The Birth of Super Crip

by Rob J. Quinn

  Ignoring her son’s glare, Mary asked, “Doctor, would the strength be coming from the steroids? Couldn’t that cause some serious side effects?”

  Red spoke up. “It’s not really that type of strength,” he said. “I’m not lifting weights or anything. It’s just a general feeling.”

  “Red, let the doctor speak,” his mom admonished.

  “It’s okay,” Scheinberg said, looking at Red. “Good to know. My guess, Red is right. Other patients have reported the same. I don’t think strength is coming from muscle tone, but we will check it out.” He knew he may have been imagining it, but Red felt the doctor stared more intently at him as he continued. “My guess, strength is from a little bit more control. Maybe control is coming in ways you might not have expected or even perceive yet.”

  The doctor went back to the folder he was reading when he came into the room. “When I saw her earlier, Mom also said you have some excitement this weekend, yah? Not to worry, though, I was going to ask anyway.”

  Scheinberg held up the article from the Philadelphia Times, complete with the picture of Scott pulling Red over the railing. Red froze for a second, feeling the wave swirl just a bit. He nodded, trying to seem nonchalant. “Yeah, it was a little crazy.”

  Raising his eyebrows briefly, the doctor turned the article back to himself. “Yah, I can only imagine,” he said. “They say a tornado destroyed the booth before it crashes, yah?” He paused, continuing to read. “Tornadoes pretty rare for the area. You guys are lucky, yah?”

  “I heard no one got hurt,” Red said.

  “Mom said you fainted, yah?”

  “Yes,” Red said. “I supposedly woke up enough to say something to a doctor or EMT, but, yes, I was out ’til about noon the next day. Or slept, I guess.”

  The doctor nodded.

  After a brief silence, Mary said, “Like I said, I didn’t take him to the doctor because he seemed okay, and we were hoping you could sort of check him out.”

  “Oh, yah,” Scheinberg said. “We do that now, and check the muscle tone.” He put the article on top of the file, which he placed down on the table next to Red, and turned to get his stethoscope off a hook on the opposite wall. “Take off shirt, Red. And, uh, maybe you want some privacy? Mom wait outside?”

  At first not understanding, his mom stood up as if jolted from her seat. “Oh,” she said, “yes, yes, of course.” She looked at her son. “I’ll just be right outside.”

  Tempted to tell his mom she didn’t have to leave, Red simply smiled and nodded.

  Chapter 15

  Pulling his shirt off over his head, Red realized it was the first time he’d actually been alone with the doctor. He reflexively sized up the old man despite knowing he didn’t have anything to worry about with so many people in the office. The wave splashed with a little force for the first time in a while, offering some extra comfort. Red didn’t remember when he had developed the habit, but his cerebral palsy had taught him to be extra cautious of situations in which he could be vulnerable.

  He caught his own reflection in the mirror that hung on the back of the closed door and sat up a little straighter. Despite his best efforts to hold still, he noticed a slight bob of his head and the telling look of cerebral palsy in his face, which he always spotted in people with a level of the disability similar to his own. A little too tight. Thin. Seemingly never quite completely still. A smile that when offered for a photo or forced when meeting someone for the first time came out as anything but a pleasant expression—lips thinned, if not pouting, eyes squinting. Flexing his arms just a little, without moving them from his side, he almost laughed at his mom’s concern over the steroids. If they didn’t shrink your balls it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if they gave me some muscles, he thought.

  Looking up he saw Scheinberg glance away with a smirk on his face. Red offered his best like-you’re-much-bigger face after he was sure the doctor wasn’t looking. Then he noticed the article with his picture had been tacked up in the center of the bulletin board.

  “Why’d you put that up there?” he asked.

  Scheinberg shrugged. “Always thought I keep anything notable that happens to subjects up there,” he said. “The article mentions your team is not so good, but they gave the best team run for their money, yah?”

  The doctor studied Red, who remained silent. “Besides, I like the picture on that one,” Scheinberg continued, sitting on a rolling stool and taking a piece of paper out of the same folder that had held the first article. He handed it to Red, patiently waiting for him to grip it. “This one is kind of small. No picture.”

  Resting his arm against his leg to look at the paper, Red saw a small clip from a newspaper photocopied onto it. A short paragraph gave details of “a disturbance on King Street,” and noted a “man had been discovered under the overturned boat of the homeowner, which appeared to be put on top of him. Police had no explanation for how the man became trapped, but said it may have saved him from getting shot when the homeowner brandished a shotgun.”

  “That is your street, yah?” the doctor asked.

  When he finished reading, Red simply nodded and put the paper down beside him on the table. Scheinberg finally put the stethoscope in his ears and began listening to Red’s pulse in various places. Several requests for deep breaths followed. Then he checked Red’s balance with numerous light but firm pushes on each shoulder, the back, and the torso.

  “Yah, good,” Scheinberg muttered, stopping to make some notes. “How did you feel taking the tests today?”

  Red shrugged. “Not really much different,” he said. “If at all.”

  “How about in school or home? Taking notes, or tests, or moving around. Any difference? Easier? Harder?”

  Red thought about Scott running after him the last time they were throwing the football around outside. For a brief moment he had wondered if he was running better. “Maybe a little easier moving when I was messing around in the backyard with my brother,” he said. “I was able to avoid being tackled once. But it felt more like I could push him off better, not really like I was moving better.”

  “You like football, yah?” Scheinberg said. “Good. Not being tackled something, yah?”

  Red smiled and laughed politely, wondering if the doctor picked up anything from his saying he could push his brother off better.

  “How about exercise?” Scheinberg asked.

  “Like therapy?” Red asked with a guilty look. “I don’t really stretch as much as I’m supposed to. But they don’t even give me physical therapy at school since I was mainstreamed.”

  “Yah, Red, got to get back to stretching,” the doctor said. “Trust me. This old man learned the hard way—start stretching young, easier later. But you, ah, work out? Push-ups? Sit-ups? I know you say you are not lifting weights, but, ah, you are doing other stuff?”

  Red shook his head even as he wondered what the doctor meant by saying he learned the hard way. “Our dad made us work out lifting weights for a while the summer before my freshman year,” Red said, deciding the doctor just meant that stretching was good for anyone. “I saw some gains, but nothing like my brothers. Plus, someone told me lifting could make my spasticity worse.”

  “That is the old way of thinking,” Scheinberg said, writing some more notes as he sat on the stool again. He looked at Red. “You like it? Lifting?”

  “I liked when I could bench-press ten more pounds or arm-curl another five pounds,” he said. “But it would get frustrating seeing my brothers getting more results than I got. I never really got any bigger or anything.”

  “Yah,” Scheinberg said, making some final notes before closing the file and putting it on top of the piece of paper with the newspaper clip. “Spastic muscles take more time to respond. Patience, Red. Besides, other benefits to working out.”

  Despite his best efforts, Red couldn’t hide his look of disgust.

  “Yah, I know,” Scheinberg said. “Don’t want to hear it when you can’t have the b
enefits you want.”

  Impressed the doctor understood that idea, Red nodded.

  “But it is true, yah? Exercise makes you feel better mentally. Releases endorphins. Gets heart moving. Keeps you busy. Maybe you join gym, get out a little more.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Yah,” the doctor said, his voice becoming slightly quieter. He paused for a moment. “You are a smart boy, Red. Man, soon. Smartest patient in the testing.”

  Another pause. Scheinberg seemed happy that Red met his eyes.

  “Injections will only give you so much,” the doctor explained. “You already report more strength. You know it is not from bigger muscles. No need to worry about steroids that way. Others have mentioned it too, but you . . . you are starting to understand. How you use that strength will be the true test.” He reached up and tapped Red on the temple. “Strength here,” he said, then tapping Red’s arms and chest and legs, “gives you better strength here, here, here. Ultimate strength always comes from the mind. CP gets in the way of the signals from the mind to the rest of the body. You understand that long ago, yah?”

  Red nodded.

  “Now, you must learn to use the strength from injections,” Scheinberg said. “Can never change the damage that was done, I’m afraid. Cerebral palsy happened as you were born. It will be with you when you die.”

  Red offered a faint grunt of disgust.

  Scheinberg smiled briefly. “Don’t worry, that will not be for a long time,” he assured Red.

  “That wasn’t what I was worried about,” Red said. “Seventeen years of CP is plenty. I was hoping to avoid eighty.”

  “Yah,” Scheinberg whispered, almost to himself.

  Caught off guard by the doctor’s reaction, Red looked away. The doctor’s sadness at what was meant to be a flip response coaxed his own to peek out.

  “Use your strength, Red. You are just scratching the surface.”

  The doctor waited for him to meet his eyes again. Scheinberg moved his eyes to the picture on the bulletin board and back to Red. “Have your fun. Practice with it.” He paused. “Lifting weights may be a better way than football games, yah?”

  Red managed not to respond. Not even a flinch.

  “Form is everything when you lift weights. Strength lets you focus more on your form. Helps you learn balance between body and mind. Both will get stronger. Better.”

  Feeling comfortable again, Red didn’t risk words. He just listened.

  “You are just scratching the surface. Don’t be afraid of it. Use your strength. We all have strength. You are very smart. Trust intelligence. It will tell you where to go with it, yah? Use it in good ways,” Scheinberg said. He picked up the folder from the exam table, and saw the paper with the blurb about Saturday night’s events that was under it. Showing it to Red just before putting it back in the folder, he added, “I suspect you are already doing that.”

  So many questions danced through his mind, but Red didn’t dare ask any of them.

  Scheinberg softly tapped him on the knee with the folder as he stood up. “Now we get your shot, and I will see you again soon.”

  Chapter 16

  Finishing his last bite of a roast beef sandwich that he figured had probably spent most of the morning under heat lamps, Red looked around the rest stop. About half of the tables were empty, summer travel having seen its final hurrah weeks ago. A few truckers had actually decided to eat their meals while at a table instead of doing seventy-five miles per hour as they slurped down a soda. One table became a conference room for three thirty-something guys in button-down shirts and ties, who seemed convinced they were poised to set the world ablaze with their brilliance. And a mother sat at a corner table two over from Red’s mom, who was seated across from him. The woman lingered over some French fries while her three kids—two boys and a girl who was about four and the youngest by at least three years—played on the jungle gym behind Red. The girl had already done what Red was beginning to think was the obligatory task of small children to point and ask their mother what was wrong with him.

  He took a sip of his soda and watched his mom glance over at the kids. Red eyed the mother, who hadn’t reacted at all to her daughter’s question.

  “You can’t worry about it,” his mom said.

  “I’m not worried about it,” he said. “I’m just sick of it.”

  “I know.”

  “Everybody acts like it’s just some quick little thing,” Red said. “It’s not. It’s all the times it happened before and all the times we both know it will happen again. It gets old.”

  “The mother is the real problem. Didn’t even flinch. Correct her daughter. Apologize. Nothing.”

  He nodded and glared over at the mother.

  “How’re you feeling?” his mom asked, trying to change the subject.

  “Pretty good, actually,” he said. “I guess I’m getting used to it or something.”

  “You seemed calmer this time when they were giving you the injection, even before they gave you any gas. Maybe that helps.”

  “I kind of knew I wasn’t going to feel much of anything from last time, so it was easier not to think about it beforehand. It’s weird how they can give you just enough gas for the moment.”

  “Trust me, watching you get the shot is what’s weird,” his mom said, scrunching up her face and shaking as if a burst of cold air ran up her spine. “They put that huge needle right into the base of your skull. And you’re strapped down in that contraption so you can’t move. It reminds me of watching Frankenstein when I was a kid.”

  “Gee, thanks,” he said as they both laughed.

  “Well, we better get rolling,” his mom said, gathering up the food wrappers, napkins, and cups. “I have a couple of stops to make.”

  He rolled his eyes as he worked his legs over the bench one at a time.

  “Oh, I know, it’s going to kill you,” his mom said as if she could feel his pain. “Look at it this way, you could be in class instead of running errands with your wonderful mother.”

  Red started to laugh but stopped suddenly. He remembered exactly where he’d be in school at the moment—in social studies class reviewing for tomorrow’s test. “Can we stop at school? I just remembered I forgot my social studies book.”

  It was his mom’s turn to roll her eyes.

  “Oh, I know, it’s going to kill you,” he mimicked her as she walked back toward him and they headed for the exit.

  They heard the mother of the three kids tell them it was time to go. The three of them hustled to the door, practically knocking Red over as he was about to reach out to push the door open. Not one of them even looked back as they rushed out ahead of him, laughing.

  Each one failed to hold the second door as well. The little girl laughed as she ran outside, saying, “I told you I could beat him!” Her older brothers laughed and stole looks back at Red, confirming his suspicion that they’d been the ones to make a game of getting to the door before he could for their sister. Feeling the kids’ mother behind her, Mary was proud of Red for not reacting.

  The mother hustled around Red and his mom the second they were outside. The two boys had turned away to hide their laughter at Red. And the little girl had apparently decided to continue her race all the way to their car.

  Her blond pigtails continued to bounce as she jumped off the curb like a hurdler and raced for the grass island that formed the opposite border of the drive between the restaurants and the parking lot. She didn’t notice the truck cruising slowly down the drive.