Saturday's Storyteller: "Personally, I'd prefer getting run over by a motorcycle."
by Belinda Roddie
Personally, I'd prefer getting run over by a motorcycle. Or a regular bicycle. Or anything on wheels, really, instead of this. I hate this. I hate it with more than just the clichéd fiery passion. I hate it with a passion heated over the stove, simmered in molten lava, and dipped in spicy cream sauce and served to a lactose intolerant, mild-tongued individual.
I can't even pay attention to the TV, I'm in so much pain. I can't even stand up from the couch. I have to be helped from the cushions like they're lifting an animal, sloshed into a wheelchair, and pushed around. My legs are immobile from the knees down, and the painkillers aren't helping me much. That's what happens after two tremendous surgeries.
My mom tries to make me feel better with my favorite soup and my favorite hot drink and my favorite ice cream (which happen to be baked potato and cheddar, hot chocolate, and pistachio, by the way). But the food's only a temporary comfort. By the time I've eaten and been reassembled into my new transport, I can't help paying attention to my little brother playing in the yard. He's eight years old now. Fastest kid in his grade. All the teachers think he'll win a gold medal at the Olympics. Christ, the kid is eight. High expectations sometimes aren't helpful to a little boy's esteem.
Me, I was going to run. I was going to run, ride bikes, and swim. I was going to do tricks and show the world what an awesome athlete I was. And then I had to do this to myself. All because I was too reckless and wanted to impress some dumb boy.
I broke my legs playing a game of football, by the way. Both legs. In a game of football. The tendons got torn clean off, too. Hence the massive operations and the chronic pain.
You can see why I prefer the hypothetical injury by vehicular method now, right?
***
"So when are you leaving?"
I ask this with my mouth full. My dad's in his uniform. He's chewing noisily at his baked potato.
"Ten weeks," he mumbles.
I press further. "And you're going to be on a ship."
"That's it, kiddo."
"Hon," my mom insists. "Don't tire out your father."
"He can walk. I can't."
"Grace, please!" cries out my older brother Todd. My eight year brother is too busy counting peas to be involved in the conversation.
"Sandy," my father says finally, "it's fine. She can talk to me as much as she wants about this. It's only fair."
"I don't understand how that's - "
"Talking is one cathartic way to alleviate mental stress and even physical pain," my sister Lucy pipes up. "I read about it in psychology."
"Shame that it doesn't fix the overall problem," I point out.
"Grace, dear."
Oh, Lord. Now everyone's focused on me. It always comes down to this every dinner. I'm the poor handicapped kid who needs to be tended to and encouraged.
"Grace, dear," my mom repeats. "Wouldn't it be swell if tomorrow, you and I went to visit your Aunt Caroline? She's been dying to see you since your last..."
She trails off. I finish for her. "Swim meet, Mom."
"Yes, that's right," she stutters. "And maybe you two can spend time together while your old mom visits friends around town. What do you say?"
Personally, I'd prefer being run over by a - wait, no, I don't. I like Aunt Caroline. I say yes.
***
My eight-year-old brother wakes me up the next morning to go see Aunt Caroline. We're not supposed to start driving until three in the afternoon, and he wakes me up at six. He's made me breakfast, he says. I wonder if it's toast, or cereal, or both, or maybe even toast cut up into a makeshift cereal. You have to wonder with my brother.
I drag myself into my wheelchair and head into the kitchen and sure enough, there's a bowl of Cheerios. I don't mind - I like them fine enough. My brother sits down next to me with a poptart as I eat, a strawberry one. I give him a look.
"Why can't I eat that?"
"Mine," he scowls, sticking his tongue out at me.
He doesn't talk much. He's better at communicating through action and play. I used to get along better with him when we ran together or played catch or kicked around the soccer ball. Now I can't do that anymore. Maybe not for the rest of my life.
It doesn't hurt so much anymore, though, so maybe the painkillers are working. I remember to take them after I finish breakfast. Mom comes downstairs at eight to make tea. She gives me a look.
"You're up early."
"Mike's fault," I reply. Mike sticks his tongue out at me again.
Mom makes me a cup of hot chocolate for the road. The phone rings and allegedly it's Aunt Caroline, wanting to confirm our trip. I find that extraneous, but I don't bother judging the actions of my aunt. She's a cool gal. Her first Christmas present to me was a pogo stick. I was two. I never learned how to use it.
"Grace," my mom says once she gets off the phone, "you go rest until we leave. I'll have the van prepared for you."
A new pair of legs would be nice, too.
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
Personally, I'd prefer getting run over by a motorcycle. Or a regular bicycle. Or anything on wheels, really, instead of this. I hate this. I hate it with more than just the clichéd fiery passion. I hate it with a passion heated over the stove, simmered in molten lava, and dipped in spicy cream sauce and served to a lactose intolerant, mild-tongued individual.
I can't even pay attention to the TV, I'm in so much pain. I can't even stand up from the couch. I have to be helped from the cushions like they're lifting an animal, sloshed into a wheelchair, and pushed around. My legs are immobile from the knees down, and the painkillers aren't helping me much. That's what happens after two tremendous surgeries.
My mom tries to make me feel better with my favorite soup and my favorite hot drink and my favorite ice cream (which happen to be baked potato and cheddar, hot chocolate, and pistachio, by the way). But the food's only a temporary comfort. By the time I've eaten and been reassembled into my new transport, I can't help paying attention to my little brother playing in the yard. He's eight years old now. Fastest kid in his grade. All the teachers think he'll win a gold medal at the Olympics. Christ, the kid is eight. High expectations sometimes aren't helpful to a little boy's esteem.
Me, I was going to run. I was going to run, ride bikes, and swim. I was going to do tricks and show the world what an awesome athlete I was. And then I had to do this to myself. All because I was too reckless and wanted to impress some dumb boy.
I broke my legs playing a game of football, by the way. Both legs. In a game of football. The tendons got torn clean off, too. Hence the massive operations and the chronic pain.
You can see why I prefer the hypothetical injury by vehicular method now, right?
***
"So when are you leaving?"
I ask this with my mouth full. My dad's in his uniform. He's chewing noisily at his baked potato.
"Ten weeks," he mumbles.
I press further. "And you're going to be on a ship."
"That's it, kiddo."
"Hon," my mom insists. "Don't tire out your father."
"He can walk. I can't."
"Grace, please!" cries out my older brother Todd. My eight year brother is too busy counting peas to be involved in the conversation.
"Sandy," my father says finally, "it's fine. She can talk to me as much as she wants about this. It's only fair."
"I don't understand how that's - "
"Talking is one cathartic way to alleviate mental stress and even physical pain," my sister Lucy pipes up. "I read about it in psychology."
"Shame that it doesn't fix the overall problem," I point out.
"Grace, dear."
Oh, Lord. Now everyone's focused on me. It always comes down to this every dinner. I'm the poor handicapped kid who needs to be tended to and encouraged.
"Grace, dear," my mom repeats. "Wouldn't it be swell if tomorrow, you and I went to visit your Aunt Caroline? She's been dying to see you since your last..."
She trails off. I finish for her. "Swim meet, Mom."
"Yes, that's right," she stutters. "And maybe you two can spend time together while your old mom visits friends around town. What do you say?"
Personally, I'd prefer being run over by a - wait, no, I don't. I like Aunt Caroline. I say yes.
***
My eight-year-old brother wakes me up the next morning to go see Aunt Caroline. We're not supposed to start driving until three in the afternoon, and he wakes me up at six. He's made me breakfast, he says. I wonder if it's toast, or cereal, or both, or maybe even toast cut up into a makeshift cereal. You have to wonder with my brother.
I drag myself into my wheelchair and head into the kitchen and sure enough, there's a bowl of Cheerios. I don't mind - I like them fine enough. My brother sits down next to me with a poptart as I eat, a strawberry one. I give him a look.
"Why can't I eat that?"
"Mine," he scowls, sticking his tongue out at me.
He doesn't talk much. He's better at communicating through action and play. I used to get along better with him when we ran together or played catch or kicked around the soccer ball. Now I can't do that anymore. Maybe not for the rest of my life.
It doesn't hurt so much anymore, though, so maybe the painkillers are working. I remember to take them after I finish breakfast. Mom comes downstairs at eight to make tea. She gives me a look.
"You're up early."
"Mike's fault," I reply. Mike sticks his tongue out at me again.
Mom makes me a cup of hot chocolate for the road. The phone rings and allegedly it's Aunt Caroline, wanting to confirm our trip. I find that extraneous, but I don't bother judging the actions of my aunt. She's a cool gal. Her first Christmas present to me was a pogo stick. I was two. I never learned how to use it.
"Grace," my mom says once she gets off the phone, "you go rest until we leave. I'll have the van prepared for you."
A new pair of legs would be nice, too.
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
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