By Olivia Stern
Sitting at my desk on my first day of eighth grade, sweating excessively, I nervously looked around the classroom wondering if anyone noticed my perceived wardrobe malfunction. I lusted over my girlfriends’ first day of school outfits: short tops, jeans, cute skirts, and confident smiles worn on their faces. No smile for me. I looked down at myself utterly disgusted: chunky, wide, and suffocated by my back brace, my long three layer shirt trying so desperately to cover my new medical accessory. The plastic chafed from my hips to my armpits, the velcro as tight as it could go.
₪₪₪
I sat on the table draped with white paper I played with to distract myself from what news I feared I was about to hear. Dr. R, the crooked back expert, explained that the concern with curved spines is whether it turns into severe scoliosis. If severe, scoliosis must be treated or else it can limit your growth, ability to walk, and play sports. If it gets too extreme, patients need a surgery where they insert a metal rod into your back. Sitting on that cold table, I knew this wasn’t going to be simple.
My memory was mostly a blur of what happened next. My X-ray spine looked like a squiggly strand of spaghetti. I laughed, and then I cried. I had never seen anything more crooked in my life. The doctor talked with my Mom as I laid my head down onto the bed and fiddled with the paper again.
“So how do we prevent her curve from progressing?” My mom asked, her voice suddenly raspy. I noticed my mother’s change in posture as she sunk down deeper into her chair, clutching her hair tightly. She pretended to scratch her head, but I knew she was trying to release her fear in a subtle manner. I closed my eyes, thinking that maybe by closing them I could be somewhere else. I heard the sounds of my mother’s aggressive scribble violently writing down a bunch of notes in my five-inch thick doctor’s notebook; she had one doctor’s notebook for each child. Suddenly my notebook was the fattest. Her anxiety made me all the more anxious.
Then, Doctor R. said the words that would change my lifes for the next three-and-a-half years.
“I strongly recommend that we brace Olivia’s back. She should wear a metal and plastic brace for 18 hours a day until she stops growing.” I vaguely heard the words “if she doesn’t” and “will need surgery and a rod in her back” and “18 hours is a requirement.” He continued to talk to my mother and me, but I shut my brain off. No, he must be wrong. I am perfectly healthy. I ran out the door.
₪₪₪
Wearing a brace 18 hours a day sounded like a prison sentence. That meant I would have to wear the brace for 6 hours while I slept, and twelve hours during the day. All day at school. All throughout the night. All day everyday, minus two hours for sports or to “relax” and take it off. Super generous, I thought. My mother began making schedules to make sure I wasn’t lying about the hours I wore it. Heated arguments during the first couple of months became a ritual among my parents and me. I debated my Mom about wearing the brace for a sparse sixteen hours one day, and she fought back saying that wasn’t enough. In reality, no number of hours was good enough, as the fear engulfed my family of the possibility of a rod going into my back. But, if it wasn't for her nagging, perhaps my outcome would have been different.
I had always been a confident young woman despite my 13-year-old hormones and normal middle school emotional slumps. For someone that didn't like to go unnoticed, outgoing and comfortable at the center of the room, I quickly found myself wanting to be everything but noticeable. For a while, I didn't even tell my friends the news of my brace. I was embarrassed to wear something that would possibly bring attention to me in an “ugly” way.
Pink and plastic with a few holes for breathing, this mold strapped on my body like a shield. The constant squeeze on my lower back and ribcage left deep red imprints on my skin. I would no longer be able to be the “fashion icon” I thought was before, having to give away my my tight tops and pants, replacing them with baggy sweatshirts and sweatpants. Baggy equalled unnoticeable.
₪₪₪
I re-fastened my velcro in class, taking a deep breath in. This eighth grade English class was getting longer by the minute, as the clock continued to tick-tick-tick. I wished lunch would come sooner, just so I could feel the release of my armor.
₪₪₪
But after months of self loathing and sulking, I had had enough. I eventually told my friends about my newest “contraption.” Their surprising reactions that they didn't even notice and that it wasn't a big deal made most of my worries of others’ perceptions drift away. While it was still a burden to wear this brace, knowing that the people who I cared for saw me no differently was enough; I was still the same person. I began to realize that this situation was simply something my body had to experience because it needed help. I knew that it wasn't the brace holding me back this time, but rather, it was me.
It began to give me perspective and appreciation for what this thing was doing for my body, instead of what it was taking away. It was pretty unbelievable that by wearing this for hours, my spaghetti could turn almost perfectly straight. Along the journey, I had three different braces, each corresponding to important milestones and memories in my life. The brace grew with me physically and emotionally, during the highs, lows, and pure teenage memories.
In the end, I achieved the goal that my parents and doctors were rooting for. My scoliosis did not progress to the point of needing surgery, and I proceeded with a newfound sense of confidence. My friends and I named my brace “Pancake” because of my love for the flapjacks. We thought it was fitting that this presence in my life had a name, and at least a name of something I loved. Running jokes in my life with my family and friends was a ritual, as they would knock on my body with their fist, and say I was “ripped.” The hours of tears and discomfort of wearing it were worth it, because 15 doctors appointments, almost four years later, on October 12th 2020, I received the reward: “Congratulations Olivia, you are done with bracing.” I wanted to broadcast this on the loudspeaker.
As much as I enjoyed my mom taking pictures of me stomping on the brace, and holding it up in the air triumphantly after hearing the news that I no longer needed it, there was a part of me that felt nostalgic about letting it go. In a weird way, I would kind of miss it.
₪₪₪
I sat there in my eleventh grade English class, braceless for the first time in school. I wore the fashionable outfit of my choosing, slouched in the chair to my desire, and did not sweat one drop. I placed my hand to my stomach, prepared to feel something firm, and was instead met with the abnormal reality of my skin. It would definitely take some getting used to.