Sunday, May 22, 2011

Part One of prom-related stuff, which thoroughly goes off on tangents, but there is a point to most of it, or at least I think there is

If it seems a though you've heard some of this before, it's probably because you've read parts of it in other sections of my blog. You will notice, I hope, that the tone is decidedly less self-pitying. I'm over anything prom-related. There are other issues with which I'm still dealing, but a prom is a prom -- nothing more and nothing less. I'm breaking this saga into separate blogs because I fear it will become unwieldly if write continuously.

My prom experience last year was something of a debacle. I was confined to a wheelchair at the time because of clavicle and tibia/fibula fractures. My date decided it wasn't in his best interest to be seen in the company of what he termed a "cripple" in his official announcement of the breaking off of our prom date to the lunch crowd in the cafeteria. He never got around to making the announcement to me personally, which turned out to be unnecessary anyway, because, before the sun had set that very day, the girl he invited to the prom in my stead made it a point to visit me in the hospital to be sure I heard it straight from the horse's mouth and not through the rumor mill. I'm certain that was her intention. She couldn't have had any other motivation for her actions, could she? (Sarcasm can be difficult to discern in print. If you're wondering if you detect the slightest mocking tone in my words, the answer is yes, you do.)

Anyway, that's all ancient history. Realistically, the fabric from the dress I chose for last year's prom probably would have been severely damaged before the prom was half over by my leg cast no matter how well I tried to wrap my cast with ace bandages. It would've taken great effort to wrap my shoulder / clavicle / upper arm sufficiently well to safely fit it into the dress. Then my clavicle et al would've needed to be wrapped again in gauze and ace bandages once I was wearing the dress. Tres chic are not words that come to mind in describing how I imagine my appearance would've been that evening. Whatever method I used to style the bandaging, the only cover I might have been fit for was Modern Crippled Vogue if there were such a magazine.

Then there was the whole issue of the wheelchair. What does one do at a dance when confined to a wheelchair? Does one's date wheel the wheelchair-bound girl onto the dance floor and ludicrously pretend he's dancing with her wheelchair? Does the date sit idly with the cripple while other couples dance? Does the date dance with other girls as the wheelchair-bound cripple watches enviously? Does the wheelchair-bound date attempt just one dance out of the wheelcahir, assuming her date is strong enough to support her weight, and then be dropped on the dance floor, possibly reinjuring herself in the fall, but, at the very least, thoroughly humiliating herself in the process? Furthermore, by the time the prom day actually came around, I was capable of sitting up in my wheelchair or in any other chair for only thirty minutes at a time. Was someone supposed to roll me off the dance floor every thirty minutes and place me on one of those fainting couches that used to be strategically placed just for such instances?

The reasons I should have skipped out on last year's prom abound. The bottom line is that I could not have attended last year's prom, nor would I have even wanted to do so. The entire issue was the unceremonious revocation of my invitation to the prom. I wasn't yet entirely out from under the effects of general anaesthesia following what was my third surgery of the week when my prom replacement showed up at my bedside to let me know of the change in my prom plans. At that point, I wasn't even allowed visitors other than my parents and medical personnel. The girl was only able to make it into my room because her mother is an R. N. who at the time worked on the orthopedic surgical ward; when the girl appeared in the wing, if anyone noticed her at all, it was probably assumed she was there to see her mother for some reason or another. The girl easily slipped into my hospital room unnoticed. I won't go into all the details of what happened in the hospital during and following her visit. Instead, let us fast-forward to the exciting part where my entire family was excommunicated from the Roman Catholic Church.


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