Boy Interrupted

by Franklin Branch

When I was eight years old baseball consumed my life. All I needed was an open field to play whiffle ball on, and I would be content for hours simulating all my heroic World Series hits. I never thought until now how funny it probably looked for people strolling by my house to see me hit balls and then sprint around the yard to outrun an imaginary defense. Baseball was my life, until the day I found myself in too much pain to get out of my seat at the movies. I was scared to get up and had to be carried out of the theater by my mother. What I thought was a persistent pulled muscle was actually the slow deterioration of my left hip joint from a rare bone condition called Legg-Perthes disease. I was more confused than angry when my doctor told my parents and me that I would no longer be able to run or play any sports for the next couple of years and probably for the rest of my life. I was then fitted for a brace I would wear for one year that went around my legs and was attached by a metal bar between my knees, similar to the one in Forrest Gump. Within a couple of weeks I had been removed from the baseball field and placed into a squeaky contraption that announced my entrance to every room.

I never realized during these years that my parents were probably going through a more difficult time than I was. They tell me I will never understand the sense of sadness and helplessness they felt until I have a child of my own. My father spent long nights at the library researching my disease, but there was no guide for parents on how to act when a child's life hits a roadblock. For me, and presumably most young children with a disability, I just wanted to fit in. I would have traded much more discomfort for the ability to have been able to hide the brace under my clothes and avoid all the inquisitive stares and questions.

The most important place to feel comfortable for me was in school and other social situations with children my own age. My parents asked a friend who was a doctor to come to my school and, in front of my whole grade, explain my disease and the brace I had to wear. Their logic was that if my friends were scared and confused by my disease then that is how they would respond to me. At first I was against the idea because it added more attention to myself, but after other children began trying on the brace and laughing I realized it was a great way to break the ice.

I never wanted to talk about my condition with my friends because it only made me uncomfortable. I did, however, need the compassion from my parents. Words of encouragement were very important for me even though I always tried to act tough and seem like I didn't need them. My mother could always put me in a good mood with just her calmness and sincerity. There was, however, a fine line between my parents being supportive and showering me with pity. Receiving too much attention made me feel like I was more of an art exhibit than a person. It did not help anyone to sit around and curse the fate I had been given especially because every time I saw my parents upset or cry I felt at least partially responsible for their unhappiness. All I needed from them psychologically was just to understand that what I was going through was difficult for me and to motivate me to try other things.

What made the time with my disease infinitely easier was this ability of my parents to brainstorm and find alternative ways for me to enjoy myself. When I was still focused on what I would no longer be able to do, my mother and father were thinking of the many activities I could find to replace sports. The great thing about being young was that it didn't take much for me to be happy. Shortly after I was placed in the brace my favorite hobby became going to the neighborhood pool with my father and seeing how many times we could throw a tennis ball to each other without dropping it. I think our record was somewhere in the 200's. The greatest gift my parents gave me, however, was introducing me to the game of chess, an activity I assumed was entirely too boring when I was able to run around. Chess became a passion for me and filled the competitive void I had been missing. The trips to baseball fields for hours of ground ball practice became trips to the dining room for hours of chess. I taught my friends how to play and we started a chess club at school, eventually with all of us going to the national tournament in North Carolina. If I had not enjoyed this game, I am confident my parents would have found another way to engage me.

After one year with the brace and one year with crutches, my atrophied leg made a better than expected recovery. Peers at my new school were unaware of my previous disease except for a persistent limp that landed me the nickname "waddles." The name never angered me unless it was used by kids who didn't really know me. I was lucky to have a good core of loyal friends, but unfortunately when a child has a disability there will almost always be a handful of people who will make snide comments that cause both trials of anger and depression. One of my neighbors liked to make jokes and point at me with his friends when I would walk back from school in my brace. It was difficult sometimes to get over, but what my parents made me realize is that people like my neighbor were more self-conscious than I was.

Looking back, I am surprised by how far away the experience was from the nightmare I had thought it was going to be. I was able to discover that enjoying life was relative to my mindset. Once I convinced myself there was another world outside of sports I began thinking of new activities as challenges instead of immediately condemning them as boring or too difficult. You can't control what fate throws at you, but you can decide what to make of it. Finding new ways to have fun and stay centered are lessons I would pass on to children facing disability.

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