Made of the Scraps

I am quite aware that my labradoodle, Hollywood, has a better pedigree than me. He came into this world and swiftly was written into his lineage that includes official papers confirming the sturdiness of his hips and the sharpness of his eyes. I, on the other hand, didn’t find out I was deaf in my right ear until I was four. At age ten, my eyesight started to dwindle. At fourteen, my shins sprouted splints and stress fractures from running, at twenty five I was diagnosed with a thyroid disease, and recently it’s been confirmed I have a rare blood clotting mutation and low progesterone.

My body has a history of failing me to say the least. I desire certain things that it does not have the fortitude to provide. Maybe I want to go camping without lugging along pills and contact lenses. Maybe I want to train for the fastest race of my life without getting a bone fracture. Maybe I want to hold a breathing baby that will grow into a rambunctious kid that takes too many risks.

I belong to a sibling group of five. I am number four. I am made of the scraps. This is not a secret. I have made sure my mom knows my plight (although she rolls her eyes and says, “Baloney!”). Baloney my ass. I love her to pieces anyway, as she loves me anyway. I also love my smart puppy whom rings a bell to be let inside, can distinguish the meaning of full sentences (when he knows the key words), and knows it is treat time when he hears the wine bottle open.

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