Tumbling On

I’d had surgery before but not since I’d passed through a child’s trust and acceptance of everything his parents did.  Now I wanted to know what to expect, to have some control, to reconcile a future that might not be limitless.  I worried about how I’d look and what people would think or whisper. Worry and fear were tugging on me but I was big enough to ask.  Here, on the 6^th floor west of Wesley Memorial Hospital, I waited for Dr. Compere to arrive for our pre-surgery talk.  My mind wandered back to last week’s gym class at Junior High School.

Another guy, I’ll call him Ben, sat beside me on the edge of the stage.  Schools of the day always had a stage at the end of the gym.  This was an obvious cost efficiency decision that transformed the gym into a tile over concrete, mammoth empty room where newly minted teenagers could burn energy under the education theory that it would quell the effects of raging hormones and sporadic spurts of growth.  In our school, the theory remained unproven.  The stage was the only aspect of the space that made it recognizable as a performance venue.   However, every sound sung or spoken bounced and echoed until the they jumbled into an growling din.  Ben. 

Arrayed in front of Ben and me were tumbling mats – three rows of them.  Lined up at the head of each row were our classmates dressed in white t-shirts and shorts.  Each student was required to tumble, to perform something resembling a gymnastic move.  I was sitting out because of my leg and back which were the reasons for my impending trip to Wesley Memorial.  Ben didn’t know why I was sitting out and I assumed he had some type of non-participation excuse like mine.  When class began, Coach Whistler said each student would do a series of forward rolls through the length of the mat.  Then he asked Ben to demonstrate!

Ben completed about ten perfect forward rolls and finished with a little hop at the end with his hands on his hips.  Wow.  To my mind they dragged him out of the Olympic Trials to show this bunch of fourteen year olds how to roll.  My mind raced – sitting out wasn’t just for kids who were handicapped, or disabled or had an excuse - you know, kids who were different.  I looked straight ahead and did not speak.  There was more.  Coach Whistler announced that backward rolls were next and he nodded in our direction.  Ben looked at me and sincerely asked if I wanted to take this one.  Instead of admitting I couldn’t tumble, I just declined with a wave and told him to go ahead.

This time Ben punctuated every backward roll with a brief handstand and smoothly transitioned to roll after backward roll.  Everyone was awestruck.  He came back and sat by me.  I said, “Nice.”  He nodded. This class must’ve lasted all day – my embarrassment, shame to a fourteen year old, my differentness left me hollow.  More hollow because Ben never acted like I was somehow less than he was but I did feel like I'd been forever labeled different.

That gym class was fresh in my mind when Dr. Compere came through the heavy hospital room door.  He sat on the edge of my bed and told me what he was going to do.  He held my leg, pointed at my ankle, foot and calf.  His voice was deep and his eyes stayed steadily focused on my face.  I asked if there was any danger, any risk in what he was going to do – and if I’d be able to tumble when he was through.  He smiled and said tumbling might not be the right sport for me.  He paused, leaned close, touched the back of my head while his stethoscope swung forward and our eyes locked.  He told me I was old enough to know that there was always the risk of an anesthetic disaster - but he’d take good care of me and we’d talk when I woke.

Waking up, wanting tomorrow, eclipsed everything - tumbling worries and feeling different rolled away.

--td