Note from Rob: this was an illustration to accompany a short story based on real events I had written. It’s close to 10 years old now. I no longer smoke.
THE WAYS OF THE AMPHIBIAN
In high school, I had a spinal affliction called Scheuermann’s Kyphosis, a defect common in young girls going through puberty. Perhaps that is why my father took me out of T-Ball too early. He would say it was just “my bad posture” and “that I should stand up straight.” In high school, I would make a habit of waking up every morning and putting on a green hooded sweatshirt; something I rarely washed and that was quite stained. At the peak of my defect, fellow students would make it a habit of calling me “Turtle Boy.” I assume they deducted that since I was a hunchback and wore green, I was subconsciously inviting the torment. Whatever the reason, it made me hate turtles and high school much more than any normal person should.
Years later I had graduated from high school and attended community college. Not really having any goals, I took whatever interested me, namely art classes. I attended a life drawing class with nude models. Most of the models were nothing too interesting, regular human shapes. One man, however, did grab my attention. I do not recall his name, but his appearance suggested a nickname that I will always remember: “Toad Man,” a name I would label on all the drawings I made of him. He had all the features of an amphibian. His head seemed to sink into his shoulders and his upper lip would peek slightly outward, almost as a frog would do if it were about to catch a fly. His upper body was profoundly muscular, while his bulging stomach would expand as if it were a bubble while he breathed. To myself, I would laugh nervously while I sketched upon my newsprint. Perhaps Toad Man reminded me of myself - that hunched over turtle with the encrusted pullover. I would have my revenge however, the bullies and tormenters who laughed at my disposition were now cast away as I scrawled down his amphibious features. Whenever Toad Man stepped off the platform, I would breathe a sigh of relief, for I saw a lot of me in him and that was something I couldn’t stand to watch.
After a second semester of college and a long-winded discussion with my mother, we decided it was time to correct my kyphosis. A day before surgery, I wrote the following in my journal:
"… my surgery involves straightening out my spine by sectioning off pieces of it and attaching bolts and rods, which will eventually even out my vertebrae, causing me to actually look normal." - 05/09/2004
Shortly before that entry I made a habit of chain-smoking; something I had picked up from my mother’s new husband. The smoking too was my way of coping with my depressing high school years. Just as I had made fun of Toad Man, I co-opted another habit of the bully, envious of their amazing ability to hold lit cigarettes in their mouths while pummeling me in my stomach.
As the surgery’s date came closer, the thought of paralysis and even death worried me, and my chain-smoking increased as a result.
The day arrived and my mother drove a nicotine addicted son to the hospital. Instead of cancerous gas, I inhaled anesthetics. When I awoke, I had left the world of amphibians, turtles, and all things green.
The stay at the hospital was a horrific one. Of all the nurses that attended to me, a bubbly woman named Margerie was the worst. High on Vicodin, and with my back feeling like it would explode at all angles, I would buzz her in. She would make a habit of waiting what seemed to be over twenty minutes until she would finally come in and “help” me out. I imagined that while the light blinked indicating that assistance was needed, she did personal things such as drink scotch, smoke the cigarettes I had so desperately missed, do her hair, and polish her nails all at once. She would then spiritedly walk to my room where I had eventually passed out from neglect. The passing-out part never happened, but I would certainly be on the brink of it.
When the surgeons thought it was in my best interest to start walking again, they provided me with a walker and Margerie as the tour guide. Barely able to get out of bed, she assisted me to get walking. The tour was fine, and the walking was surprisingly easy to do. It was just her later actions that make me write down the following memory.
"After walking, she sat me down on a chair with no cushioning. The pain that resulted from my scar-laden back contacting the flatness of the upper part of the chair was enormous. Of course she told me, she "would be right back" and I begged her to just help me get back into bed. Ignoring me, she went off to polish her nails or something. I wanted a cigarette. The pain continued at an exponential rate and combined with the hallucinations the Vicodin gave off, the ceilings began to moisten with some sort of neon liquid. I shouldn’t have laughed at Toad Man. The colors began to change and my spine felt as if it was falling on top of itself. I screamed in pain. Apparently my screaming cautioned Margerie to stop drinking scotch, because she came in explaining that she had forgotten about me. If I were to see Margerie again, I would tell her that she chose the wrong career path." - 05/17/2004
A side effect of my transformation towards “actually look[ing] normal,” is that I am now addicted to cigarettes and I have two scars: one down my back, the other where my hip meets my ass. Although Toad Man does not seem any more appealing to me, I have a much greater respect for him. He lived with his deformity; even so much that he was comfortable posing in the flesh for ungrateful snots who thought it was funny to laugh at him. He took a path I could never walk. He had the courage to journey down those murky, mucous covered hallways, traversing lily pads and embracing the way of the amphibian.
