How I Got Blue Hair

I must have been around 14 years old. I had full control of my sister’s wheelchair, her left leg propped up in a cast after surgery. The family just visited a museum, or event of some sort, and we happily headed back to the car to go home. This particular sister and I often have the same mischievous-making minds. As we came upon a steep hill that lead its way down to the parking I paused, holding her chair steady. “Do it!” she whispered. I giggled. I flashed back to a scene from Jerry Lewis in the Disorder Orderly, when he comically rammed a patient in a wheel chair against a wall. “It’s dangerous!” I answered in a chuckling whisper. Before I tell you if I did it or not, let’s begin with why she had that cast on in the first place.

My widowed mother was probably working her 2nd or 3rd job that day, which meant a houseful of kids running around, wild and free. There was no internet or mobile devices to entertain us, just 3 channels on the TV, books, the outdoors, and our great imaginations. Carol often got in trouble for running around the neighborhood barefoot. She loved to walk (and run!) on her tip toes— it was an unusual habit that followed her into her teenage years. So, there she was, running a field in her bare feet when, OUCH, she stepped on an open rusty can with the lid ajar, which went directly into her ankle’s tendon. Writing that is horrific, but what was even more horrific was that our small-town doctor told my poor mother she needed a bigger hospital— they could not provide the level of care that was needed for a sliced tendon. There happened to be a major winter storm going over the pass that night, so my mother and my oldest brother battled the blizzard, praying they kept centered on the snowy highway through the high valley, at times with cliffs on each side. After that battle, Carol faced a series of issues which lead to surgeries and more rehab for the next five years. All for not wearing shoes.

Because of this story, she was my inspiration for the next short story for my book. It's about a little girl that loves nature, who runs into an odd little man, a viejito, who gives her a proposition she can’t get out of. But this time I made the odd little man tip toe just like Carol did. How she conquers the situation, and him, is the way Carol would conquer it in real life. Her strength, her humor, and bulldog persistence made me love her even more as I watched her heal throughout the years.

Now, let’s get back to that hill, five years later after her final surgery. With her firm approval to let go, I did. I put my hands to my mouth seconds after letting go, because I realized it was the worst decision I had ever made in my young life. Carol’s mouth was agape with laughter and the adrenaline rose, her wild blonde hair getting ready to run with the wind. She squeezed the arm bars tighter and screamed with laughter. My dad (or stepdad, I hate that label), yelled my name in a scary commanding voice, “GINA!” He was 6’4 and very athletic. He was a runner, who taught me how to run. He sprinted past all of us and chased her down the hill. And no, wheelchairs on downward hills don’t wheel down in a straight line like in they do in the movies. The wheelchair started to curve to the right, to an even steeper hill of just grass and a small creek at the bottom. Thankfully, my athletic Dad got her just in time before she hit the grass. She still fell out from the abrupt stop, but it could have been much worse. Everyone froze. They knew I was in trouble. And boy did I get a talking to…maybe even a whipping on the butt, my memory of the punishment escapes me (or perhaps protects me).

All I knew was that she told me to do it, we both told each other to do it, but I was going to protect her. So, I took the blame. I got grounded. I got that “shame shame shame” feeling from my mother for days. I was forbidden from ever pushing her wheelchair again. Ever.

And now years later, we sometimes reminisce and laugh about this snippet from our childhood. But always, and always, when life hands me any hesitation, when I question what I should do, or how I should do it, she will quietly whisper, “Do it!” And I will laugh, hesitate, and simply let go.