Everyone towered over you when you were three. Everyone. It was expected. But when Jilly turned five, then eight, and she continued to feel lost in a forest of adult legs, she knew something was wrong.
Jilly’s brain worked fine. In fact, better than fine. At eight she read at college freshman level and had already conquered all of the high school math textbooks. So, she took to reading medical journals online.
Her parents chose to remain ignorant of her vertical challenges. “You’ll grow. Some kids just take a little longer.”
But Jilly knew better. Mom and Dad wouldn’t listen, but Grandma Kelly, who was fiercely loyal to her youngest granddaughter, would. Jilly printed off journal articles she thought explained her height, or lack thereof, and arranged a sleepover.
Jilly had barely deposited her bag on the hallway floor after Grandma shut the door unceremoniously on Dad, who was, after all, only the son, not the granddaughter, when Grandma crossed her arms and pinned Jilly with The Look. The one every mom used when she wanted answers. Grandma had it down to a science.
“Okay,” Jilly confessed, “I need to talk to you.” She pulled her binder with the articles neatly hole-punched and organized and sat down at the dining room table. “I’m almost positive I have growth hormone deficiency. It’s important for me to get treated for it so I can grow properly.”
Grandma Kelly took the binder and read the first article, her head bobbing up and down as she reached the parts Jilly had highlighted. “I think you’re right, kiddo.” She picked up her cellphone. “Your dad has always had his head stuck in the clouds. Sometimes he just needs a good swift kick up the behind to see what’s right in front of him.”
Ten years later, as Jilly graduated at the top of her medical class at eighteen—and nearly as tall as her classmates—she remembered Dad’s reaction to Grandma’s “kick.” He had started to put her off but wilted under The Look. Jilly had seen a pediatric endocrinologist the next day. He had overseen her treatment and today proudly shook her hand as she accepted her diploma from him. She planned to specialize in childhood growth disorders.
Oh, and her parents? They sat proudly in the audience, having learned to listen to both their daughter—who, though she wasn’t a mom, had long ago mastered The Look—and her Grandma Kelly.
I took some liberties with this story. A child with growth hormone deficiency who saw a doctor for normal visits would almost undoubtedly be picked up earlier than Jilly was. However, I wanted to show this precocious eight-year-old diagnosing herself. I built this story with the words tower, forest, and loyal.
The Look
I love this description: "she continued to feel lost in a forest of adult legs."
Too often the wisdom of children is overlooked. It's so nice she had someone who would listen and take her seriously. My previous doctor, who was my doctor for 42 years and I loved him dearly, would never take me seriously when I said there was an issue with my heart. It's funny how my first reaction to the specialist was relief that I would be looked after and vindication that voiced itself in my head as "Told ya so!" And, yes, we have the LOOK but also the VOICE, both able to move mountains 😁