Five Words

by Jack Richard Norman

My alarm went off at 7:30am exactly. The familiar chainsaw-like buzz of it’s vibration against the bedside drawers, followed by the repetitive echo of David Gray singing, “This Years Love.” Every morning the same startling buzz, the same constant drone of music. A song I once loved, is now a daily reminder of the beginning of another long and tiresome day -- a song I once loved. Today was not like any other normal, mundane day however. Today I had the biggest day of my life to date.

It was only three years earlier the doctor had uttered those fateful words, those five little words that sank my heart and destroyed any dreams that existed within the mind of a 12 year old boy. I remember that day like my brain is stuck on the replay button of a TV remote. We had visited the doctors a week earlier, as I had been complaining of pains in my leg and back. He had taken some blood, ran some tests, and scheduled a follow up appointment for today. I hated visiting the doctors office, but then what nine year old kid didn’t. I knew that nothing good could come from it, nobody ever goes to the doctors for good reasons. I was unaware however of what lay ahead of me. “Mom, if I eat all of my dinner tonight and go to bed early can we just go home and not see the doctor,” I protested. It was an empty argument, my mother being known for taking worry to the extreme.

“Don’t worry,” she said through panicked eyes. “We’re only going for a check up, make sure everything is fine. It’s probably just growing pains anyway.” I knew she was just trying to keep me calm, but her face told another story. At that age however it’s hard to understand everything you see and hear. “Jack Norman,” a voice from the back of the room called out. It was my time to go through, behind closed doors. Just the sound of my own name sent a chill up my spine. Dragging my resistant body from the chair my mom and I entered the doctors office and sat face to face with Dr. Robertson. He had been the family doctor since I can remember however this gave me little comfort in the visit. The doctor and my mom carried on a conversation, as I sat oblivious to all that was going around me, until those five words hit me like a hammer through the roof, “He’ll never play sports again.” Nothing else seemed to matter at that time. Like every other boy of my age, all I aspired to be was a professional soccer player. This was the ultimate dream of my generation, and generations before. At that moment my life had ended. It seemed the pain in my legs and back were far from simple growing pains, but in fact Perthes disease. A condition where the hip receives a lack of oxygen and blood flow leading to a rapid deterioration of the bone. The doctor explained it as having a hole the size of an orange in my hip. The outlook looked bleak, as he continued to explain my situation. “We will try a range of different treatments to try and improve the condition of the bone,” he detailed. “This will involve regular visits to the hospital, once a week for a year,” he continued.

“What happens if the treatment doesn’t help?” my mom asked, her eyes wider now than before.

“Well that’s a worst case scenario,” trying to keep us positive. “But in the event it doesn’t, Jack would need to have surgery, most likely a hip replacement,” were the last shattering words I can recall from that day.

My alarm went off at 7:30am exactly. The familiar chainsaw-like buzz of it’s vibration against the bedside drawers, followed by the repetitive echo of David Gray singing, “This Years Love.” The same startling buzz, the same constant drone of music. A song I once loved, a daily reminder of the beginning of another long and tiresome day -- a song I once loved. This day was just like the others, only with a heavier weighting knowing what I had learned the previous day. Today marked the beginning of a three year string of endless hospital visits and countless examinations. “Once a week for the first year,” the doctor had told me. What he had failed to mention however was that for this first year I was to spend my days in a wheelchair. My leg was so fragile that it could break at any moment and cause severe problems, and so to alleviate the pressure I had to be wheeled around, unable to move or do anything for myself. Every minute I spent in the wheelchair, was like someone physically rolling me further away from my dreams. Like an extension of my body, the wheelchair was a constant reminder of my inability and lack of possibilities. I dragged those five words around like a ball and chain, “he’ll never play sports again.” I had to try and maintain a positive outlook, but at that age it felt like I had been abandoned on the side of the road like an unwanted pet, left to the inevitable. That wasn’t going to be me! I had never been one to give up at anything, losing wasn’t part of my lifestyle. The doctor said I might never walk again, but I'll show them. I will walk again, and I will play sports. No doctor or anyone else will tell me what I can and can’t do. While I am still breathing I will overcome anything that faces me.

My alarm went off at 7:30am exactly. The familiar chainsaw-like buzz of it’s vibration against the bedside drawers, followed by the repetitive echo of David Gray singing, “This Years Love.” Today was not like any other normal, mundane day however. Today I had the biggest day of my life to date. The sun seemed to shine a little brighter this morning, and the room which had been like a prison cell to me over the last three years didn’t seem quite as small. All the work I had put in over these years had all been for this. After the first year, my condition had begun improving vastly, and the hospital suggested becoming involved with some form of yoga or stretching program as it would help improve the blood flow to my hip even more. Screw them I thought, if I was going to do anything it would be as involved with sports as possible. The only thing mom would let me do however was gymnastics. It was a non-contact sport and seemed a bit feminine to me at the time, but if it was all I could get I would take it. It wasn’t the kind of sport that I had in mind, for the last two years it involved mostly flexibility and building core strength but I also had been working on a floor routine with a partner. It seemed that I was actually pretty good at what I done. So good in fact that my partner and I had been entered into the Scottish National Championships for mixed partner floor routines. It was that day, it was that time, all the work to overcome my condition was leading to this. My first real involvement with anything in three years.

We had been working on the same routine, to the same song for two years. We knew every beat, every pause, like clockwork it was automatic. We were the last mixed pair to perform in our category. We knew what we had to do to win. We stepped forward on the floor and presented ourselves to the judges. I felt like a gladiator of Roman times, minuscule to the audience sat high in the arena, their judging eyes bearing down on us. My heart was beating twice as fast, until that first chime of music kicked in. The sound swarmed over us and everything around became a blur. Synchronized we flowed effortlessly... flawlessly. Every step seemed perfect. It was as if I was in the stands watching myself perform, we knew we had given it everything we had. We stepped off the floor, anxious to see our score. We had to wait what seemed like an eternity for our score to be posted. Restless I sat, and I stood, and I paced the technical area. My partner and coaches seemed way too relaxed for my liking. Finally the scoreboard lit up with three numbers that I will never forget. There were ten judges, each with the potential to give ten points for a total score out of one hundred. Until now it read at the top of the board a score of 82.6, that was until now. Our score shined in brighter than any morning sunlight, 88.7. We had done it, and comfortably. It took several minutes to sink in, as I repeatedly checked the board to make sure there was no error, but there it remained my partner and I, our names atop the board. The feeling was indescribable, as I hugged my partner and coaches, and ran as fast as I could to my family in the stands. My mom’s face told a different story from the one that day in the doctors office. “I’m so proud of you son,” she muffled through teary eye’s and a wide smile. My dad the usual rock of control, was slightly less calmer than normal. His simple statement rang through in a triumphant declaration of achievement, “well done son!” I had to leave them again, as it was time for the medal ceremony. Stood in the middle of the floor we lined up in order of placement. We were at the end of the line, as the judges moved up each pair shaking hands and congratulating them. Those before us received flowers and a congratulatory handshake. The last three pairs including us were where it counted though. I could hardly contain my excitement as the judges came ever closer giving out a bronze medal, then a silver, and we were next. The gold medal was hidden inside a wooden box as the judges stood in front of us. “Congratulations, a fantastic performance,” the older man said as he shook our hands, and proceeded to open the box held before him. Like a pirate opening a treasure chest the gold gleamed in the dusk light beaming through the roof top windows. He placed a medal around each of our necks, and the audience cheered and clapped. The weight was heavy, but liberating, as i felt my ball and chain snap off and my dreams slowly reappear in my heart.

The next morning my alarm went off at 7:30am exactly. The familiar chainsaw-like buzz of it’s vibration against the bedside drawers, followed by the fulfilling echo of David Gray singing, “This Years Love.” Every morning the same refreshing buzz, the same welcoming tone of music. A song I love, is now a daily reminder of the beginning of a new day, a new life-- a song I love.