It's My Life

by Stacie Ramey

  “Because she’s had to live with this my whole life? And because she’s a wonderful mother?”

  “Yes. Those things, too. But also, because you are now and have always been the Jenna you were supposed to be. Until you got mad. You’ve had your own temper tantrum for the last few months, and you’re way smarter than that. So, I’m deciding right here, right now, that you are going to fix this. You are going to remember who you are inside. My sweet, beautiful, and incredibly kind daughter. Not to mention brilliant. And you are going to apologize to your mother. You are going to rip up that ridiculous agreement you forced Uncle Steve to write for you. If you want more control over your medical decisions, fine. You’ve got it, but not because you served us with legal papers.”

  “Is that all?” I ask.

  “One more thing. You are going to assess your life and your behavior. And you are going to change.”

  “You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

  “Yes. I am. But more than that, I’m sure of you. I love you, Jenna Cohen. Get a good night’s sleep.” He leans forward, kisses me on the forehead, and walks out.

  People have been doing that a lot lately. The walking-out part.

  And you know what? I kind of deserve it.

  Thirty

  I spend the next hour trying to construct an email that makes sense and conveys everything I need to say to Mom. It takes me an inordinate number of tries, but I guess that’s because it’s a really hard subject, and I’ve got to dig super deep to get at all of the reasons I acted the way I did.

  Here’s what I come up with:

  Dear Mom,

  I owe you a huge apology after how I acted. Really how I’ve been acting for the past year. I should have come to you when I found out about the lawsuit and not jumped to conclusions about my condition. The thing is, when I saw that lawsuit, I was so angry. It’s like all the feelings I’d pushed down or pushed away about how hard things are for me sometimes, all bubbled up and exploded.

  I stopped trying in classes. I stopped being Dad’s tough little girl. I just wanted to give up on myself. Maybe everyone feels that way in high school? And maybe a small part of me felt like it before and just didn’t want to admit it. I believed in silly things like magic and saints and the possibility of everything being different one day. That day when I found out about the settlement, I felt like all of that came crashing down.

  You are the best mom ever. Not just saying. Rena and Eric and I won the parent lottery, for sure. We’ve always known that. And I am so lucky to have the two of them also. But that all starts with you and Dad. I know that. I’ve known plenty of kids with siblings that don’t get along, with families not as close as ours is. Take Ben’s, for example. His older brother has nothing to do with him, and his parents aren’t much better.

  The point is, I know you’d never do anything to hurt me. And without you, not only wouldn’t I be here, but I wouldn’t be the person I am today. And honestly, the entire anger at Dr. Jacoby thing was always a cop-out, anyway. I gave up on myself. I did that. And I want to fix it. I want to try the baclofen pump. As soon as they are willing to do it. And even if it means rehab because of my broken leg, I don’t care. I’ll do it.

  I want you and Dad to help make my medical decisions, but I also want to have my feelings considered. I’m sorry that I hurt you and Dad with the Uncle Steve thing, but it wasn’t his fault. It was mine. I just want to have a say in things that affect me.

  Can we make up? I love you, and I am so so sorry.

  Jenna

  After I press send, I lie back. My phone is on my tray and a few minutes later, my email pings.

  Jenna,

  I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth, either. I couldn’t ask for a better daughter or a better little sister to Eric and big sister for Rena.

  I will speak to the doctors about the baclofen pump, but I’m sure they’ll want to wait for a few weeks until the pneumonia is completely gone.

  Whatever happens, we will face this together. Dad and I are very proud of you.

  I love you,

  Mom

  As I finish reading Mom’s email I get a notification that I have a new email from BritCox@umass.edu. At first I can’t remember who that person is. Then, oh! The girl in college with the baclofen pump success story.

  I click on the message, which reads:

  Hi there, Jenna! I’m so glad you reached out to me. I’d be happy to be your go-to person through this process (should you decide to go with the baclofen pump—and I totally recommend trying it bc it’s changed my life!) and even if you don’t do the pump and just want tips on college life, accessibility, etc.

  About me: I am on the student government at UMass. I run a differently abled group. (I hate the word disability even though I know some people in our community like it and use it.) I also work as a tutor in the writing lab, and am helping organize the dance marathon this year. College life is a lot, but it’s so good. My CP has definitely made it more difficult, but I can honestly say I am living my best life. (I know that’s super clichéd, but I’m going to allow it in this case because it’s actually true.) Let’s set a time to do virtual meetup and we can talk more. Finals are coming up in the next couple of weeks so maybe over winter break? Just let me know.

  Whatever you decide, I’m rooting for you, Jenna.

  Best,

  Brittany

  And just like that, my world gets a little bit lighter. I close my laptop and pick up my phone. I send a text to Rena.

  Hey. Sorry I’ve been so dramatic and obnoxious lately. Sorry I made Mom upset. I sent her an email apology and she sent one back. I will try hard to be a better big sister and person.

  It’s ok. You’ve had a super sucky fall and I know you were upset about Julian. Which, btw, you never told me you liked him and I feel stupid about that since sisters are supposed to know everything!

  I’m especially sorry I didn’t tell you about Julian. But to be fair, you didn’t tell me about Chip.

  True.

  Let’s not be stupid with each other anymore.

  Btw, you’re not allowed to date a senior.

  Says who.

  Says your big sister and your father and I’m sure your brother!

  We will discuss this further!

  Count on it. Love you, baby sister.

  Love you big sister.

  Now all I have to do is deal with Julian. But I think I can make that quick.

  You know how I said I believe in magic?

  Yeah.

  I believe in my heart that I can fix this. I can find the person I used to be. Is that stupid?

  Nope.

  Thanks for reminding me.

  Red heart emoji.

  Red? You skipped over purple and yellow and pink!

  Happens.

  Smiley face emoji. And all the other applicable emojis.

  Which are?

  Use your imagination.

  Thirty-One

  Three weeks after the pneumonia incident, I’m back in the hospital, this time for my baclofen pump. As they wheel me into the operating room, I think about all the times Mom took care of me when I was sick or hurt. I think about how she would always lay her hand on my forehead, checking me. And how my overly torqued muscles relaxed just at her touch because my body knew that I’d be okay as long as she was there with me.

  There are already four people in the OR, all wearing scrubs and masks. “On three,” a masked face says, and I’m transferred to the operating table. The door opens, and a nurse walks in. I know it won’t be Gary this time. He doesn’t do surgery. My body tenses.

  Hands go on my head. “It’s okay, Jenna. We’re just getting started.”

  I think about my fantasy Garden of Eden. I think about all the Trees of Life I imagine are planted there. How they’d all be shaped by that perso
n’s life choices and experiences. I think that if I had a Tree of Life, it would be bent in ways tree bend, and that would be cool because everyone’s trunks would show a little wear and tear. We’d all be leaning toward whatever sun we worshipped. My tree would be bent toward a certain hockey player’s.

  The oxygen mask goes over my face. “You comfortable, Jenna?”

  I hate the feeling when your head is below your neck and you feel like you’re choking, and I start to get panicky. I move my head.

  A hand falls on my shoulder. “Can we get you something?”

  The air feels tight and I want to tell them to scrap the whole thing, but instead I say, “My neck. Can we lift my neck?”

  “Of course,” the voice behind the mask says, and I feel my neck being lifted and something being placed under it. I feel the medicine they’ve given me in my IV loosen me, and I close my eyes. The sounds around me fade until I’m left alone with my thoughts.

  Thoughts like how I’m more than my body, more than I ever gave myself credit for. If I am a tree in the Forest of Life, then I am here. I am eternal. These are the thoughts that swirl through my head as the doctor in front of me adjusts the straps on my oxygen mask and says, “Just a little gas to make you sleepy.” A needle slips into the arm that’s tied down to the bed.

  “You’re doing great, Jenna,” my nurse encourages.

  And I believe her. Soon her face blurs and then disappears, and I’m lifting out of my body. I hear a beeping, steady and strong, as my heart beats a different rhythm. I close my eyes all the way, and I pretend I’m floating higher and higher, until I am floating to the ceiling. I can look down on everyone and see all the people from up high. I want to reach out to them, but my arms are held down so I just watch. I am here, I think. I am here and you are there and suddenly everything seems to make sense. Everything fits together in a puzzle and I’m not sad about my body or what could have or should have been. I am just me. And that’s enough.

  My mind goes over everything that’s happened in the last few weeks. It’s a sad little montage, but from this distance it feel less awful and more inevitable. Maybe even forgivable.

  “This is real.” Jennifer’s voice comes to me. “You are real. You are here. You are her. You are me.”

  And I think, I am her. I always have been.

  I hear the sounds of waves crashing. I feel a breeze. Suddenly I’m back in Florida with Eric and Rena and Dad, and I’m crashing through the waves like his little Wonder Woman. I am flying like a mermaid.

  “It’s so easy…” Jennifer’s voice is back. “You just have to be.”

  Soon I land on the beach and feel the sun warm my face. I open my eyes and see a white sun that doesn’t hurt to look into. There are people playing Ring Around the Rosy all around me and the sand they kick up lands on my body, but it doesn’t hurt or scratch.

  “Well, look who’s here,” a voice says.

  “She’s awake,” another one says.

  Her voice lights up my insides with these tiny sparks that make me feel understood and loved.

  Soft hands lift my head and lie it in a lap. I look up and see a woman with brown hair and a bright smile. “I’m going to stay with you for this next part.” And I know she’s one of the saints. Keeping me in balance. “You’re doing very well, Jenna. Your body wants to heal. Rest and let it. Stay with us and let your body heal.”

  I want to ask her so many things, but my eyelids feel incredibly heavy and I let them close again. Hands fall over them, and the comforting pressure of those soft hands on my closed eyes promises a deep restorative sleep, and I’m so grateful. No spasms. No bad dreams. Only a sound, restful state. I embrace this feeling. It’s been too long since I let go of all the bad and all the worry and all the pain. It feels like the right decision.

  When I wake up after hours or weeks or months or years—it’s all the same to me—I find two things on my hospital tray: a red rose and a Batman watch.

  Thirty-Two

  Everyone was slightly shocked when I chose to go to rehab straight from the hospital, but I felt like it was the best thing to do. It would give me time to work on my attitude. It would give Mom a break. And most of all, it would give me time to get stronger. To see what was possible.

  Rehab is no joke. I found that out the first day I was here. They work you out hard, so hard that you can’t wait to go to sleep at night. My first night here, I got a care package from Mom and Dad. The soft sugar cookies I like, new sleeping socks (I hate cold feet), and a letter from Rena.

  Jenna,

  Mom says I’m not allowed to call or text you when you’re at rehab, that you’re there to work and I am supposed to leave you alone. I wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. How incredibly awed I am by your strength.

  Work hard and come home soon.

  Xoxo, Rena

  These are the things that get me through. Especially since there have been very few texts from Julian. He told me before I left he was going to a hockey camp over winter break, and that we should both take this time to “get all beast.” His words. I’m sure he’s busy. But I also I wonder if he’s over me? Has he moved on? Maybe he hasn’t forgiven me for catfishing him. I take out his Batman watch.

  My physical therapy assistant gets me set up for therapy. Each time the therapist tells me to lift my leg, I listen. I try not to brace. I try not to recruit other muscles to work for my underused ones, weak ones. It’s hard, and sometimes I cry because it hurts so much it makes my head fill with stars, but I keep going. Jennifer’s voice inside me reminds me, “You are her.” And I believe I can be.

  They’ve given me a schoolteacher named Mrs. Stein, who has short salt-and-pepper gray hair and dresses like she’s working at a law firm. “Hello, Jenna,” she says when I wheel myself into her office. “Let’s see what we are going to do with you, shall we?”

  I nod.

  She pulls open a very thick file with my name on it and peers at her computer. She looks at me, back at the reports, and then back at the computer. “Hmmm.” She clicks through the screens some more. Then says, “Strange.”

  I sit, ready to defend myself.

  “I’m sort of confused,” she says. “It seems like you were in all gifted classes, doing very well and then…”

  “Then I sort of gave up on myself.”

  She takes her glasses off and smiles. Her red lipstick makes her teeth look so white and pretty. Her smile is like Mom’s; part all-knowing and part hoping for better news. “That working for you?”

  I laugh. “No.”

  “Well,” she says as she claps her hands together. “Let’s see what we can do about that. Because the good news, Jenna? You’ve got nothing but time to work here. No outside distractions.” She types something into her computer. “No friends. No family. No boys.”

  I blush hot as if she’s read my diary or something, even though I don’t keep one. Still, this woman is way too observant for my own good. Except I’m ready to let her help me. I’m ready to help myself.

  * * *

  Every day is the same. I get up. Go to breakfast. Eat. Go to therapy. Go to the schoolroom. Go to the library. Eat lunch. Go to physical therapy. Go to the schoolroom. Eat dinner. Repeat.

  By the end of the first week, I get something unexpected. A letter from Julian.

  I rip it open. A picture falls out. It’s of Julian, standing next to a sign that says Trail Magic.

  Jenna,

  Working hard at hockey camp so we took a day off to hike a portion of the Appalachian Trail and saw this. I’ve been thinking about you so much and this just felt like a sign or something (okay I KNOW it’s an actual sign but also as the other kind of sign, too). Do you still believe in magic? Because I do. I do.

  Julian

  It’s weird to get an actual letter. An email or text would have been quicker, but something about the permanence of the
thing, the formality, and also the time it took to send it to me touches me and makes me hopeful.

  I think about texting him that night. Like every night.

  I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but that night as I fall asleep I dream of him. And I can’t wait to get back to see him. Even if he’s over me. I hope he’s not over me. But even if he is, I want to see him. I want to show him that I’m coming back. The Jenna I used to be is returning. Slowly. But no text can show him that. Only I can. In person. In five days when I come home.

  Thirty-Three

  I return home to a huge party. Just family. Plus Ben.

  Eric’s at school, but we Skype him. Uncle Steve, Aunt Betty, the little cousins, Rena, Mom, Dad, and me. Mom brings in food from an Italian restaurant I love. It means she doesn’t have to cook or do much clean up.

  Mom looks relaxed and calm.

  “I’m scared to see him,” I tell Ben.

  He slings his arm around me. “It’s a good kind of scared though, huh?”

  “Is that a thing?”

  “You ready for reentry?” Ben asks.

  “As I’ll ever be?”

  Rena plops down next to me, a plate full of pasta. “It’s going to be amazing,” she says, framing my face with her hands. “Jenna Cohen, the sequel.”

  “The merchandising on that is going to be huge,” Ben says.

  Rena high fives him.

  I simply sit and take it all in.

  * * *

  The next day Mom pulls up in front of the school. Rena is riding shotgun because she’s trying to talk Mom into letting her stay late all of this week to work on the sets with Rocco. Some things never change.

  Thanks to Hospital Homebound at the rehab center and Mrs. Stein’s horrific work ethic, I’ve completed AP Psych and AP Lang semester one all in the span of a few weeks. Whew! Now I just have to play catch-up. Good thing I did some projects already on the sly.

  Mom pulls up in our van. The door slides open. Rena rushes around to help me out. I’ve got a walking stick with me now and my crutches in a bag over my shoulder just in case. Rena walks next to me. I go in the normal entrance, not the shortcut one anymore.