Chapter 1: The O'Scoury Family

JUNE 25th 2004 — MIAMI, FLORIDA

'Oh God, not another bloody Doctor, ' I thought to myself despairingly when I heard Mom say she had found a new expert for my condition. But even as I cringed inwardly I also felt that jolt of hope that invariably surged through me whenever the possibility of cure or improvement was mentioned.

"Mom!" howled Patty in anger before I could respond. "I thought we'd all agreed that Jimmy doesn't need any more of these quacks hurting him."

"This one is different," Mom asserted boldly, not cowed one bit by her daughter's ferocity.

"There's nothing wrong with Jimmy, Mom, he's perfect just as he is," Pattie wailed back.

"This Doctor told me today he thought he could help us, help Jimmy," Mom insisted defiantly.

As they argued back and forth, I watched the two of them, the only two people in the world I loved, and the only two people in the world who loved me.

My mom, Bridget O'Scoury, nee Olaffson, a tall blond of Icelandic extraction, she was thirty-six that spring, a vibrant beautiful mother who was indefatigable in her desire to make my sister Patty's and my life better.

Her daughter, my only sibling Patricia, Patty, was simply perfect. No really — no shit, this girl is perfect. She's seventeen years old, just a year older than her younger brother — that's me — but she had already been High School President, Valedictorian, and Volleyball Star and had been accepted into Duke Medical School starting in September. Plus she's 5' 10" tall, a slim but full breasted beauty whose magnificent cascading red hair and freckles are the only things she had inherited from our Irish born, and long gone father.

And then there's me, the last of our family trio, the one the two females were now arguing about. I could tell you I'm handsome and blond and blue eyed and intelligent and funny — all true by the way — but the only thing that counts is that I'm small, really small, and that's the whole effing problem. I just turned sixteen and stand 47 inches tall and weigh 83 pounds. Impossible you say — not if you're a dwarf my friends.

Oh, Mom and Patty always referred to me as their Irish Leprechaun; an impish character that brought great fortune to the O'Scoury clan of Miami, Florida but the fact of the matter is I was a midget and everyone hates midgets.

'Not true, ' you protest as you think of something nice to say about us. 'Little People' or maybe "Height Challenged' you'd call me and insist you'd never discriminate against me or my kind. 'Oh. You're so cute, ' I'd heard exclaimed so often it made me want to puke.

'Fuck you, you bastards!' I've lived sixteen years and I can guarantee you that the only two people in the world who've treated me like a human being were now arguing about me and my condition across the dinner table. The rest of you have treated me like shit my whole life.

"He's coming to dinner tomorrow night Patty and that's that," I heard Mom insist with a finality that brooked no more argument as I came out of my reverie and rejoined the world.

"But Mom," Patty cried in frustration, knowing she'd never change Mom's mind.

"Who's coming," I asked, coming out of my reverie.

"A bloody old German," Patty spat out, "he's not even a practicing doctor apparently. Supposedly retired three years ago," she added, her dripping sarcasm of course aimed at her mother.

"Don't listen to your sister Jimmy," Mom directed at me, "Herr Professor and Doctor Clickstein is a world famous authority on Leprechauns, well you know, midgets, and he's coming to see you tomorrow."

"Yes Mom," I agreed meekly, surprised that I was happy we were back on the trail of a cure for me.

"You two," Patty groaned in exasperation but I knew she was as excited as Mom and I.

It's been about fifteen years since Mom realized that something was wrong, that I wasn't growing like other children. And since that day she (and later Patty) has been trying to find a cure for my condition.

Actually, in one way I'm supposedly lucky. I'm what the doctors call a 'proportional dwarf', which means that, unlike ninety-five percent of midgets, I am perfectly formed, just small. I don't have the large head, the disproportional upper body, or the short legs of so many of my kind, my brother freaks — yes, that's what most of you really think we are, me and my kind.

But the doctors, first in Boston and later here in Miami had been unable to do anything to help me. Oh, they had poked and prodded, had pontificated, had given me various drug cocktails... but basically they were full of shit, happy to study me, always promising hope that was continually dashed.

Mom had pulled me out of the last study I'd been in about fifteen months ago, finally disgusted with the self serving asshole who'd been playing with my head for the previous two years. We had all agreed after that debacle that there wasn't anything more we could do, that I'd just have to live with my condition.

And now Mom was at it again...

"So, at last, you're here, the person who's causing all these problems," were the first words that met me as I stumbled into the living room the next night, greeted by the most extraordinary sight, an impossibly tall, old man with wild, frizzy gray hair and scraggly beard.

Who's this weirdo, I thought to myself as I stared openmouthed at this apparition who stood at least six and a half feet tall, dominating the room. "Huh," I finally mumbled as my eyes fell on Patty sitting in the corner, clearly trying to stifle an 'I told you so' smile.

"Doctor?" I stammered.

"Professor and Doctor Adolph Clickstein, at your service young man," he responded gravely, but his serious mien was softened by a friendly twinkle in his eyes.

After a few minutes of perfunctory conversation we went into the living room where Mom had prepared a full roast beef dinner with all the trimmings for our supposedly exalted guest.

Patty couldn't stop herself from attacking the doctor almost from the second we sat down to eat, weaving a tale of broken promises we'd all received for fifteen years from confident doctors.

"Sometimes I think you guys never think about the patient," she finally charged. "Jimmy's got feelings Doctor Clickstein; I don't want him hurt again just to satisfy your ego."

"Is that why you want to become a Doctor yourself, Miss O'Scoury?" he asked Patty. "To do better?"

"Maybe," she agreed.

"I do know something about suffering, about pain Miss, and then he slowly rolled up his left sleeve, and silently exposed a line of faded blue numbers.

"Jesus," I gasped as I stared at that incredibly ugly tattoo, recognizing immediately what it signified.

"The Nazis?" Mom whispered.

"I'm so sorry Doctor," Patty started before the doc interrupted her.

"Don't worry, don't worry, it was a long time ago. I shouldn't have shown it to you," he said quietly, all our attention now on his soft words. "The only reason I did is because I want you all to know that I won't do anything to hurt Jimmy, I've seen enough," he said with a sigh. "Now maybe I'll be able to help you and maybe I won't, but Jimmy, I promise you I won't lie to you or give you some cock and bull story or prolong any treatment that's not helping you."

A certainty that he was going to help me coursed through my body as I heard his words — I didn't know how but I knew it with an almost religious conviction.

"Now ladies," he continued, motioning to Mom and Patty, "I think Jimmy and I should have some privacy while I conduct my examination."

"But I always... ," Mom started before Patty grabbed her arm and led her from the room.

"I've studied your file Jimmy," he started, tapping the ten inch medical file that Mom had amassed over the years as he talked. When he added, "Unfortunately, most of your previous doctors weren't much better than quacks, and the last one, Brown, is both a fool and a charlatan." I couldn't help but laugh as he continued. "But I guess you figured that out, didn't you?"

Seeing my nod, he continued, "I believe I can do you some good son, we'll see." He quickly gave me a physical, measuring and examining me with a professionalism I'd never felt in all the previous ordeals I'd undergone.

"You have two problems Jimmy," he finally announced. "One, of course, you know - the whole question of your size or lack of it. But there is another one, one maybe even more important for your future happiness, and that's the fact you still haven't gone through puberty, you're still a boy and are in danger of never becoming a functioning man."

I flinched at his direct words, but then became engrossed as he talked, for a half an hour he explained everything carefully, and then outlined a course of treatment while welcoming all my questions. He finally ended by asking how much I wanted him to share with Mom. "It's up to you son, I'll just tell her what you want."