For the next several years, my life revolved entirely around skating. It consumed every minute of my day. I had two nights a week to myself—Tuesdays and Thursdays—but every morning began early, seven days a week. Sleeping in simply wasn’t an option.
After winning the Juvenile Men’s Trophy, I spent the next few years competing in other events and consistently taking gold. I became a favorite everywhere I went. Before long, I had won six gold medals as I advanced up through the Pre-Novice and Novice men’s divisions within my province, and it seemed like I was on track to become a national competitor. It was all about getting to the Olympics.
My coach thought it would be a good idea to expand my skills by introducing pairs skating, so for a very short time I was partnered with Whitney, a very pretty girl who looked strikingly like me—so much so that people often said we looked like siblings. Everyone was excited to see what we could accomplish together.
From the start, though, there were challenges. I was 14, she was 13, and we were both grappling with raging teenage hormones. Initially, we focused on ice dancing, which involved close physical contact, including me placing my hands on her hips. She didn’t like that. Despite the tension, we eventually progressed to learning lifts and jumps.
Things unraveled quickly during our first attempt at an over-the-head lift. The goal was to get her above my head, but as I hoisted her up, she suddenly collapsed. Instinctively, I tried to catch her to prevent her from hitting the ice and injuring herself. In the chaos, my hands landed at whatever part of her body was falling on me, and unfortunately, they landed squarely on her chest.
I managed to lower her safely to the ice, but the moment her skates touched the surface, she kicked me in the shin with the pick of her blade. Blood gushed from the wound, and I had to be taken to the hospital to get six stitches. The situation escalated from bad to worse.
It became clear very quickly that neither of us wanted to continue with pairs skating. I was crushed—not just because our partnership ended, but because I had a huge crush on Whitney. I felt terrible about what had happened, even though I had only been trying to protect her.
The Need for Cash
After about a year of living on my own, I had settled into a routine, but I wanted something more. Sometimes, I would stop at the Southgate Shopping Center before heading home and wander through the shops. One day, I went into the toy store and saw a handheld electronic football game I desperately wanted. It was a precursor to modern handheld video games, with dots on the screen representing players. That little device sparked my fascination with technology.
The problem was, I didn’t have any money.
Determined to buy the game, I decided to get a job. I applied at a dry-cleaning store three blocks from my house and was hired to work Tuesdays and Thursdays after school. I also picked up extra hours after skating practice. On those days, I’d rush home from the rink, scarf down a quick sandwich, and head to the dry cleaners. At $2.50 an hour, I knew it would take a while to save up the $40 I needed for the game, but the goal kept me motivated.
The job was pretty uneventful. My main tasks were tagging and hanging clothes customers dropped off and giving them receipts with a pick-up date. The smell of dry-cleaning solvents was pervasive, and I often felt light-headed or got headaches from the fumes. While waiting for customers, I passed the time listening to pop music on the AM radio or answering the phone, which usually rang with basic questions like store hours or order statuses.
Each shift earned me about $12.50, but after taxes and deductions, I took home $9. After about five weeks of work, I finally had enough to buy the game. I was ecstatic. But with my goal accomplished, the job suddenly lost all its appeal.
April Fools
April Fools’ Day rolled around, and for some reason, I thought it would be a great idea to play a prank on my boss. He was a bit of a taskmaster, and I figured a little joke might lighten the mood. I was young, impulsive, and not thinking clearly.
I found a tube of super glue in a desk drawer and decided to glue the receiver of his office phone to the main body. The idea was that when the phone rang, the entire apparatus would lift off the desk when he tried to answer it. I thought it would be hilarious.
Looking back, I realize it was one of the first times I intentionally sabotaged myself. The job had served its purpose by giving me the means to buy what I wanted, and now I was subconsciously trying to escape from it.
The next day, my boss called me. “Did you glue the phone together?” he asked. I expected him to laugh, to see the humor in it. Feeling confident, I replied, “Yes, it was me! April Fools!”
Instead, his tone stayed flat. “Don’t come in anymore,” he said. “You’re fired. I’ll mail you your last check.”
I was stunned. My little prank hadn’t gone over the way I thought it would. As I hung up the phone, the reality sank in: I had just lost my job because of a stupid, thoughtless act.
The Unplanned Nose Job
For the next few weeks, I looked for other jobs when I had time after school. One day, after dropping off an application at a fast-food place, I came home to find a strange guy sitting on my doorstep. I had never seen him before.
He was an older teenager, much bigger than me. My heart raced as I approached, unsure of what to do since he was blocking the doorway. Summoning some courage, I asked him what he wanted. Without a word, he stood up, grabbed me by the shirt, and dragged me into my backyard out of view of the rest of the world.
Before I could react, he started hitting me repeatedly in the face. Blow after blow landed square in the center of my face. He didn’t say a word during the assault. After what felt like an eternity, he threw me to the ground and, as he walked away, spat out the words, “Fuckin’ faggot.”
I was trembling uncontrollably. My face felt numb, and when I touched it, I realized blood was pouring from my nose. I stumbled back to my front door, fumbling with my key while trying to keep blood from dripping onto the porch. The thought of my dad freaking out about bloodstains flashed through my mind, much like the time I spilled silver paint on the rug years ago.
When I looked in the mirror, I was horrified to see that my nose was gone—just two raw, bleeding nostrils where it used to be. A small bump near my cheekbone was all that remained of what I assumed had been my nose. Panic overtook me, and my shaking became almost uncontrollable. I grabbed a large wad of toilet paper and pressed it to my face, trying desperately to stop the bleeding, but it wasn’t working.
Realizing I couldn’t handle this alone, I stepped outside, diligently locking the door behind me as if routine could somehow keep me grounded. I began knocking on neighbors’ doors, hoping someone would help. I knocked on four doors before I reached the last house on the block.
A woman answered. Through my panic and tears, I blurted, “I need help. I’ve been attacked, and my dad is out of town. Can you help me, please?” I dropped the blood-soaked toilet paper to show her my injuries.
Her face paled. “Oh my God. Oh my God, just a minute. Let me get my keys,” she stammered.
She grabbed a towel, swapped it for my bloody wad of toilet paper, and ushered me into her car parked out front. She drove me to the University Hospital, just ten minutes away, speeding the whole way. When we arrived, she pulled up to the emergency entrance, helped me inside, and made sure someone attended to me. And then, she was gone. I didn’t even know her name.
The Emergency Room
I didn’t wait long before a nurse escorted me into a treatment area. A doctor arrived almost immediately and assured me that everything would be okay, though his tone was matter-of-fact. “Your nose has been severely traumatized,” he explained. “We’ll need to reset it.”
I barely had time to process his words before he picked up a long, flat, spatula-like tool. Placing it in one nostril, he pushed the bump near my cheekbone back into place. There was a sickening crack.
“Don’t worry about that,” he said, as if sensing my horror. “The cracking is just cartilage.”
The pain was unbearable. My head spun, and I let out a scream as tears streamed down my face. I thought it was over, but the doctor informed me there was one more nostril to reset. A nurse held me down as he repeated the procedure. The second crack was just as excruciating, and I vomited from the overwhelming pain, which only made my face throb even more.
Aftermath
The nurse cleaned me up and packed my nostrils with gauze to stop the bleeding. “Leave the gauze in for about a week,” she instructed, “so the shape of your nose doesn’t collapse as it heals.” She wrapped my nose in a small cast, explaining that it wasn’t structural but a reminder not to touch it.
When they mentioned calling my parents, I panicked. In a strained, nasal voice, I explained that I only had a dad and that he was away on business and unreachable by phone. Somehow, I convinced them to let me leave on my own.
I stepped outside and made my way to a nearby bus stop. The wait felt endless, the pounding in my head intensifying with each passing moment. The gauze-packed nostrils felt unbearably tight, and every breath I took through my mouth was a struggle.
When I finally got home, I went straight to the downstairs bathroom to look at the damage. Both eyes were black and blue and almost swollen shut. A large square plaster cast had been taped onto my face with surgical tape forming a large X in the center of my face from eyebrow to lip. I cleaned up the blood that had hit the floor earlier. Through swollen eyes that could barely see, I tried to ensure every drip was gone. I should have just been lying down, but I was petrified that my dad would lose it if he came back to a bloody house.
Up All Night
It was Tuesday, and my dad wouldn’t be home until Friday. I tried to follow my usual routine—eat something and watch TV—but chewing was agonizing, and breathing through my mouth made eating crackers and peanut butter nearly impossible. Lying down only worsened the discomfort.
I spent most of the night alternating between sitting and pacing, unable to find relief. The shaking had subsided slightly but flared up whenever I tried to concoct a story about what had happened to my face. I couldn’t imagine what I’d tell my dad when he returned. I had no idea what to say to people at school the next day. I was in a tailspin.
This incident was etched into my memory—not just for the physical pain but for the overwhelming vulnerability and fear I felt during and after the attack. There was no one to help with the recovery and no one to talk to. I wondered if life was always going to be like this. What was going to happen next, and when?
When Good People Do Good Things
I often think about the woman who helped me that night—a neighbor, though not someone I ever came to know. We never saw each other again, and I never learned her name. I was too embarrassed by what had happened to ever go back and knock on her door to thank her. I realized some time later that she didn’t know that I lived down the street from her. I was just some random kid appearing on her doorstep, all bloody and in need of help. Her swift and selfless actions to help a total stranger left a mark on me. It was the first time I consciously saw good in people. I still wonder where she found the courage to act so decisively when I needed it most.
It left a lasting impression. Amid the seemingly endless stream of loneliness, fear, and pain I had endured at the hands of others, it was the first time I experienced such unconditional kindness.