting anyway. It felt as if I was trying to recover from an eating disorder. In time, my eating habits went back to normal, but things were far from over.

I still needed lots of physical therapy so, for the next two and a half years, I was homeschooled. I would not have my first boyfriend, or first dance, in high school. When the doctor talked to me about the surgery, he had said he could leave me “walking like a normal girl” and ready to start high school, but I didn’t believe that anymore. He had mentioned to my mother, during surgery, I would need surgery in the near future to correct my feet, but he hadn’t put any of that in his notes and hadn’t explained anything to my mom. I was left to wonder…

“Tengo que trabajar cuatro horas”, she said. “No vamos a poder ir por ti”, she continued. What? She had to work, and no one could come pick me up? I could feel a lump in my throat and had to choke it down to avoid crying like my baby brother. It was only a slight consolation when my mom said they would all stay with me on Christmas day, if only during visiting hours. I said a half-hearted, “Okay” and hung up the receiver. It was Christmas Eve, and I was not feeling at all jolly any more. While my classmates were enjoying winter break, I saw nothing but white walls.

CHRISTMAS DAY

I was biting the shit out of my nails, staring at the clock, waiting for it to strike 5:00pm. My mom would be off of work then. Nurses came in and out of my room in all types of Christmas-related get-up. Bells, hats, scrubs, you name it; they had it. Meanwhile, I tried, fruitlessly, to forget that I would not get to go home, after a whole month, for at least the four hours. When my family finally showed, it was late. My parents had decided that all gifts would be opened, before coming to see me, to avoid carrying them. I was upset at that. I didn’t get to see my baby brother open his Christmas presents, by himself, for the first time.

My mom thought it might cheer me up if we went down to the lobby to look at all the Christmas decorations. On the gurney I went, down to the lobby ‘cause it was still excruciatingly painful to sit. At first, it was alright but, when I turned to my right I started sobbing uncontrollably. I just couldn’t stop myself. The giant Christmas tree, with the presents under it, reminded me of Christmas at home.

Obviously, at this point, I was not thinking about school, boys, or anything related to it. I was too homesick, and in physical pain, to give a crap. I had gotten to the point where my prayers were, “God, please let me wake up tomorrow. Please, let me be strong enough to make it through this”. I felt so weak and tired.

MAMI’S COMING SWEETHEART!

Christmas was over, and I was relieved, but now it was time to go back to the usual routine. The only difference was, now, my mom would be staying with me 24/7. In phone conversations with my ‘mami’ (Spanish version of mommy), I had told her how I felt incredibly sick, and threw up, every time I ate, and she was concerned. I was always thin, my average weight back then was 75 pounds, but I had never been the type of girl to throw up after eating (unless I had the stomach flu).

My mami’s first thought was the hospital food was making me sick. To “solve the problem” she would go to area restaurants and bring me back food. When I immediately threw up every single thing she would bring, she knew something was seriously wrong…