Dying to be Beautiful

Dying to be Beautiful

I have known Samantha P, K, and O since Kindergarten. I am Samantha R, but that isn’t our only likeness. Samantha O is Asian, maybe Vietnamese. Samantha P is American Caucasian. Samantha K is a proud Korean, and I am a “black china doll,” according to the others. For some reason, the school district decided to do alphabetical classes for two years, which stunk. Class A in every grade had, yup, you guessed it, the A’s from Aaron to Aza, the last names of every person, and so on with every other letter. So, the confusion of having the same first name was usually eliminated by the middle name, but there are combinations that just automatically go together, like Samantha Jo and Samantha Leigh; we had two of both.

By the second grade, the district reevaluated and returned to random selection. Samantha P and I were classmates until high school. Maybe that is why our friendship blossomed, or it was just familiarity. Samantha P eventually adopted the nickname Sammy, for convenience. She had an accident driving in a snowfall the weekend before Christmas 89. She spent the following year in and out of the hospital for rehabilitation and surgery. Her car was totaled, but she walked away with only a scratch on the chin.

The crash messed with her mind. She became paranoid and obsessed with the small scar. An already beautiful person couldn’t believe that she was still beautiful. She began asking everyone about their beauty secrets. Any ritual, no matter how crazy, she tried it. I told her I only used plain warm water, no soap to clean my face, and Vaseline to moisturize when needed. That is all my Grandma Rainey ever used her whole life, and she looked forty on her deathbed. It worked for her, so that is my only ritual, also.

Unfortunately, Sammy didn’t get the help she needed after the accident because her boyfriend convinced her that counseling was for the weak-minded. He didn’t see her struggling as I did. Talking to them was difficult. I was the enemy that didn’t know how it was.

Really… being in a wheelchair since childhood gave me an inside look but not to anyone looking at my perfect skin.

Her family didn’t make it any better by giving in to her every wish when she said her face was hideous. Three plastic surgeries later, the doctor nicked a nerve. Now she has a permanent droop on the left side of her face, no boyfriend, and people are laughing.

 I had to learn to ignore the ignorant. Children will tease to avoid having their flaws highlighted. I cried many nights over missing out on school dances and bond fires before the Friday night games. Everyone would be talking about the fun they had or witnessed on Monday.

It took me until middle school…

I met a teacher who had been in a wheelchair her whole life. Like me, she was breech when her Mom’s labor began. Something happened when the doctor attempted to turn me, and I was paralyzed from my waist down. I thank my Mom and a few teachers who refused to treat me like I was disabled. Of course, I can’t walk without braces and a battery pack, but they looked at my abilities… like my humor—how I can ease people’s fears of the wheelchairs, my gift of gab, and my writing ability.

My mother didn’t know how to deal with me because she thought the injuries I sustained at birth were her fault for something that she did or didn’t do… she was advised to have a C-Section but was afraid of surgery and being put under. I don’t know if my Mom requested my placement in Mrs. Green’s class, but it was the best thing to ever happen to me and my ego. I realized that if she could go to college, and become a teacher, author, and mother, so could I.

Mrs. Green has written two books… her memoir: Pictures of Me, and a poetry book: Pieces of Sand. I asked her about the titles once and why they were so close in wording. She said:

“People are made up of atoms, the smallest particles of matter, and a grain of sand is the smallest particle on the beach, and it was the only way I could make the comparison without writing it out.”.

I didn’t quite understand it, but it stuck with me…

Some years later, I googled Mrs. Green and purchased her books, vowing to read them for research. I found them to be informative, engaging, and relatable. She spoke candidly about her challenges with brachial palsy. She shared how at each stage of life, the paralysis added new challenges. She told how the people in her life reacted, came into, or left when they could not cope. Everything I have dealt with all my life was laid out page by page, even my mother’s feelings. I understood my life better and gained insight into paralysis, personal growth, and achievement.

Mrs. Green saved my life in more ways than one. Although I never attempted suicide, I believe I was headed down a dark road before meeting Susanna Green. I recognized the symptoms of depression as I read her life unfolding on the pages, and it helped me to see how blessed I was. Now that I have written some books, it’s beginning to make more sense. The more I pen my thoughts about anything, the more I gain insight about myself. I named my memoir: Blessed Beyond Belief: From Childhood to Death and Back, and my poetry books are a series called Loose Purls. You only write your memoirs once. Any poems, short stories, or tasty recipes I decide to share can be put together in the Loose series.

I majored in Psychology and minored in education in college. Now I work as the school guidance counselor in the same high school I attended when Samantha “Sammy” Palls committed suicide—hoping to help the next young person dying to be beautiful.