I don't wanna grow up

            “You’ll have a wonderful life when you get older. You’ll see. Wait until you are all grown up and get to see the world”, said my gym teacher.

                       “I don’t want to grow up”, I said thoughtfully after considering the matter. I used all of the knowledge and life experience I had gained to date, at age seven, to make that determination. 

                       “But of course you do. Everyone wants to grow up. Then you get to do what you want. You get to explore, try new things, be independent. Also, you don’t have to go to school anymore. You live alone, without your parents, and you work for a living. You get to be your own boss, and run your life the way you want to.”

                       “But I don’t want to”, I said. “I don’t want to deal with the problems that I will face. I don’t like the problems I have now. Won’t everything just get worse, and more complicated? I’ll have all new kinds of problems, ones I have never faced before. Plus I won’t have my parents to guide me and help me along, every step along the way. No thanks. I don’t think so. I don’t want to grow up. Because then I will be alone. I want to stay a kid.”

                       I think I was unique in my class for the being the only kid feeling this way at such a young age. Apparently, the challenges I had faced made me serious, sometimes morose. While my peers ran and laughed and had fun during recess and gym class, I often thought, what is the point of this exercise? I am not learning anything that will be useful to me later in life. I don’t have any friends to pass the time away during recess. I am watching everyone around me have a good time, while I am not. It just made me want to escape. I thought to myself, getting older will just be more of the same. I don’t like my life now. How will I like my life later? How will my life get better? My problems seemed to loom out to infinity.

                       My problem was my body was shaped like a monster. I looked hideous and no one wanted to be my friend. I was born with various defects which prevented me from functioning like my peers. My eyes, ears and nose were displayed in strange places on my head, like God paid no attention to me while he carelessly formed eyes, nose, and ears on my face. My arms were very short, my torso was very short, and my legs were extremely long. So long, that often, when I tried on pants in the store, pant-legs fell above my ankles.

                       I wasn’t tall enough, or smart enough, or athletic enough, to impress my classmates. After a while, I stopped trying in gym class. I didn’t care anymore.

                       The only thing I really wanted to have when I grew up was big breasts. I thought that would make me attractive to men. It seemed to be a favorable attribute for women to have, in all of the movies I watched. It did not matter to me whether I would enjoy having them or whether they would enhance my daily functioning in any way. I never thought about how heavy they would be, or whether they would weigh me down when I walk or go jogging.

                       So God must have heard me say that I don’t want to grow up. He must have heard me think to myself, I value how I appear to others, enough, to change my appearance to make everyone else happy but me.

                       So God tried to make me happy. My breasts did not grow. After all, God heard that I did not want to grow up.

                       Years passed, while my peers went through puberty while I remained in a child-like state.

                       But of course, the concerned adults in my life wondered why I wasn’t growing into a woman. They thought it strange that I had no control over my body. Or maybe, I had too much control. Maybe I prevented myself from growing up the normal way.

                       “It’s time to get a boob transplant”, said my doctor, during my quarterly check-up.

                       “How does that work?” I asked.

                       “Well, someone will die, and her boobs will be donated to the Boob Registry. You might be on the wait-list for a short time. After all, the dead woman’s estate will get a tax deduction for donated boobs.

                       “I see”, the sixteen-year-old me replied, not really understanding the intricacies of the U.S. tax code.

                       “Does it hurt to get the boob transplant?”, I asked.

                       “Well, you will be under anesthesia during the procedure, and afterward, you may feel some soreness, but that is to be expected.”

                       “Are there any risks?” my mother asked.

                       “Well, yes. There is the possibility that she could reject the boobs,” said my doctor.

                       “What causes that to happen?”, asked my mother.

                       “Well, it could be that psychologically, she wants the boobs, but her body does not want them. Or vice versa. Maybe her body wants the boobs but psychologically she prevents herself from receiving this precious gift. Maybe she is not aligned with the idea of big boobs. Like she thinks it is a good idea for other people, but not on her. Maybe she won’t feel comfortable lugging them around or having people stare at her all day long.”

                       “What do you think?” My doctor asked. “Do you want to move forward with the procedure? If so, I need to apply for the boobs at the Boob Registry, and I need to complete a form with your insurance company proving medical necessity. I don’t think that will be a problem. All I have to do is explain that your body is monstrous and that you are abnormal. The insurance company should approve the procedure soon.”

                       “I think we should do it, honey” my mother said. After all, this might make you look more normal.”

                       “But what about the dead woman” I asked the doctor. “Will I get any side-effects from getting her boobs implanted in me?”

                       “Well, this is a relatively new procedure, and we don’t have much data on side-effects. There have been some general comments about personality changes noted in a few patients, but I don’t have the specific details about what those changes are.” My doctor replied.

                       “Okay, let’s do it” I responded.

                       My doctor applied to the Boob Registry, and she obtained approval of the procedure from my insurance company. My appointment was scheduled, and I followed all of the pre-op and post-op instructions.

                       I ate very little food the night before, and was sincerely looking to binge on food as soon as the post-op period was over.

                       The surgery itself was uneventful. That anesthesia felt great, and I loved the oxygen tubes. I breathed easy, was put under, and was out for two hours. During the procedure I did not feel any pain. I was groggy during post-op and felt soreness in my chest. As soon as I was awake, I was excited to see the final result.

                       Carefully, I removed the dressing on my chest. I walked over to a mirror and gazed at myself. Hallelujah, I thought to myself. I look great, a little swollen, but the doctor promised the swelling would go down.

                       As soon as the nurse told me I could eat, I asked my mother to order me some salmon teriyaki for dinner. My mother said to me, “this is not like you. You hate Japanese food.”

                       But she did as she was asked. I continued to eat Japanese food every day for two weeks. At this point, my parents were beginning to wonder if something in the medication I was given during surgery had affected my taste buds.

                       They called the doctor, but she did not have an answer for them. “We care about Sarah’s overall health, and that she has a good appetite.  It should not matter about her choice of cuisine. As long as she gets her vitamins and nutrients, that is what is important.”

                       After a while, I started speaking to them in a Japanese accent.

                       “What has gotten into you?” My father asked. “Are you practicing for a school play or something?” It seemed like something, or someone else, had gotten into my body, mind, and soul. My guess was that the woman who donated her boobs to me was Japanese.

                       After six months, I started saying bits and phrases of the Japanese language in conversation. My parents wondered if I had looked up these words in a dictionary, but I told them that the words just came to me.

                       My parents did not like the new me. Several months passed. I started drawing anime cartoons, creating origami out of rice paper I had ordered from Amazon.com, and making wood cuts of exotic creatures. Also, I learned to play the shime-daiko, which I had ordered from JapaneseDrums.com. I watched Japanese music performances on YouTube. 

                       I used to be a homebody but before long, I was a changed person. I joined a Japanese drum player meetup group. On weekends, I stayed out late, singing in karaoke bars. My parents did not know their own daughter.

                       I went to Japantown in San Francisco and bought some kimonos to wear. I was enjoying life, but my parents and I became distant.

                       I would make noodle soup with shrimp every night for dinner. Since it was my contribution to the household to make dinners for my family, my poor parents had to eat what I made. They weren’t happy.

                       “Sweetheart, can you make chicken parmesan this week?” my father asked. “You know it’s my favorite.” I initially said yes, but made chicken teriyaki instead. My quiet dissent and passive resistance ensured a change of assignment. I was re-assigned to cleanup duty and my father began cooking for the family.

                       Meanwhile, my boobs had been securely attached to my body and I had thought that everything was fine with my chest. But one day, I started to reject the boobs.

                       One boob fell off. For two days, I walked around with a bunch of tissues stuffed in one boob to keep my chest symmetrical. I called the doctor, and she examined the situation. But unfortunately, she said she could not re-attach the boob. It had atrophied when it fell off me.

                       I started to feel like the old me was returning. I ate chicken parmesan every day for a week. I forgot the Japanese language, and I struggled to play the shime-daiko. I sat with all the Japanese friends I had acquired, and couldn’t converse with them. Language failed me.

                       I lost the taste for sushi, salmon teriyaki, and seafood noodle soup. Some days I could barely eat. I stopped wearing my kimonos and went back to t-shirts and jeans.

                       I prayed to God, and asked why he had forsaken me. What had I done wrong, I asked? I treated my boobs well. I jumped and followed through on all the urges I had since getting the boobs, and pursued all hobbies and interests Japanese.

                       “I don’t think you wanted to grow up, not this way”, God replied.

                       At this point, I just want to continue and see where all things Japanese will lead me. I was happy exploring Japanese culture during this period. Why do I have to change into a new person? I am tired of metamorphosis.

                       “Really, God? You are going to screw me over again? It wasn’t enough that I was born in the shape of a monster? Now you’re making my boob transplant fail? What is the point of having a God to pray to if you do nothing for me?

                       “Do not ask what God can do for you. Ask what you can do for your God.” I heard in my head.

                       “Great, a Kennedy quote. Just what I needed to hear from you. That really makes me feel better. Gee, are you going to kill me too, the way you engineered JFK’s death?” I asked God.

                       No response. Guess God is giving me the silent treatment now.

                       Weeks went by, and I did not hear from God.

                       I started to cry myself to sleep, feeling abandoned by the Japanese lady, and abandoned by God. It just wasn’t fair.

                       “Okay, God. I give up. What do you want me to do for you?” I said at 4:00AM after several sleepless nights.

                       “Stop running around like a Japanese woman. The woman who donated her boobs to you enjoyed helping you explore new passions and new ideas. She was excited to watch you grow into a young woman. It’s been nice for her to sit in your body while she has adjusted to her death state, but she needs to permanently retire. This lady’s spirit wants to go home to heaven, and leave you.”

                       “God, this isn’t fair! I was starting to really enjoy my invisible Japanese friend. I loved having her with me all the time. It made me feel more comfortable interacting with other Japanese people at the meetup events. When I didn’t know what to say, she would just open my mouth and say it for me. “Mushi Mushi, Sarah Deskedo.”

                       I thought to myself, How can I go to these events alone now, without her? There seems no reason to attend these meetup events without my Japanese spirit friend in attendance.

                       Hearing my thoughts, God responded to me, “Them’s the breaks, kid. You are out of luck here.”

                       I soon stopped going to Japanese drumming events. I cancelled my aikido lessons.

                       I donated the origami and wood cuts to a hospital so that patients could enjoy playing with them.

                       I thought to myself, I don’t care anymore. I give up. I will just walk along with one transplanted boob and a plastic one that I ordered from Bart’sReplacementParts.com. It doesn’t matter anyway. 

                       If I happen to stampede into a lover like a bat out of hell, I might have some explaining to do as to why I have only one natural boob. But I will have to make it sound more interesting. Maybe I will come up with a story about how I saved some hostages at a bank robbery but lost a boob in the process. It sounds believable, don’t you think? Well, it’s to be expected. I am the daughter of an army colonel.

                       Or, maybe I will say I fell into a booby trap, and my boob was caught. Since I went spelunking without my friends, no one heard me calling for help, so to save my life, I cut off my boob. Sounds plausible, right?” I became lost in thought thinking how I would deal with the uncertainty of being single-boobed in a population of double boobed women.          

                       Out of nowhere, as if to distract me from my predicament, I heard God’s voice. “You need to be you. Not your Japanese spirit lady friend. It’s time to find out what you, Sarah, truly enjoy doing, and go do those things. And it’s okay to be alone while you do them. So what if your appearance is that of a monster. Never fear, I am with you, even if you don’t hear me or see me. I am laying low doing reconnaissance. That’s how I got my name, Magnum, P.I.”

                       All of a sudden, theme music came into my head from the TV show. Oh no. I started wearing Hawaiian shirts. I stopped plucking the hairs above my lip, and very slowly, a mustache became visible. I cut out pictures of Ferraris and I constantly wore a Detroit Tigers baseball cap. I started planning a vacation to Oahu. I think a new spirit just moved in.