As mentioned in a previous post, our family consisted of my mom, my dad, my older brother Steve and my little sister Carla. Steve was two years older than me and Carla was six years younger.

Our extended family was scattered a bit, with varying levels of interest and involvement that seems to wax and wane with the seasons. My paternal grandparents were quite involved, my Grandma Maude and Grandpa Buck.  They lived in Boise, Idaho and made regular visits to Laurel. My maternal grandparents, Grandma and Grandpa Holt lived in Shoshone, Idaho, and although just as loved, were not seen as often due to their ailing health and financial hardships of travel. I also had maternal aunts and uncles that lived throughout Idaho.

In Laurel, the only relatives I had were my Mom’s sister… Aunt Evalena and my two cousins, Mike and Garry. My mother was close with my aunt, although they had quite different outlooks on life. My cousins were a daily part of my childhood, and Steve and I played fast and furious beside them.

This was the core group of family that was called to action, so to speak, when the plans were being made to travel to Seattle and the looming possibility of a surgery. Keep in mind we ran a family business with one hired employee.  It was difficult to imagine anyone being absent for any sustained period of time. Complicating factors was my mother and father’s marriage was rapidly escalating into failure. The personality of our nuclear family was changing from day to day. Dad was mostly absent at this point. Although, he was the “salesman” and indeed needed to be away to drum up accounts, it was clear that some of his time away involved more than business calls. There was frequent talk of divorce and when he was home, the arguing, screaming and abusiveness toward my mother and the family was difficult to bear. His drinking was heavy and yet episodic in nature.  My Mom’s drinking was much more consistent and filled with grief, but then again she was the one that was home. During the rough spells it was not uncommon to wake up to see my Dad, sitting in his recliner with blackened eyes, and taped ribs, due to either bar fights or truck roll-overs on lonely Montana roads. He usually nursed the “hair of the dog” as he would sheepishly apologize, smile and tell us how much he loved us.

My mother always moved into the role of the caretaker as this point, loving him kindly and forgiving all of the wrong doings. They frequently made pacts to themselves and to us that the drinking was going to stop and all would be well. Hopeful as I always was, this never came to pass. We all learned to grab at the moments of goodness and celebrate as we could, although the veil of anxiety always overshadowed any real delight. It was difficult to celebrate when I was holding my stomach muscles so tight waiting for the next breakdown.

Amidst this chaos, decisions had to be made. Who was taking Ronda to Seattle in two weeks? Who would stay and run the business?  Carla had just turned seven; clearly she would need to be with Mom. Could Dad really do sales and be there everyday to open the doors and do the bookkeeping? Steve was 15, but did Mom really trust Dad to look after him? There was so much weight on my Mom’s shoulders. Dad frequently walked away from these conversations as though he was overwhelmed.

It was at this time that my father stopped looking at me. He didn’t hug me. He stayed away a lot. He did not ever ask me any questions about my back. He never mentioned the surgery to me, or asked how I felt. He seemed angry. My mom always said he couldn’t handle it, that he was worried about me and he loved me.

Funny how kids aren’t stupid.

It wasn’t me he was worried about.

Within days I found myself sitting in an orthopedic doctors office in Billings, MT with my Mom. I don’t remember much about this doctor. He seemed nice and was clearly concerned about my well-being. After a careful review of all the past x-rays and some new ones, he conducted a thorough examination of my back, hips and legs.

He then spent some time just talking to us. He explained that although there seemed to be a hereditary disposition to scoliosis, there was no proof at that particular time. There were some theories that rapid rate of growth in the pre-adolescent years could be a contributing factor. For now, causes of scoliosis were just educated guesses and nothing more.

Mom asked if there was any chance my back would stop curving and stabilize.  The orthopedist felt strongly that I had surpassed the stage of hopeful stabilization. My spinal curve now had a Cobb Angle of 72. . He also pointed out that I had a *S* curve that curved from side to side, and a rotational curve  inward toward vital organs.  He concluded that if my back continued to move at the rapid rate it was, I would most likely be in a wheelchair within a year, maybe sooner…..and, eventually it could become life threatening.

Options? He only had, what he considered, one viable suggestion. Spinal surgery which would include a spinal fusion and metal rod implants. The Harrington implant was developed in 1953 by Paul Harrington, an orthopedic surgeon in Houston, Texas.  Harrington rods were intended to provide a means to reduce the curvature and to provide more stability to a spinal fusion. Harrington rod instrumentation was used to treat instability and deformity of the spine. Such instability results in nerve damage, spinal deformities, and disabling pain.

The orthopedist sounded very matter-of-fact and did not explain any details regarding length of surgery, recovery time or success rates. He knew it involved the implant of metal rods, but did not go into much discussion about the spinal fusion itself, and was quick to state he wasn’t sure of the details.  He did explain it was a relatively new surgery only being done for the last 7-10 years. He further explained that there was nobody locally that could do the surgery. At that time (1970) the surgery was only being done in Texas, Seattle and back east.

He then wrote down the name of a doctor at the University of Washington, in Seattle and suggested that Mom take me to this doctor as soon as possible. He was quite apologetic and wished there was someone local that could help us, but for now, it would require some travel. Mom was concerned about the cost of such a surgery as most people in the 70′s didn’t have health insurance. The doctor conferred that the costs could be staggering and said he would arrange for a county nurse to come to our home as soon as possible and assist with the arrangements.

Mom and I drove to home feeling relieved that there was an answer. Seemed like an easy fix. We felt confident that any questions we had would be answered in Seattle. I daydreamed of getting to see Seattle. When one grows up in a tiny town in Montana, travel always is very exciting. The back surgery seemed like a tiny price to pay for a grand travel adventure.

If only I knew what real travel adventures were just around the curve…..

I haven’t forgotten about this blog. I have entries flying around in my head daily. Getting those into the blog has become a bit of an issue. It is not that I don’t enjoy blogging–especially love this one. It is just a matter of reality.

We just sold our house in Maryland and are preparing for a cross-country move in February. Add in a rough patch of joint pain and this blog ends up on the shelf. Rightfully so. The stories are all here in my brain, and they will make their way onto the page soon enough.

For myself there is a delicate balance of rest and activities, rest and stress, rest and change. I just received another neck injection and feel much better. As my strength improves, my life settles and I find my peaceful little world again, the posts will come like crazy.

Until then, hit and miss to possibly nothing is all I can promise. Stick with me, it will be worth it.

In readiness for the pool, Mom took me shopping at Montgomery Wards for a new swimsuit. We picked several off the rack and I went off to the dressing room, hoping Mom would like my favorite pick.  I came out in my favorite, a bright blue one-piece with a scoop back, and stood in front of the mirror facing my Mom. She smiled and seemed to like my choice. She asked me turn around so she could see the back. It was the first major turn that impacted my life and the life of my family in a very large and dramatic way. I remember it as well as I can see my hands typing this story.

My mother screamed, in the store, very loud…”Oh My God, Ronda…your back….your back.”  She dropped everything she was holding and grabbed me and began to examine my back….all the time repeating the “Oh My God”… over and over again. She even showed the clerk at the store…..”Look at my daughters back.” I had no idea what she was talking about and when she finally calmed a bit, she told me that my right shoulder blade was missing and my left was sticking out farther than normal. I then remember the feel of her finger as it traced the intense S shape if my spine. She said, “Oh honey, your back is a twisted mess.”

After the first few minutes of shock wore off, she had me get dressed and off we drove to the chiropractor’s office. Mom questioned me along the way……does he look at your back, when he exams you? What has he said to you? I told her exactly what happened during the office visits. After all I was 13, just at that age when I wanted the independence to go into the exam room by myself. You also must keep in mind this was 1970. People had a different relationships with doctors, more trusting, and the rules were different. Most often parents were not allowed in exam rooms by the time their children were teens, just as the visiting hours of hospitals were enforced for parents equally to all visitors. The doctor would always call Mom in after the exam and discuss his findings. I explained to Mom that  he always took an x-ray of my back, then laid it over the previous x-ray for comparison. I couldn’t remember if he always looked at my back, but I knew he looked at the x-rays. I further told her that he would ask me if I was doing the exercises and that was about the extent of the exams.

We pulled up in front of the chiropractor’s office and my sister and I had to run to keep up with my mother. She was charging. My mother was not going to have any kind of argument with the receptionist about needing an appointment and she made that perfectly clear with her posture, voice tone, and trembling hands. She would see the doctor and she would see him NOW. We were immediately shown into an exam room.

As I sat on the exam table Mother paced back and forth, Carla rocked nervously on the edge of her seat, as we kept glancing back and forth at each other not knowing what to expect. When the chiropractor walked in my mom nearly exploded:

• Have you been examining this child for God’s sake?
• Look at my child’s back…look at this! (nearly ripping my shirt off)
• How can you sleep at night? Why wasn’t I told?
• You knew these exercises were not working, how dare you just keep on having her do them?

As the man tried to pull out the X-rays and show Mom, she grabbed them out of his hand, and continued:

• Are you blind?
• You don’t need an x-ray to see my daughters back has SEVERELY worsened. When I brought her to you there was no noticeable deformity… NOW LOOK AT HER!!!!

The doctor put his head down and said he was sorry. He wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to Mom. She told him his apology didn’t mean a thing and all she could hope for is he would pray for himself.  She told him she would tell everyone in the town what a terrible thing he had done to her daughter. She then turned and stormed out the door, as Carla and I hopped up and ran after.

She did not speak on the way home. Neither did Carla, nor I.

When we arrived home my mom started making a phone calls and I ran to the bathroom trying to examine my new deformed back. Wow, it did look pretty weird. I didn’t stop to think about what it all meant because I needed to go eavesdrop on Mom’s phone calls. It is always powerful to watch a mother lion protect a cub, especially when that cub is you. Extra-special when that cub hadn’t felt very protected of late.  I didn’t dare miss that drama.

The paper the chiropractor had given my Mom was the name of an orthopedist in Billings and Mom had made an appointment for the following week. She had finished making her phone calls to friends to vent, rant and rave and ask for prayers. By bedtime, things had calmed down, Dad and Steve had come home, had been filled in and both looked at my back. There wasn’t much else to say. None of us knew what to expect or what it all meant.

I was happy I didn’t have to do my silly exercises that night.

I sleep a little stiff that night, holding my pillow against my chest. After all, I didn’t want to make my back twist anymore than it apparently had. I dreamed of climbing broken trees.

Back and leg exercises everyday, twice a day. No fuss. I wanted these exercises to work. I needed these exercises to work. I wanted that cure. The best motivation to keep the excercises going was that cure, the promise of no more pain, no more throbbing, no more leg cramps. If I just kept the repetitions going, the cure must be waiting around the next turn.

Monthly checks with the chiropractor were always good. The scoliosis was not progressing. Perhaps it was even stabilizing. Promises that the pain would start improving very soon. Waiting. Exercising.

Late winter and spring of 1970.

I was 13 now. Still doing the exercises like a trooper. Still going to the chiropractor every month. Still being told the same good news of stabilization. The news was beginning to worry me. My body was screaming that it was all a lie. My ribcage throbbed the words….”geting worse, getting worse”…everynight as I tried to sleep. My ribcage had not hurt before.  Even at 13, one knows their body, especially when it yells that loud.

I didn’t complain to my Mom, she seemed happy my back wasn’t getting worse, she had her own distractions and was happy to file my back problems in the “Stabilized” file. I learned at an early age that adult problems do not always co-exist well with kid problems, especially when the adult problems are new, raw and larger than life….a rapidly failing marriage, despite immeasurable love on both sides. Dad had started cheating and it was no secret to Mom. Small towns are not designed for secrets. He was drinking heavily and Mom started pouring her own drinks to ease the pain brought on by the absence of a husband at the 5, 6, 7…10pm hour. By the early spring of 1970, both of my parents were well sprouted alcoholics, frozen in the clutch of a cyclic, abusive, toxic marriage all wrapped up in a doomed family business, tied with a ribbon of love.

One day the marriage was love and kindness, the next was a drunken beating. The business was damned and the beloved family golden retriever was slowly dying of arthritis. We all coped in our own ways, my brother Steve was able to pour himself into sports which kept him away from the house for longer periods, and when home he would stay in his room. Door closed. Reading. Escaping. My big brother, my best friend…was escaping me…he was out of reach.

I did my exercises and took care of my little sister who was only 6 at the time. She did the exercises with me almost every night, or played her 45 records, as we giggled into bedtime. I did the ironing, made sure we both got off to school in the mornings and watched over her at night. Thank goodness we shared a room. When Mom and Dad fought at night I would pull her covers up around her ears so she couldn’t hear.

I would lay awake partially from the physical pain of my changing body, but largely trying to figure a way I could fix my parents so they could be the way they had been, before they became lost in time.

I desperately felt that not only my parents and family, but my body was running out of time.

The embarrassment of the Saddle Shoes was short lived as the dither of Junior High School became an everyday reality. New heights of learning were being achieved, not to mention a whole new social world to explore. The world around us was ablaze with change. The hippie’s of  Haight-Asbury were making their statements, we took what we dared from the evening news and marched  into the halls of Laurel Jr. High, prepared to make our own changes.  From sit-in’s to allow girls to wear pants to school (we won) to debating war in history class. Wow, what a time. Hope. Peace, Love, Dove.

My pain didn’t dissipate as quickly as my embarrassment. No chance. It just escalated. By late fall of 1969, Mom had thrown away the much debated Saddle Shoes, finally agreeing they could be enhancing the pain….after all, my feet were still flat.  It did ease the pain in my feet to rid myself of those shoes…. as for my other pain, especially the hip pain….it became madening.

There was a chiropractor in town. Mom hated chiropractors. Said they were all the idiots that couldn’t make it through medical school. What was I to know…. it was just another doctor. She reluctantly made an appointment with him. She was clearly running out of options.

I don’t remember much about this doctor, don’t remember his face, voice, or office. My memory image is one of a very dark room, perhaps it was my own darkness, I am not sure. He examined me, and for the first time, he took x-rays of my back.  This was the first time my back was x-rayed.

I remember the word scoliosis. I liked the word, I remember that…it was fun to say. Mom and him talked for a bit, as I read the Highlights magazine.

Mom explained on the way home that I had a curve in my spine. She explained that is why one of my legs was shorter, the curve was pulling my hip upward. Mom seemed very upbeat and remarked that I would need to do back strengthening exercises two times a day and that should cure the problem…..it was possible that I might need to wear a back brace for a short time…..but, the doctor was very hopeful that the exercises would not only halt the curve, they would strengthen the spine back into place.  Hope.

I was happy to get started with the exercises.

I guess Mom didn’t think chiropractors were idiots anymore.

It was early July when Mom and I drove to see the podiatrist in Billings.  It was just nearing the end of  the 1960′s, but this particular doctors office looked like something out of a old movie. It was an office that could have been in the movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life.”  The building was two or three stories high, with long wide staircases. The waiting room was small and comfortable, and the receptionist was friendly and old.

The best part of going to the doctor at this age was the Highlight’s magazine. How I loved that magazine. I used to secretly hope that we would have a long wait so I would have more time to read the magazine. First I would read Goofus and Gallant and then the TimberToes. I savored the best for last… the Hidden Pictures page. It was an outrage when the hidden pictures would already be circled. It could be a day wrecker.  There was always one last hold out… the art pages. You remember… kids would submit their art work and poems. I used to try to guess which kids were lying about their ages.

We were called to the examination room that was large and filled with odd looking instruments and diagrams on the walls. It was an old building with 12-18 feet ceilings and huge windows that opened from the top and bottom. It was dark and had a funny odor. An old bread smell. I mentioned to my Mom and she told me to… shush!  She shared a small chair with my little sister Carla, over by one of the big windows, while I took my place on the edge of the exam table. So, we all sat quietly, looking at all the odd objects around the room.

The doctor came in, he was rather short and balding. Seemed pleasant enough, but was a little shaky. I thought that was weird. He did not address me during the exam, only asked Mom questions, but that wasn’t unusual for the time. Mom would deflect many of the questions back to me and I would answer, but I don’t believe he ever looked my way. He measured my legs and confirmed my right leg was considerably shorter. He also confirmed that I had flat feet and both problems could be fixed quite promptly with corrective shoes. Wow, that sounded easy! Just like that, no more pain. I was enjoying this doctor visit.

My Mom asked why my right leg was shorter and he said very matter-of-fact…  that I was born that way.  By the look on my Mom’s face I don’t think she believed him, but she also didn’t challenge him. He took an X-ray and a plaster molding of my feet. He told us he would make inserts that would fit into the shoe to correct the lack of arches in my feet and he would need to build the right shoe higher to correct the imbalance of the legs. He was very satisfied and insisted this would eliminate any problems I had and that I should go onto live a great life. Simple. Easy. Done.

He gave Mom a catalog to take home so we could pick the shoes and asked her to call him back with the choice. He measured the size of my foot and it was a 10. In women’s. I was 5’10″ at the time. Always the tallest kid in the class.

Once we arrived home and settled in, we started looking through the shoe catalog. There were some very stylish shoes, but none in my size. The further we flipped through the pages the more my excitement wained. All the pages had been looked three times. It came down to two choices. Two! A pair of black “grandma” oxfords, or a pair of saddle shoes. Those were the only two styles in the whole catalog that came in size ten.  Mom was so happy about the saddle shoes, after all she had worn them… and shoes like that never go out of style… they would look so nice with all my dresses.

The more she talked the crazier I got. Tantrums at 12?  Oh ya!  I was never going to wear those shoes and I was never going to go to school again. If she made me wear those stupid shoes…  I knew, I just knew it would be the worse thing in my life.

We got the shoes from the podiatrist about a week before my grand entrance into Jr. High. They were the ugliest things I ever saw, and I didn’t care how many kids in China would be happy to have them… then ship them to China for all I cared. If that wasn’t bad enough… they hurt. I had flat feet, right? It didn’t feel to good to have huge arches in my shoes, that were supposed to train my feet. My hip pain doubled and now a new pain had started. In my back. I told myself it was temporary, after all the podiatrist was sure this would fix my problems. I would reason with myself to have a little hope and push forward. What other choice did I have…   I had clearly blown my credibility with my temper tantrum and poor attitude. I knew any complaint to Mom about pain, would be looked upon as a poor attempt to rid myself of the shoes.

So on the first day of Jr. High I met my two best friends, Donna and Sherry at the corner store and we all dramatically complimented each other on our new outfits and new shoes. My shoes weren’t mentioned… that’s why they were my two best friends.  We excitedly hurried off to school…  our new chapter of life.

I thought those saddle shoes were going to be the most difficult thing that would happen to me in Jr. High. I had no idea what was lurking just around the corner.

This was it. The big prize. This was what was waiting at the end of sixth grade. Laurel Junior High School, grades 7-9. For me this was bigger than Disneyland. This was a rite of passage. I had heard the trickle down stories from my brother and cousins. I knew which teachers were cool and which ones to fear. Best of all for the first time, I had to register. Register! Choose my own elective classes. Freedom baby, Freedom.

The summer vacation before I started Jr. High was full of anxiety, excitement, drama, and surprises. It was 1969. Our country was changing. School was changing, our family was changing and I was changing in ways that I could not even begin to imagine.

Mom took me back for one more visit to Dr. Calvert that summer. She said it was time to find out once and for all what was bothering my feet and left leg.  The visit was met with his usual disinterest and continued belief that most women were just hysterical and their daughters were following closely behind. Something was different this visit. My Mom got mad. She stood and demanded that I be examined properly. She told doctor Calvert she didn’t want his “opinions”… she wanted “facts.” When he looked at her like she was crazy, she stood her ground and said, “What are you waiting for… get busy.” 

Dr Calvert examined me. Well, my legs and feet. He measured my legs and found out that my left leg was 1.5 inches longer than my right. He also said I was flat-footed. He told my mother to take me to Billings to a podiatrist… mumbling something under his breath about why the hell I ever came to him in the first place, people with foot problems should see foot doctors.

Mom made the appointment with the Podiatrist. It would be a few weeks before I could see him. I really didn’t care. I was so caught up in the summer excitement of nearing the hallways of that Jr. High, I didn’t care much about my feet. At night when the tingling pain in my feet intensified… I would envision a little man, in a bed, asleep… inside my foot. I would beg him to wake up. But he would keep snoring along. I would hit my foot to try and wake him… nothing. He was a stubborn little guy.

The visions of children, especially at night. The secrets children hold in that silent, dark spanse of time. Our minds are the theaters that allow us to work out all that ails. The dramas unfold in a space between awake and asleep. A place where many things are solved, where our thoughts become playwrights and our journeys take us to places  we  have created, carved out, chiseled just for ourselves. Places we seem to be able to escape or perhaps even confront the big emotions of a grown-up world. A place full of knocker-holes and nooks and crannies that we can hide away our worries for another time… for another play that has yet to be written. A way to make everything okay, for just that brief time before the curtain call of sleep arrives.  

So what if I had flat feet.

Between the ages of 11-12 the same old leg and hip pain followed me throughout my childhood.  Time could have stood still during these years and I wouldn’t have complained, except for that nagging pain…oh how I wished I could have left that behind. 

A new and disturbing symptom had popped up. My feet. They would fall asleep often. Especially sitting in school. I would not realize while sitting that they had become numb. When I stood up they would start to wake, that usual, well known… tingling, numb feeling would start.  At first it was just annoying, but by the end of the 5th grade, the annoyance had turned into a handicap.

The pain in my feet began to change. It intensified and only affected my left leg. I would attempt to stand after sitting and my left leg would not hold my weight. It was not only asleep, it was weak. The pain was excruciating. Not the usual pins and needles. No, not for me. It was hot, stinging, biting type of pain. It was as if a million venom laced, hot needles were piercing my feet at the same time. The blast of pain and weakness would last for over five minutes at times. The step-down pain would then begin and the soles of my feet would burn for hours.

Things were also changing in our family. The business boomed and something changed in my father. He loved the success and the attention he received. It was pretty easy to be a “big shot” in a town of 4,400. He started staying away on sales trips. He started drinking heavier. My mother matched his drinking can for can, bottle for bottle. She needed to kill the fear and agony of sitting down to the dinner table with my fathers chair empty. The gossip trickled into her ears. The gossip of my fathers’ womanizing must have burnt her ears as bad as my foot burned.

I didn’t tell my Mom about my foot, she had become distracted. I would tell her soon.

It was around this time that I heard the word…divorce… for the first time.  I sogged my pillow good that night. I trembled in fear, peeking over to my little sister’s bed to make sure she was asleep and hadn’t heard. Oh, how badly I wanted the courage to go to them….my mother and father… and tell them to just stop. If they would just stop fighting and drinking and love again. I didn’t have that courage—I was little.

I was little. My feet burned. If you hold your breath long enough the trembling stops a little. I reasoned then, if I held my breath just a little deeper, perhaps the burn would subside.