The doctor, unmoved by Mom’s non sequitur, said that I was still growing, which meant the curve/kyphosis would continue to worsen and, if unchecked, I’d curl into myself and important stuff like internal organs wouldn’t have any room in my hammocking chest. We had known addressing the upper spine with physical therapy and a back brace did not have nearly the success rate as similar treatment for the lower spine. Because the brace was no longer effective and due to the severity of future complications, the doctor recommended I undergo a spinal fusion. He gave us a name of a surgeon who was tops in his field (aren’t they all?) at Boston Children’s Hospital. Two weeks later we drove into Boston, my parents periodically asking “How are you doing, bud?” or “You doing okay, honey?” and otherwise they didn’t talk. I burrowed in the backseat with my Walkman, listening to Zen Arcade at full volume. Upon arrival, the hospital loomed as large as a castle. There were more X-rays, and the pictures of me without my skin were shocking, stills from a black-and-white horror movie called The Incredible Kyphosising Creature. Aside from film of my torso in rear and portrait views, they x-rayed my left wrist and hand, and based on the growth-plate imaging the doctor determined my bone age was that of a typical thirteen-year-old (gee, thanks?), which meant I was indeed still growing. My surgeon, Dr. Seward, was soft-spoken but direct. He outlined the broad strokes of the procedure: a whopping two-thirds of my vertebrae would be fused together using bone scraped away from my ischium (hipbone), and metal Harrington rods were to be attached as scaffolding to hold my straightened spine in place while the fused bone hardened. The fusion wouldn’t be fully healed for one year, at which point the metal rods were no longer necessary, but they would be left inside unless there were complications. If successful, my spine would be rooted within its proper path. With the benefit of the rods, I would be walking within a week post-surgery and able to attend college in the fall, though I had to avoid contact and strenuous exercise for a full year. As with any major spinal surgery in which the vertebrae were being manipulated, there was a remote chance of paralysis if the spinal cord was somehow damaged, however that “outlier of risk” (his words) was far outweighed by the benefits and the dire long-term health consequences of not having the fusion. We set a surgery date for six days after my high school graduation in June. And as a delightful denouement to the appointment, Dr. Seward told us he suspected I had the connective tissue disorder Marfan syndrome, given the scoliosis; my ectomorphic build with unusually long limbs, fingers, and toes; double-jointedness (a misnomer, but was catchier than saying abnormally flexible joints); my high arched palate (which had to be widened before my braces); and flat feet. As a precaution, he ordered an echocardiogram for three weeks prior to the surgery to test for heart murmurs and/or signs of aortic enlargement, the latter being the more catastrophic symptom, which meant death. The death symptom.