Hoofbeats

I grew up infatuated with horses. Like many little girls, especially small, wall-eyed, chubby ones such as myself, I was drawn to their majestic size, power, and beauty. For years I pretended to be a horse. I was never a zebra. Zebras were ungainly creatures with no romantic appeal, short and squat, like me.

When I grew older, I took riding lessons. We rode English-style, “heads up, heels down, back straight!” I could never quite comply. I tired quickly, back aching with the effort of trying to sit up straight for long periods of time with scoliosis, legs trembling with the effort of staying in good form on the horse. I lacked physical stamina. I was frequently sick.

In those days, doctors made house calls, and Doctor Jean rolled up our driveway in her ancient but reliable Volvo often enough that the experience is clear in my memory. “Let's have a look at you,” she would murmur, patting my knee, then out of her leather bag would come the omnipresent wooden tongue depressor and her examining light, and into my eyes, ears, and throat she would peer. Then she'd ponder, her lips pressed in a thin line. Now, I recognize the expression on her kindly face as worried perplexity.

She had cause for concern because at 13, I collapsed at school. I was hospitalized for an appendectomy years before diagnostic ultrasonography, MRI, and CT scanning came into their own. By the time the surgeon had finished operating, my incision measured 8 inches and he had discovered several congenital anomalies—unilateral renal agenesis, bicornuate uterus, blind vaginal pouch, and septate cervix.

There were more tests, more operations. Like the Bionic Woman, a popular television series of the time, I was surgically reconstructed. I was different. Different …