by Mia Herman
I was thirteen when I first found out that I had scoliosis.
I didn’t even know what it was, really. Or what it meant. But after the first round of X-rays, the orthopedist said there was a forty percent chance I’d need back surgery.
“We’ll need to watch her,” she warned my mom like I was a criminal, or something contagious. Some lab experiment gone wrong.
The doctor turned to me and smiled.
“We’ll see your back here in three months,” she chuckled.
And then she walked out.
* * *
“We need to watch her” actually meant that my growth rate needed to be monitored. At my next doctor appointment, my mother and I were assured that while surgery was a real possibility, it was a worst-case scenario. There were things that could be done to avoid it—certain body exercises, or even a back brace. So they continued to monitor me, and I went for checkups every three months.
On our drive to the office, I’d sit quietly in the passenger seat while my mother rambled on: “Isn’t your class starting Of Mice and Men this week?” or, “What would you like for dinner tonight?” and sometimes, “Have you noticed how much Mildred has been shedding lately?” She’d talk about everything except the impending appointment, acting as if the visits were just a formality.
Inside the office, each waiting room was white. The counter, the swivel chair, the sink, the cotton balls—all white. Light bulbs overhead were harsh and bright, and the walls were bare except for a couple of large posters mapping out sections of the human skeleton. The room smelled white too, that sickly clean hospital scent.
I saw the same nurse each time. She didn’t wear a name tag, and she never bothered to introduce herself. I took my cue from her and didn’t ask.
By the fifth or sixth visit, I knew exactly what to expect.
“Everything off except the underwear,” The Nurse would announce in a loud, flat voice before handing me a hospital gown made of thin, papery purple material. A long strip was included to keep the gown from opening, which my mother would tie in a beautiful bow, as if tying silk satin.
After changing, I’d follow The Nurse out of my room and down the hall, always trailing behind her, until we arrived at a small gray chamber with X-ray machines, scanners, and other orthopedic equipment.
First, she’d measure my lung capacity, instructing me to breathe in deep and blow out into a long hollow tube. Next, she’d measure my height, and then finally, she’d take an X-ray of my spine.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” I’d joke.
She never cracked a smile.
* * *
Between visits, I didn’t think about my scoliosis much because it didn’t affect my daily routine. Besides, the X-rays rarely showed any real change in my spinal curve. But every three months, when I’d walk into the office and write my name down on the sign-in sheet, the nerves, nausea, and uncertainty floated to the surface.
I joked around to hide my jitters. I especially did this in the gray room, where my mother was not allowed to accompany me, where I was surrounded by scary machines, where I was forced to face The Nurse on my own. I tried to act like I didn’t notice the sharp, sterile scent, tried to act like I didn’t care about standing in front of strangers in nothing but my underwear and purple tissue paper. I wanted to be brave, to show The Nurse and the other technicians that a fifteen-year-old girl could be fine with their hushed instructions to “hold still” and “bend over” and “breathe deep.” Even if she wasn’t.
* * *
Dr. Murthy, my orthopedist, was tall and thin and graceful, with a long dark braid that twisted all the way down her back.
“Let’s have a look here.” She held my X-ray up to the light and studied it for a moment. Then she turned to me.
“Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” Without asking permission, she pulled my gown open. My mother’s bow fell apart and puddled at my feet on the floor.
She ran her cold fingers up and down my back and then told me to bend over and touch my toes. I held myself in this position and counted to ten.
Dr. Murthy sighed. Something was wrong; I could feel it. Her fingers never lingered this long. I swallowed hard.
On one of our previous visits, Dr. Murthy had warned my mother that scoliosis typically worsened during the mid-to-late teen years because of the accelerated growth rate in adolescent bodies. But my X-rays had always seemed so stable—fixed, even. I’d never actually considered her caveat. Until now.
“Look here.” Dr. Murthy pointed to my X-ray, which was hanging in front of a fluorescent light. “Your thoracic lumbar curvature has changed. See how your spine looks like an ‘S’ now?”
I nodded slowly, unsure of what else to do or say.
“Here, let me show you.”
The left side of my back was raised, and I could feel the uneven slope as she guided my hand behind me. The unevenness scared me, made me feel uneven.
When an image of Quasimodo popped into my head, I couldn’t block it out: how he was the one Disney character I had refused to watch as a child; how my scoliosis might get so bad that I might look like him; how no one would want to be around me, either; how I might end up alone, too.
The room was quiet for a few moments as Dr. Murthy scribbled something down. She didn’t say that I could return to a standing position, so I remained as I was, bent over, hoping to blend in with the walls like one of the postered skeletons.
* * *
We’d been told that other things could be done first to try and avoid surgery. Certain body exercises, or even a back brace. But it seemed that my curvature had hairpinned past the point of exercise; a brace was now my best option.
I don’t remember how Dr. Murthy broke the news to me; I can’t recall the words she said or the tone she used. The only thing I can pull from my memory is the swinging of my legs as I sat on the exam table. I’m not sure whether I’d been instructed to sit before hearing the news or whether I’d had the instinct to sit, had known that something in my life was about to change. Either way, I remember my feet dangling, the paper on the exam table rustling against the paper of my gown, and Dr. Murthy’s bobblehead face as she looked back and forth, again and again, between my mother and me.
* * *
My mom was still crying when Dr. Murthy walked back into the room with the name and contact information of a recommended orthotist in Mineola.
“Oh, don’t cry, Mommy. This is harder for you than it is for your daughter.”
I seriously doubted that. But I held my tongue.
My mother called the orthotist as soon as we got home and set up an appointment for the following week.
At school, I was quieter than usual. I went to class like nothing was wrong, like I didn’t think about each step I took as I walked down the hall. I kept to myself because I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to explain my fear. I only knew that I was afraid of what was coming and that no one else would understand, even if I tried to find the words.
Because sometimes, words are just words. And they don’t say anything at all.
* * *
I dreaded Friday mornings because Friday mornings meant gym class. Hand-eye coordination had never been my forte. It was slowly dawning on me, though, that pretty soon I wouldn’t be able to run, kick, or chase a ball, so on the Friday before my orthotist appointment, I decided that I would try to enjoy gym—for the first (and maybe last) time in my high school career.
After all the girls had finished running laps, our PE teacher, Mrs. Smith, told us we’d be playing soccer. Everyone followed their friends and broke off into teams, trying to figure out who would play what position.
No one volunteered to be goalie.
“Oh, for God’s sake. Ladies, this won’t work until we have a goalie. Will someone—anyone—please just step in front of the goal?”
A girl standing at the far end of the gym snorted. The sound bounced off the floors, echoing around the room.
I thought about my silence in the orthopedist’s office, and I thought about my silence walking from class to class. I didn’t know what to expect with a back brace—how long I’d have to wear it, or how mobile I’d be, or how odd it would look. But I was starting to realize what a brace might take from me. Not just physical things, like the shape of my body or my ability to play violin. A back brace might also take away my choices, like whether I wanted to be goalie during a stupid game of soccer. It might even take away the words I needed to convey what was happening to me. Losing these things might leave me feeling the same way I did each time I entered Dr. Murthy’s exam room: small. Incredibly small.
I wanted to hold on to my body and words and choices for as long as I could. So, I opened my mouth.
“I’ll do it.”
* * *
With a couple of minutes left in class, Mrs. Smith told the opposing team to try for one last shot. I stood in front of the goal, staring off at the clock, when the ball came flying past me on my right. Instinctively, I slid down to stop it, scraping my elbow and forearm in the process.
Mrs. Smith blew her whistle. “Now that’s how it’s done, girls! No goal!”
I felt myself smile. My arm throbbed and I was out of breath, but I didn’t care. The ball was in my hands, and I felt like I was holding the world.
Mrs. Smith pulled me aside as my friends made their way to the bathrooms to change. “Mia, you’ll be at tryouts next week, right?”
My momentary high slowly started to wear off as memories from the past few days came flooding back.
“You’ve probably never considered goalie because you’re small,” she continued, “but from what I just saw, you’re a natural.”
In two days’ time, I would barely be able to bend down and pick up a ball. But I wasn’t sure how to explain that to her.
I’ll do it. The words felt so meaningless now, so empty. I couldn’t find any others to replace them, though, so I just stood there, nodding, until she was gone. And then, for the first time since hearing that I would need a brace, I started to cry.
* * *
The room had no mirrors. I didn’t understand how I was supposed to determine whether the brace fit me correctly without looking at a reflection. I was still trying to figure this out when the orthotist, Dr. Locurto, came shuffling in.
“So, kid, you’ve got the basics, right? The brace is just a preventative measure. You know, so your scoliosis doesn’t progress any furrrther.”
He sounded like a mother talking to her toddler in overexaggerated tones.
“I’m not sure whether Dr. Murthy explained to you the details of your thoracic lumbar curvature, but basically, your spine should be straighter than it is—”
“Can you stop talking to me like I’m five?” I snapped. “‘Cause I’m not. I’m fifteen.”
Silence.
I was sick of people trying to be nice. I didn’t want nice. I wanted doctors to stop talking so damn slowly. To stop looking at my mom when they were talking to me. To stop elevating their voices like I might understand better if only they spoke louder.
“Yes, well…” He cleared his throat. “The brace must be worn twenty-three hours a day, but I know you can handle it. You’re a tough girl.” He winked.
I looked down, feeling the threat of tears.
He spun around on the swivel stool and leaned over his desk, jotting down my upper body measurements. When he faced forward again, he was holding a customized brace. He pushed the plastic into my hands.
I stood motionless, my arms wrapped around the outline of my torso. The brace was heavy, about ten or fifteen pounds, and the white plastic was thick. Little holes dotted the brace, which made me think of Swiss cheese.
“To help your skin breathe,” Dr. Locurto said, pointing to the cutouts. The logic didn’t make sense to me, though, because I’d been instructed to wear a tight-fitting shirt under the brace and one more over it. If I was wearing at least two layers of clothing every day, I didn’t see how these little breathing holes would help my skin. But when I asked about it, he spoke as if he hadn’t heard the question.
“How about we try this thing on?”
I thought about all the times I’d gone department store shopping with my mom, always stopping at the hat sections, pointing out the biggest, brightest, most ridiculous ones, laughing as we envisioned friends and family members in them. I remembered a green one with a large, wavy brim and a cluster of peacock feathers on the side.
“Your friend Mary would toootally wear that, Ma!” I’d laughed. And she’d answered, “Try it on! Try it on!” We’d looked in the mirror, our alter egos staring back at us for just a moment, and then the hats were off and we were making our way through the rest of the store.
How about we try this thing on?
This wasn’t trying on. This was putting it on. And leaving with it.
Then living with it.
* * *
There were three thick Velcro straps that I had to undo in order to slip inside the brace. First the middle one, then the bottom one, and finally the top.
“You can remember that order, can’t you?” Dr. Locurto asked.
I nodded and he pulled the straps tight. Immediately, a hard, round pain spread up and down my back. The two triangular pads on the inside of the brace pushed up against my spine, putting pressure on the left side to prevent any further curving.
I clawed at the back of the brace, desperate to get it off. But I couldn’t reach the Velcro.
“Oh, don’t worry too much about that,” Dr. Locurto jumped in. “I’m sure your mother won’t mind helping you. Right, Mom?”
“Of course I’m going to help you, honey! Just say the word.”
My back was throbbing, and my breasts were starting to hurt. The top of the brace stopped just below their U-shaped softness, the plastic pushing my breasts up high like a painful corset. For a split second, I thought of lingerie. But there was nothing sexy about this. My breasts looked lumpy and misshapen.
As the minutes passed and the pain didn’t quiet, twenty-three hours began to take shape in my mind. I suddenly realized that my time would no longer be measured by minutes or hours or days; it would be measured by pain. The presence or absence of pain. And I found myself wishing that I could fast-forward the next two years of my life. Because it seemed so unbearable—a myriad of moments that I didn’t want to experience or remember, just piling up and up and up until they buried me completely.
I closed my eyes and did the math. Two years was 730 days. I couldn’t wrap my mind around this number. It didn’t seem possible to exist inside this prison for such a span of time. 730 days. I let the number twist and turn in my head for another minute before I was finally able to acknowledge the truth: I was scared. Really, really scared
* * *
When we got home, I headed straight for the mirror.
But then I hesitated.
I wanted to preserve the memory of my pre-brace body, wanted to enjoy the image of my small, willowy build before replacing it with another.
I digested my new reflection in fragments: head, shoulders, torso. The brace made me wider and larger, and my head now looked too small for the rest of my body—disproportionate and cartoon-like. The back of the brace rose past my shoulders, stopping just at the base of my neck. It seemed as though my neck had disappeared altogether.
My eyes moved down to the torso, the foreign, clunky shape that was—and wasn’t—my body. I thought of Quasimodo again but pushed the image from my mind; I had more important things to worry about. Like clothes.
I needed to find a shirt to wear but wasn’t sure that any of my tops would fit over the brace. As if on cue, my mom knocked on the door, holding up one of her oversized pajama tops. It had a big Hello Kitty face on the front.
“Dad just got home from work, and dinner will be ready in a few minutes. I thought you might want something to throw on . . . for now.”
I cringed but didn’t have a choice. My walk-in closet—with shelves of shirts and racks of dresses and skirts—was as good as empty now.
She held out the top. “Haaands up!”
I put my hands in the air and stared straight ahead, not focusing on anything but the heaviness of my arms as my mother tugged the baggy shirt over my head.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, but I didn’t mean it.
I wanted her to leave, and I wanted to be alone, and I wanted to cry.
* * *
“Supper’s on!” my dad called from downstairs.
I walked into the kitchen and eased myself into a chair. No one made any mention of my new bulkiness. Instead, my dad talked about his day at work, and my mom chatted about a new chicken recipe. I tuned them both out.
The brace was thick, and I was having a difficult time leaning in close to the table. The first time I dropped something on my lap, I acted like nothing happened; the rice was easy enough to clean up. But as I tried leaning in again, I missed my mouth and meatball gravy spilled down the front of my shirt, staining half of Hello Kitty’s face.
“Oh, dolly, don’t worry. It happens to everyone!”
No, not everyone, I wanted to spit back. It’s happening to me.
“I’m just gonna go do some homework.” I wanted to stomp off, but it took a couple of tries before I managed to stand up. And as I slowly walked out of the kitchen, I remember thinking that even a dramatic exit wasn’t possible anymore.
* * *
The high school I attended was an Orthodox, all-girls yeshiva. Upon arrival, students made their way directly to the auditorium for morning prayers. The walls were white and bare, a ploy I thought the faculty used to create some sort of heaven, a place where we could lose ourselves in prayer. (If that was the case, it never worked for me. I was always too worried about impending pop quizzes or worm dissections.) But maybe the white paint was just their way of keeping us focused while we prayed, of creating an atmosphere devoid of distraction. Or maybe it was their way of telling us that even when it felt like God was nowhere to be found—when things in life felt blank and uncertain and out of our control—he was still always with us. An invisible force.
* * *
On the first day that I wore my brace to school, I refused to take my coat off. I didn’t want to walk down the stairs into the auditorium and feel three hundred pairs of eyes gazing up at my newly disfigured shape.
My best friend, Adina, stayed with me at my locker until I was able to pull myself together. I don’t remember how long we stood there, only that in those moments I felt myself growing old, tired. But then Adina was taking my hand, and we were approaching the staircase, and she was walking in front of me, plopping herself down in the seat right next to mine.
Hesitantly, I opened my siddur—the Jewish prayer book—and started to recite the morning blessings:
“Blessed are You, our God, King of the universe, Who fashioned man with wisdom . . .
“Blessed are You, our God, King of the universe, Who gives strength to the weary.
“Blessed are You, our God, King of the universe, Who straightens the bent.”
I stopped there. I didn’t think I could say that blessing with sincerity. The words felt like a lie. God didn’t always straighten the bent. At least not in Dr. Murthy’s office.
I took a deep breath and looked up. A girl, two rows in front of me, was staring. Our eyes met and she quickly faced forward.
I barely knew her, but somehow this girl suddenly represented everything I had lost. I could feel the hate and jealousy burning in my gut, rising up like smoke. I hated her long, lean body, the fact that she was a star player on our volleyball team. I hated the designer clothes she wore—clothes that I couldn’t fit into anymore. I hated the fact that she had turned back to look at me and thought nothing of it while I could barely lower my body into a sitting position, let alone twist around to look at something or someone behind me.
My thoughts were interrupted when she turned to steal another look. This time, I couldn’t hold back.
“Can I help you? Jeeesus!”
My principal’s eyes went wide.
* * *
The bottom of the brace cut off right above my butt so that when I tried to sit down on the toilet, all I could feel was the plastic brace smacking the surface of the plastic seat. I couldn’t take the brace off by myself, and I was too proud to ask anyone—except my mother—for help. Besides, taking the brace off involved getting undressed, and I had absolutely no intention of undressing in school every time I needed to pee. So I held it in until I got home.
When my mom heard this, she immediately pulled the straps open and peeled the brace away from my body. It made a suction cup sound as we separated it from my undershirt, which was soaked through with sweat. I yanked off the shirt and felt cool air hit my skin. I breathed in deep, enjoying the sensation, standing in my room shirtless. And then I looked down.
The skin on my stomach was no longer pale. It was pink and spotted, all irritated and raw. I ran my hands in a circle around my belly button, feeling little bumps that hadn’t been there the day before. As quickly as I had pulled my shirt off, I reached into a drawer and pulled on a new one.
I’d forgotten all about going to the bathroom. Somehow, the things that were going on inside my body didn’t seem quite as drastic—or urgent—as the changes that were taking place on the outside.
* * *
Years later, I made an appointment to see a podiatrist for an ingrown toenail that was causing me quite a bit of pain. When I walked into the office, the receptionist handed me a new patient form to fill out. I sat in the waiting room for a few minutes, flipping through the pages, answering the standard medical inquiries. And then one question made me pause.
Anything else we should know about you?
I stared at the question for a few moments, unsure of how to answer.
I was twenty-four years old. Was it important to tell the doctor that I’d worn a back brace during high school? Did the curve of my adolescent spine have anything to do with the curve of my toenail?
The blank page stared up at me as I debated the issue.
Scoliosis no longer affected me on a regular basis. Sure, my posture was better than most. I sat up straight—sometimes too straight—and I walked with my shoulders back. But these were good things; my mother never needed to bug me about slouching. And although my back did hurt every so often while sitting through three-hour seminars for grad school or on long car rides to visit relatives, I was accustomed to it. The pain would spread up and down the left side of my back, the area that had been pressed up against brace pads for two years.
Anything else we should know about you?
I wasn’t sure. So I left it blank, the way those two years in the brace sometimes feel to me.
* * *
My parents decided to hold onto my brace, though I’m not sure why. I asked my mother about it recently, and she didn’t remember what had prompted them to make that decision. All she could recall was that as soon as I stopped needing it, she asked my father to put the brace in the back of my closet, high up on the top shelf, out of sight. But when we redecorated my room about a year and a half later, I stumbled upon it while boxing up my stuff. My mom says that I got terribly upset and insisted the brace be taken away.
These days, it resides upstairs in my parents’ attic. I haven’t seen it since they put it up there some six years ago, but my mom tells me that it’s collecting dust, that the hard white plastic is no longer white. It is more of a faded, ashy gray. But it is still there.
Mia Herman is a Jewish writer and editor living in New York. She holds a BA in English and psychology from Queens College and an MFA in Creative Writing from Hofstra University. Mia is the author of the poetry chapbook Until the End of Time, which was published in 2023 at Alien Buddha Press. Her work has appeared in dozens of publications including Barren Magazine, Bellevue Literary Review, F(r)iction, Stanchion, Third Coast, and Variant Literature, among others. Connect with her on X @MiaMHerman or drop her a line at mia.herman.writes@gmail.com.