Braced Read online

  “Thirty degrees,” Dr. Paul says, turning away from the screen.

  I was twenty before, so the number is higher than last time. It’s higher by a lot.

  I look at Mom. She’s looking at Dr. Paul and biting down on her lip.

  “I was hoping we wouldn’t get here, Amy. I’m sorry.” His words are softer and less like an automated message when he talks to Mom. “With your family history and a thirty-degree curvature of her spine … ” I hate how he’s talking about me like I’m not even here. Like I don’t count. “I don’t think we have a choice. We have to brace her.”

  “Okay,” she says, but there are tears in her eyes, and it doesn’t seem okay.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “The curve in your spine has progressed,” Dr. Paul says, looking at me for once. “I’m recommending that we treat your scoliosis with a back brace.”

  “A what? No. Mom, I don’t want a back brace.” I look at her.

  “I know you don’t, sweetheart.” She rests her hand on my shoulder, rubbing in slow, gentle circles. “I wish this wasn’t happening. But if Dr. Paul says you need a brace, then you do. We have to do everything we can right now to stop your curve from getting worse. This is your chance to avoid surgery.”

  I look at Dr. Paul. He’s looking at his phone.

  “But you had surgery and you’re fine,” I say.

  “I was really lucky, Rachel. There are big risks when you have a spinal fusion. The surgeons use metal rods and screws to straighten and fuse the vertebrae into a solid bone. You don’t want surgery unless you absolutely need it.” She grabs my hand and looks at me. Her eyes are welling up again. “I love you. And we’re going to do everything we can to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  I nod. I didn’t know any of that about her surgery. “What does a back brace even look like?” I ask.

  Mom takes a deep breath. “It goes under your clothes, you know, like the brace I had on my knee, only this one is plastic and there’s padding on the inside that helps keep your spine straight as you grow.” Mom hurt herself running last spring, and she had to wear a brace for a few weeks. You couldn’t see it under her pants.

  “They should have samples in the brace shop,” Dr. Paul says, like he thinks that’s helpful.

  “It’ll be okay. I promise,” Mom says. “It’s not nearly as bad as what I went through. You’re lucky. Trust me.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I do.”

  When we get home, I go straight up to my room and turn on “Soccer Jams,” aka the greatest compilation of pump-up music ever. I’m really into making playlists, and I’m not trying to brag, but this one is a masterpiece. I turn it up until it’s loud enough that I can’t hear myself think about getting a back brace or about how much longer it’s going to be before Dad gets home from work—but not so loud that I get in trouble. I need Dad to be here now to answer the most important question ever: Can I still play soccer after I get a brace?

  I didn’t think of it right away because Mom said the brace was like hers, and she could still run with the one she had. But then when we were walking out to the car, I realized that sometimes when people get braces or casts, they have to sit out of sports. By that point, it was too late to ask anyone other than Mom, who said she wasn’t sure and I should ask Dad. I thought about calling him on the ride home, but today is an operating day, so his phone is off and there’s no way to know what time he’ll be home.

  I let the happy, fast-paced songs find their way into my head. One by one they pick me up, until I’m dancing in circles on the soft carpet, moving around my room to the beat. When the garage door rumbles open, I realize I forgot I was waiting for it—for Dad.

  I run down the stairs and into the kitchen. Dad is standing by the stove whispering something to Mom. She stirs a big pan of vegetables with one hand and rubs her stomach with the other. She nods quickly and a lot of times but doesn’t say anything back to him.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say.

  He smiles and walks over to me, hugging me with one arm. He’s still holding his briefcase. “I know this stinks, kiddo. But we’re going to get you better. I promise.”

  “Okay. But Dad, I really want to play soccer so badly.”

  “Did Dr. Paul say you couldn’t?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “He didn’t say anything about sports, but I didn’t tell him I play.”

  “I can’t think of a reason why you’d have to stop playing soccer altogether. You need to ask when you go back. But I really don’t think it’s going to be a problem.”

  “See? Look at that!” Mom says. “And if you had surgery, you’d be out for at least six months, maybe even a year. This is so much better.”

  I look at Dad.

  He nods. “It’s going to be okay.”

  THE NEXT DAY, Mom and I are in the brace shop at the hospital. I change into the gowns and sit down, trying not to fidget. There’s a loud sawing noise on the other side of the door, and the air smells like melted plastic.

  A tall woman wearing a white coat and a name tag that says “Julie Olson, Orthotist” walks into our room. “You must be Rachel,” she says, pulling up a small swivel chair and sitting down directly across from me. “I’m Jules.” She smiles at me with all her teeth. “Today is going to be quick and easy. I’ll take your measurements and a scan of your torso. Then we can talk more about your brace. You’ll come back in a week for a fitting and we’ll start easing you into the brace.”

  “That’s great,” Mom says.

  Jules smiles at her, adjusts her glasses, and then looks at me.

  “Can we talk about the brace first and then do all the other stuff?” I ask her.

  “Of course. We can definitely do that.”

  “Okay, good, because I really want to know if I can still play soccer after I get the brace. I’m starting now and I might play forward soon. And I’m not giving that up.”

  “That’s great,” Jules says. “We want you to stay as active as possible.” I hold my breath, waiting for her to answer my question. “We use your scoliosis to determine your treatment plan. Every patient’s scoliosis is slightly different, which means each plan is different.” She opens my chart and scans the information. “Dr. Paul has prescribed your brace for twenty-three hours per day.”

  I’m not sure I hear her right. No one said I’d have to wear it all day, even to school and while I’m sleeping. I look at Mom, but she nods her head like a puppet.

  “I can’t wear a back brace all day,” I say.

  “Yes, you can,” Mom says. “You have to, honey.”

  “But soccer practice is an hour and a half.”

  “Some patients are able to take an extra hour or so out of the brace for sports, but it depends on your situation.” Jules looks at Mom when she says that part. “Dr. Paul recommends that you don’t take your brace off for more than an hour, because of your family history and the quick progression of your curve, combined with the projected length of time between now and when you’re done growing.”

  “If Dr. Paul is not recommending it, we’re not doing it,” Mom says.

  “That’s not fair! What I am supposed to do?” I look at Mom. “You said I wasn’t going to have to quit.”

  Mom looks at Jules.

  “You could practice for half the time,” Jules says. “You’ll want to save an extra fifteen minutes every day to shower and stretch. It’s important to keep your skin clean.”

  “That’s like being half on the team. So no.” I sound as mad as I am.

  “The other option is you can try playing in the brace. You’ll need to let your parents know how it’s going in terms of balance and comfort. And you’ll need to protect your skin—it can get itchy inside the brace. But at the after-school level, I’m comfortable with you giving it a try as long as you’re careful.”

  “There you go.” Mom says it like it’s that easy. “That’s a great option.”

  “Okay,” I say, because it’s not like I have a choice.
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  Mom adds, “This is your chance to get that new ski jacket you’ve been asking me for. I mean, your old coat won’t fit over the brace. It was getting too small anyway. You’ve grown so much this year.”

  “That doesn’t make sense—I’ll be out of the brace by winter.” Dad never keeps his patients in casts for more than a few months.

  “I don’t know, honey.” She sighs.

  I can feel more bad news coming, like the dark, heavy air that moves in right before a thunderstorm. “How can you not know?”

  “It depends on when you finish growing. If you wear the brace now, your spine will be forced to grow straight. I’m not sure how long that will take.”

  I look at Jules. “Your mom’s right,” she says. “Most people stop growing about two years after they get their first period, so for you that’s another six months. Maybe closer to a year.”

  “A year—” My voice cracks. No. This can’t be happening.

  “It goes by fast,” Jules says. “Really—it isn’t so bad.”

  It feels horrible.

  Jules walks across the room, opens a drawer, and takes out what looks like a stretchy tank top. “If you could put this on, we’ll get started,” she says.

  I stand up and my stomach drops fast, like the time I rode the flume at Canobie Lake Park with Dad. Only Dad isn’t here to hold my hand and make it better. I wish he’d taken part of the day off and come with us. But I’ve known for a long time, that even if Dad says yes to an event, it doesn’t mean he’s definitely going to be there.

  I untie one of my hospital gowns and let it fall onto the floor. I’m not sure if Mom came up with the idea of two robes or if Gram used to get her two. Mom hardly ever talks about what it was like when she had surgery for scoliosis, and she always makes it sound like someone else’s life or some faraway world that has nothing to do with her now. I untie the other gown and hold it over the front of my body while I slide the tank top over my head. I pull the stretchy fabric down as far as it will go.

  One upside to the cast room: I get to keep my bra on.

  “Stand as tall as you can with your arms by your sides and your chin up,” Jules says to me. “I’m going to take measurements like I’m fitting you for a dress.”

  I follow her instructions. She measures across my chest and shoulders, and then around my ribs, waist, hips, and the very top of my thighs. She pauses after she takes each measurement and writes the numbers down on a form.

  “Okay, here comes the fun part.” She picks up what looks like a wand with a camera on the end. “I’m going to use this scanner to capture a digital image of your torso. You won’t feel a thing. All I need you to do is put your arms out to the side in a T shape, then bend your elbows, and do your best to stand still.” She walks in a circle all the way around me, holding the scanner out in front of her and moving it up and down and around. “You’re all done,” she finally says to me.

  “That’s it?” Mom asks.

  “For today,” she says.

  I change back into my clothes and sit down next to Mom.

  “Do you have any other questions for me?” Jules asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “I want to know what the brace looks like.”

  “I can show you a sample. I have one in here.” She smiles at me, then walks across the room and opens up a big cabinet by the door. “Before I take the brace out, I want to mention that this is for someone a bit younger than you, so it’s—colorful. And your brace will have a different shape than this one since we’re going to make it specifically for your scoliosis. But you can at least start to get a sense of it.”

  She takes out a hard plastic—thing—and brings it over to me. It’s like a stiff tube top, with curved edges on the top and bottom, and a seam in the back. It reminds me of a turtle shell, only it goes all the way around. It’s purple with a yellow-and-pink design, and even though it’s meant for a much smaller person than I am, the plastic and padding are a lot bigger and thicker than I expect.

  “There are lots of designs—all different colors and characters,” Jules says. “I can show you the options now if you’d like.”

  I shake my head. “I want a plain one.”

  She nods. “Good choice. That way you won’t have to worry about seeing the color through your clothes.”

  “Why does it look like that?” I ask. “I mean, it’s so thick.”

  “I’ll show you.” She pulls apart the plastic edges of the seam so I can see inside the brace. “The straps are missing, but as you can see, the brace opens in the back. A thin cushion on all sides protects your skin, and then pads placed in specific areas push on your spine to keep it straight as you grow. The brace won’t necessarily fix your scoliosis, but in most cases it will stop the curve from getting worse.”

  I know I’m looking right at a back brace, but it’s still bright and small and hard to imagine what mine will be like. Or maybe I don’t want to picture it, because now that I know I have to wear it to school and soccer, I’m afraid the brace might not be okay.

  A week later, we’re back at the hospital. We had to wait until the afternoon to come here, because Mom had a doctor’s appointment in the morning to make sure everything was all right with the baby.

  There’s a knock and the door opens. “Rachel, Amy, good to see you both again,” Jules says. “Rachel, I’d like you to put this on.” She hands me a different stretchy tank top. “It’s sort of like an undershirt for your brace. You’ll want to wear one of these all the time to protect your skin.”

  “From what?” I ask.

  “The padding will rub against you at first. It takes some time for your skin to toughen up and adjust to the brace, but it will. Try not to use lotions or anything scented on your stomach.”

  I nod.

  “So, are you ready to see your brace?” she asks, like she’s a game show host.

  “Do I have a choice?” I say.

  “No,” Mom cuts in.

  “Go ahead and change, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Jules leaves and I put on the white stretchy undershirt. It has thin straps and goes all the way down below my underwear, like a really short, tight, spaghetti-strap dress. It’s kind of cute, only there’s a weird little flap under my left armpit. I tuck the extra material inside the shirt, like it’s a tag that shouldn’t be sticking out, because it seems like a mistake.

  I don’t say anything to Mom or sit down. I’m too nervous.

  Finally, the door opens, and Jules is standing there holding my brace. “It was made just for you,” she says, like that’s a good thing. Only I’m looking right at it, so I know it’s definitely not.

  The brace is so much bigger than the sample she showed me. It’s huge and thick and bright white, and the holes scattered across the torso make it look like a machine. I can tell right away that it isn’t meant for just my back. On the left side, it goes up to my armpit and dips far down below my underwear, covering part of my thigh. It’s longer in the back than in the front, like it has a built-in tail. Fake plastic hips on both sides stick way out. I don’t even have real hips yet. On the back, three Velcro straps as thick as my forearm rattle their metal clasps every time Jules moves. It’s going to make me look wide and weird, like I swallowed a bathtub.

  Jules hands it to me. It’s heavier than I expect, and I need both hands to hold it. It slips out of my fingers and crashes to the floor.

  “Rachel,” Mom says. “You need to take care of your brace. It’s important.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Why don’t we give it a try?” Jules asks, picking the brace up off the floor.

  I bite down on my lip and do my best not to look directly at it. It’s going to be fine. It has to be. It’ll probably look better once it’s on.

  “Rachel, I’d like you to take a deep breath and suck all the way in.”

  I breathe and squeeze my stomach. She pulls open the back of the brace and wraps it around me
. The top unfinished edge scrapes the skin under my armpit. It burns as the brace settles onto my hips. Jules grabs the extra flap of material from the tank top and pulls it over the part of the brace that goes into my armpit.

  There is an inch of heavy plastic and padding all the way around my torso and ribs. It cuts under my bra, pushing my chest up and out. On the left side, where the brace goes into my armpit, a pad digs into my back, and on the right, another one presses against my ribs. The brace is squeezing my waist and rubbing my hips, forcing me into a straight line.

  I can feel the tank top riding up my leg and over my underwear. I reach for the bottom of the tank to pull it back down, but the brace is in my way. I can’t bend enough to cover myself.

  “I need you to take one more deep breath,” Jules says. “And I have to warn you, this part might be slightly uncomfortable.”

  It gets worse?

  She tugs on the bottom strap in back, and the brace clamps down on my hips and butt. She shuts the top strap, and it crushes my ribs. I can tell she’s pulling as hard as she can when she shuts the middle strap because she accidentally grunts a little, like it’s hurting her.

  I’m fighting to find air in my lungs. I cough and gag, like I’m choking on food. There isn’t enough space for me in here. “I think it’s too tight,” I say.

  “You just need to get used to it,” Mom says.

  It feels like I’m getting punched every time I breathe. “It really hurts.”

  “You’re fine,” she says. I keep waiting for her to say, “We’ll figure it out, Rachel,” like she would if we were anywhere else, talking about anything other than this, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “It’s going to take some getting used to,” Jules says. “I know that seems impossible right now. That’s what all my patients say at first. But don’t worry. We’ll ease you into the brace, a few hours at a time, and eventually you won’t even notice it’s there. I promise.”