Kids and Old People Don't Count

“They mean well.”

I wish I had a dollar for each time my dearest friend, Arleen, has said those words to me in the last two years, often while coaxing me off the ledge. I know she’s right – people who see a one-legged lady hobbling around on crutches, sitting in a wheelchair, or using what is clearly a prosthetic leg can be caught off guard. They can say awkward things in an effort to hide their shock or make light of an uncomfortable situation. But here’s the truth: since making my debut in the world as a chick with a missing limb, strangers (and sometimes friends) have felt compelled to make the most ridiculous, insensitive, jaw-droppingly stupid – and yes, even hilarious – comments about my physical being.

Some of the events I will be sharing over time sound too strange to be true, but I assure you, they are one-hundred-percent real. And let’s be clear – I’m not even counting kids and old people.

Having had little ones of my own, I know kids come from a place of curiosity and innocence, and they’re only trying to figure stuff out. That’s why I don’t mind encounters like the one I had at a Kohl’s department store early on in my recovery, when a little girl stared with her mouth hanging open, pointed at me, and yelled, “Mommy, mommy! That girl’s leg fell off!” And I will always treasure how the adorable four-year-old son of my fitness trainer pulled his dad aside one day and whispered, “Is she a robot?” I always try to answer kids’ questions with a smile. I remember when my five-year-old grandniece, Annabelle, first saw my prosthetic leg. She scowled from a safe distance, checking it out from top to bottom. Eventually she was brave enough to touch it. “Why do you have a special leg?” she asked. I was happy to tell Annabelle that my leg got sick and doctors gave me a very special leg so that one day I could take the dogs for a walk like I used to. “Oh,” she said, and then went to pet one of the aforementioned dogs. She never asked about my leg again.

At the other end of the spectrum, senior citizens tend to offer condolences (“God bless you, dear”) and tell me about their own health issues. Some launch into long conversations that assume I lost my leg because of the exact same health problem they face in their own lives, whether it be cancer, diabetes, circulatory problems, automobile accidents, or falling off the ladder while pressure washing vinyl siding. I had one lady come up to me, shake her head, and say, “That darn di-ya-beet-uss!” I try my best to smile and thank them for their concern, because how can I be annoyed by nice old people with equally serious afflictions? I’ve had some time to think about this, and I’ve developed a theory about these kinds of encounters. I think senior citizens are motivated by the basic human need to be assured we are not alone. Giving and receiving connection is a way to calm the fear of mortality, a way of saying “we’re all in this together” or, “I hear you, girlfriend.”

What bothers me is the stupid shit people between puberty and Social Security say and do. And let me tell you – there is no shortage of stupid shit out there.

I’ll never forget the first time I experienced the shock of someone else’s insensitivity. I didn’t even have to leave the hospital to get my first taste. A visiting friend pulled a chair to the side of the bed and had this to share: “I don’t know how you can go on. I would’ve pulled out my Glock and put an end to it.” Another visitor said, “I’m glad to see you haven’t given up on life.”

Huh? Glocks? Give up? What the fuck? Truly, at that point I didn’t even possess the self-awareness to consider giving up! I was alive because of the adrenaline-producing instinct to survive whatever any given day would bring – surgery, pain, pumps and hoses and needles, hallucinations, loneliness for my kids, etc., etc. The concept of “giving up” hadn’t even occurred to me as an option     . . . until that moment. Thanks a lot.

They mean well . . . they mean well . . . they mean well. . .

Once I was discharged from the hospital and began venturing forth into public, I realized how difficult it was going to be to keep my shit together and not lash out at people. A man at church saw me trying to get into the choir loft by going up the steps backwards on my ass. “I feel so sorry for you,” he said, shaking his head. At a graduation party for Arleen’s son, her neighbor (a man who knew all about what I’ve been through) looked at me and said with a grin, “So, can I try on your fake leg?” A gasp rose from my daughter, Kathleen. She gripped my hand in hers. Kathleen guessed what was going on in my brain. She knew that if I had been physically able, I would’ve jumped up, removed said fake leg, and beat him upside the head with it. But, since I didn’t want to ruin the party atmosphere, I simply replied, “Maybe later.”

One particularly memorable morning early on in my physical therapy, I was late for an appointment and found there were no parking spots, handicapped or otherwise. I circled the lot for fifteen minutes, crying because I was frustrated and feeling mighty sorry for myself. Eventually, I staked my claim on a spot being vacated, only to have to cuss out the jerk who tried to steal it from me. I got out and began the long and painfully slow trek to the entrance. As I inched forward on crutches and my temporary prosthesis – in ninety-five-degree weather, tears and sweat running down my face – a whole cornucopia of negative (and just plain false) thoughts began looping through my head: I can’t do this any more. It’s too hard. I can’t go on. Look at me. I’m a cripple – a sweaty, crying, cripple. I’m a freak. I can’t even get to an appointment on time. I’m alone in the world. I can’t handle this another minute. . . 

And then I saw her, a woman heading my way with “that” look on her face. I prayed she would pass me by. But no. She shook her head and made a few tsk-tsking sounds, then said, “You’re a better person than me, honey. I’d have just crawled up in a ball and died.”

Seriously? What in the hell makes a person think that saying that to a crying chick with a fake leg and crutches would be even remotely helpful? 

I bawled the whole way to the check-in desk, immediately reaching inside the Plexiglass window for a Kleenex. The receptionist said, “Oh, we cancelled that appointment. Didn’t you get our voicemail?” Back to the car I went with my crutches and fake leg, sobbing.

Another one of my favorite encounters occurred just outside the same physical therapy suite. As I approached the automatic entrance door, a woman hurried down the hall of the medical center, coming right at me with a determined glint in her eye. I knew this was going to be bad.

“Let me get the door for you,” she said.

“No thank you. I’ve got it.” I had learned the hard way that this particular automatic door opened in the wrong direction, and if you weren’t careful to give it enough clearance, you could get smacked.

“No, let me get it for you.”

“No, really. I’m fine.”

She tapped the automatic opener. The door flew open and hit me in the forehead. I almost fell over.

“Oh, my God! I’m so sorry!”

“That’s why I told you I could get it myself.”

“Here. Let me try again.”

Unbelievably, she pounded on the opener once more, but my crutch hadn’t quite cleared the arc of the swinging door. I almost fell over again.

They mean well . . . they mean well . . . they mean well . . . As Arleen reminds me, this kind of insensitivity stems from social awkwardness.

Yeah, whatever. But why are the socially awkward drawn to me? Can’t they take their awkwardness elsewhere?

Since I’m on a roll here, I’ll tell you what else pisses me off. I walked through this world on two legs for more than fifty years. It wasn’t until I began hopping around on one leg with a walker or crutches that I began to notice how many of our common idioms assume we all have two legs, two feet, and two sets of toes. A nurse once told me the secret was “putting one foot in front of the other.” I wish I were joking. I’ve also heard “take it one step at a time.” Then there was, “you’ll soon be back on your own two feet,” and, “you put your pants on one leg at a time like everyone else,” and the ever-popular “you have to learn to walk before you can run.”

But that stuff rolls off my back compared to some words and phrases that cause me to CRINGE. To me, they feel condescending at best, cruel at worst. Perhaps I’m overreacting. Or I’m too sensitive. Or I haven’t yet worked through all my anger. (Ya think?) Regardless, here is a sampling of words and phrases that make me shiver with irritation:  Stump, disabled, crippled, handicapped, physically challenged, inspiration, heroic, an example for others, triumph of the human spirit, special, courageous, new normal, your changed circumstances, catastrophic life event, amputee, I don’t know how you do it, well look at you!, you have such a good attitude, bless your heart, keep up with the good work, and aren’t you the brave one?

Maybe all this bothers me because it’s not how I want to be seen in the world. I know I’m more than a brave amputee with a good attitude, but it’s the label I often get nowadays, like it or not. It’s funny, really – I spent my whole life struggling to be anything but ordinary and average, and now I’d give my left leg to blend in again.

The Church of What's Happenin' Now

For those of you who've been reading this blog from the beginning, you might recall that I promised the truth. This entry won't be funny or entertaining, but it will be truthful. I'll write more later when I'm feeling grounded and positive, but today I'm going to come clean about what's happening with me right now, and why I haven't checked in lately.

I need to have major surgery next month, and I'm scared out of my mind. It's an irrational, all-consuming fear with enough energy behind it to shut down my life.  I'm doing battle with it as I type these words. I thought I had figured out a way to keep this terror at bay, but I guess it's an ongoing process.

I first encountered this fear about six months after I got home from the hospital.  I was driving to a doctor's appointment -- one of a dozen on my calendar for the month -- and happened to pass by the hospital just as the Medevac helicopter was taking off. As I've mentioned before, I don't remember my helicopter ride to Maryland Shock Trauma on December 4, 2011. At least I don't remember that I remember it. But the experience must be deep down inside my brain somewhere, because when I saw that helicopter lift off, heard the propeller, and felt the rumble, I completely lost it.

Immediately, my body began to shake. I couldn't breathe. It felt like a thousand pounds had just been dropped on my chest. I broke out into a sweat and started to sob. I couldn't steer the car, and had to come to a stop on the side of the road to pull myself together. The thing was, I couldn't seem to get a handle on what was happening to me. I didn't understand it, yet it had taken me hostage. Because I couldn't name it, I couldn't "reason" myself down from the panic.  I don't know how long it took, but eventually, I did manage to start breathing and stop shaking. It left me drained and lost. And I was late for my doctor's appointment.

A few days later, I was driving home from the grocery and saw a car accident about six blocks down the street, with police cars and ambulances blocking traffic. I saw a flash of red -- one of the cars involved was red in color. My 17-year-old daughter drove a red car at that time. Within seconds, the terror latched onto me again. Same scenario -- shaking, sobbing, sweating, struggling to breathe. I pulled onto a side street and began to call Kathleen's cell phone repeatedly. Then I texted her. No response.

Yes, of course there are thousands of red cars in my state. And there were dozens of reasons why Kathleen might not be able to return my calls and texts at that particular moment -- such as the fact that she was in play rehearsal at the time. But none of that registered with me. It was sheer panic and anxiety and F-E-A-R.

Not long after, a therapist diagnosed me with Posttramatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). I was shocked. Me? But I soon learned that I had experienced what was basically the perfect storm for developing PTSD -- a traumatic injury that resulted in a brush with death and a loss of "physical integrity" accompanied by  intense fear, horror, and helplessness. Well, OK. Yeah. That sounds about right. I guess I do have it. So over time, my therapist helped me develop cognitive techniques to deal with the disorder. I wrote down my fears. I talked to friends and family. And I found that breathing exercises, meditation, and prayer helped a lot, too, because they required me stay in the present moment and not get swept up in my spiraling thoughts, where danger always lurked and the worst possible scenario was ready to pounce.

But PTSD is a sly little bugger, and the second I learned I was headed back to the operating room it wiggled its way back into my psyche.

The surgery has nothing to do with my amputation. Once I got my prosthetic leg and continued with physical therapy and rehab, I began to experience a great deal of pain in my intact leg, my right leg.  It  was severe and radiated from my hip to my back and down to my knee. It got so bad that I couldn't continue with physical therapy. So I went to see a specialist down in Baltimore, and it turns out I have a congenital malformation of my right hip. What I thought was garden variety osteoarthritis was actually a major problem that requires a total hip replacement.  My right hip is disintegrating, and I've been using the wheelchair more and more as I try to deal with the pain. The truth is that without the surgery, not only will I never walk again, but I will be in constant pain even while sitting in a wheelchair.

When I heard this news, I freaked out. Flashes of operating rooms went through my mind's eye. I felt that old sense of helplessness and despair start to choke me.  I've had more than 20 surgeries during this ordeal, and almost all of them occurred when I was too spaced out to know what was going on. But the last few? Oh, I remember them well. The cold, sharp air of the OR. The tangy smell of drugs and disinfectants. The feel of the anesthesia pouring into my veins. The hushed voices of all the masked people in that room working to keep me alive . . .  and all the pain associated with waking up. And I'm supposed to go in there again? Willingly? Knowingly? What if I've used up all my good  operating room juju? What if this time, I don't survive? What if the surgery goes badly and I'm confined to a wheelchair the rest of my life ANYWAY?

What if? What if? What if??????? Breathe, Susan. Breathe. Relax your mind. Be in the moment. Know that all is well, and all will be well.

So, yeah. My surgery is August 18th. I wold appreciate it if you could keep me in your thoughts.

Phantom of the Choppered-Off

I have a simple philosophy about pain. I can handle it as long as it makes sense to me. Here’s what I mean. Let’s say I’ve just cut my left index finger while trying to slice a grapefruit. My fingertip throbs and bleeds and stings like a son-of-a-bitch. But I’ve just witnessed how it happened. It’s my fault. So I wash the cut with warm water and soap, pat it dry, and cover it with a Band-Aid. It still hurts, but I know it will pass. Then I eat my grapefruit.

         Or, let’s kick it up a notch or two. Lets say I just had several layers of skin peeled off the top of my right thigh in order to provide what’s needed for the skin graft of my amputation site. Yeah, it really, really hurts. But I know the pain serves a purpose – the skin was sacrificed so the large wound on my other leg could heal, which means I will get well enough to go home. Besides, I had been informed in advance that the procedure would be quite painful. I understand it's just another thing I have to get through.

I've even managed the pain of childbirth fairly well. Hey, I graduated from Lamaze class, so I had a general idea what was contracting, what was stretching, and what hormones were racing through my veins at any given time. I understood why my body felt like it was turning inside out, and I knew there was nothing I could do to stop it. The pain was a path to something beautiful -- I was about to give birth to my first child, eight pounds and seven ounces worth of baby boy who'd decided to show up facing in the wrong direction. (An omen, to be sure.)
But there’s one type of pain that got the better of me – phantom limb pain. It beat me, and I believe it did so because my brain couldn’t make sense of it. Not only was there no visual evidence to support the pain I felt, there was visual PROOF to the contrary: what I felt wasn’t even possible.

As you probably know, “phantom limb” and phantom pain” are terms used to describe what happens when a patient senses a body part no longer part of their body. Most often it’s experienced by those who have lost a limb or, like me, a part of a limb. Doctors say that about eighty percent of amputees experience some kind of phantom pain. But the phenomenon also has been reported by patients who were born missing limbs or who have had a breast or other organ removed.

 If you're not a doctor and try to read up on phantom pain, your head will spin. It’s a wide-open field at the moment, but everyone agrees on a couple things. The concept has been observed since the 1500s, when a French military surgeon wrote about it. The term “phantom limb” was first used in 1871 when a U.S. neurologist noted that “spirit limbs” were “haunting” thousands of soldier amputees left behind after the Civil War. In other words, the phenomenon has always been linked to the horrors of war. It still is.

But why does it happen? Researchers have some theories about what is going on in the human nervous system that leads to this bizarre occurrence, but nobody has any definitive answers. Is it because traumatized nerve endings shoot abnormal sparks all over place? Maybe. Is it because electrical signals from nerves send confusing and even damaging messages to the spinal cord, which then freaks out like the “Danger Will Robinson!” robot from Lost in Space? Maybe. Or is it because the brain’s cerebral cortex is struggling to create a consciousness of “self” with this new physical configuration? Maybe that, too.

As is clearly demonstrated by the previous paragraph, I am not a scientist. But I have lived through it, and I can tell you – it’s some mighty strange stuff.

It began in the hospital after the amputation of my left leg above the knee. I swore that my left leg was still there, even though it wasn’t. I felt tingles up and down a shin that no longer existed. My foot itched. My knee ached. The calf muscle felt really tight, like I had pulled it at the gym. (Yes, that calf muscle – the one that had been decimated by flesh eating bacteria and thrown into the medical waste incinerator.) It was  bizarre as hell. But these were oddly uncomfortable sensations. The pain was still to come.

While in the hospital, my left leg began to hurt from hip to toes. As surely as I felt my residual limb throb and ache, I felt the rest of the leg throb and ache. Shooting pains all along the length of the leg were common. Often, R.L. would jolt up from the pillow she was resting on, twitching violently in response to somebody stabbing something sharp directly into the sensitive arch of my foot.

By the time I was discharged from the hospital, I had felt every kind of pain imaginable along the length of the leg that no longer was. Tingling. Burning. Twitching. Itching. Aching. Pounding. Throbbing. And then there was my personal favorite – the sensation that my leg had fallen asleep, causing that heavy, dead, numb sensation we’re all familiar with. I remember that once I had the unmistakable sensation of stubbing my big toe against a metal bedframe, complete with the appropriate verbal reaction – SHIT! OW! -- even though there was no metal bedframe. There was no toe, either.

The weirdest experiences I had with my phantom leg are actually pretty hard to describe, even for a person who makes her living putting things into words. I’ll give it my best shot. Sometimes, I’d feel my left foot turned upside down, with the sole facing the ceiling, as it protruded out of the inside of my left knee. Or I’d feel my shin pulled up tight to my thigh, almost like it had fused with the femur. Or, I’d feel my left leg tucked up underneath my right leg, the way I used to sit while writing. The sensation wasn't painful.  I would simply feel it tucked under me, a comfortable and familiar position. All these weird misperceptions of physical reality intensified when I began to wean myself off the pain meds. R.L.’s tendency to jump and twitch got much worse when I decreased medicaiton.
My leg man, Jeff, counseled me that the flopping around at night might continue for years. “When you go still, your brain doesn’t have other physical movements to focus on, and it starts to make stuff up.” Again, Jeff was right. To this day, R.L. will twitch when I’m trying to fall asleep, though it’s become a less frequent occurrence.

          Since the cause for these phenomena is not clearly understood, the treatment is hit or miss, too. There were a couple things that seemed to help me pass through the stage of regular phantom limb pain and discomfort.

          The first was mirror therapy. Scientists aren’t exactly sure how it works, so I don't either, but I do know it does. I would put a lightweight full-length mirror between my legs, the glass facing toward my intact leg. Then I’d open and close my legs in sync – back and forth – and my mind would be tricked into thinking that the reflection of my intact right leg was actually my left leg. Somehow, that seemed to soothe my short-circuiting brain, and the phantom limb sensations lessened dramatically. Therapeutic massage helped, too. I had gone to a massage therapist regularly before my illness, and when I went back about six months after I’d been home from the hospital, we experimented with how much touch I could handle. I noticed that as I built up tolerance for touch at the amputation site, my phantom limb sensations lessened. 

          These days, I’m happy to report that phantom limb pain or discomfort is a rarity for me. My amputation site still aches and every once in a while I’ll get a stabbing pain through what remains of my thigh, but I think my brain has become used to the fact that part of me is gone forever. It’s figured out who my new “self” is these days.

         I wish there was a mirror trick to help me process the emotional and psychological makeup of my that new “self.” I’m finding those phantom pains much more difficult to deal with.

He's A Leg Man

A few months after I got home from the hospital, I met a man who rocked my world. He was a take-charge kind of dude. Within the first ten minutes of meeting him, his hands were on my inner thighs. He was, and still is, my hero.

(Spoiler alert – this is not one of my novels. If you’re expecting to read a smokin’ hot love scene right about now, you’re in for a huge disappointment.)

So anyway, his name is Jeff, and he’s a leg man. He’s my prosthetsist.

            I’m right there with you. I didn’t know how to pronounce that tongue-twister of a word either. I didn’t even know what it meant at first. It’s not like the word is part of our everyday lexicon, unless you happen to hang out with people wearing manufactured body parts. In fact, the first fifty times I tried to say the word I sounded like I’d popped a few extra Dilaudid to take the edge off -- “Praw-sssshhhhtiii-isht.” Even now, I get it right only about half the time.

A prosthetist (prahs-thih-tist) is a highly trained professional who designs, fabricates, fits, and services a prosthetic device prescribed by a physician. Many prosthetists also specialize in orthotics, like knee braces, and arch supports. In my opinion, that job description falls way short, since my prosthetist also become a therapist, confessor, life coach, cheerleader, Mechanical Engineering 101 professor, and close friend.

Jeff knows his stuff inside and out. Literally. At the age of eight, he was diagnosed with cancer and had his right leg amputated just below the hip. So when he tells me he understands what I’m going through, he really does. And then some. I have a residual limb (R.L. for short), so my prosthesis can attach to the thigh with a suction system. Jeff’s leg must be secured around his waist with a harness. And yet the guy zips around like nothing’s amiss. He plops down on the floor and pops up again at least a dozen times per appointment, and when he’s not at work, he swimming, running, biking, and mountain climbing with his family. He’s an awesome role model. Everyone I’ve met who knows Jeff says the same thing about him:  “Isn’t he amazing? You can’t even tell he wears a prosthetic leg!”

 But in my experience, the most incredible thing about Jeff is that he’s one-hundred-percent real. I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone like him. He’s a mellow and thoughtful guy who manages to tell it like it is without passing judgment. I’ve come to appreciate that about him, since becoming an amputee in your fifties can really leave you spinning. It’s like moving to an alien world without speaking their language: I needed a tour guide and an interpreter, and Jeff became both. He told me to ask any questions I might have. Boy, was that a mistake.

Is this type of frustration normal? Is it always this hard to get used to a prosthetic limb? Do I really have to go through all this shit? Why me? I don’t think I can do it. Am I doing all right? I give up. Help me to not give up. It itches. Why does it itch? It hurts. It gets sweaty. I don’t have any more patience left. You should probably give my leg to someone else who’s better at this than I am. Would you like to do that?

Many times, I’ve shuffled into Jeff’s office frantic about some new development with R.L. or the latest incarnation of my prosthesis. With my eyeballs popping, I will ask, “Is this a good thing or a bad thing?”

Jeff always shrugs and says, “It’s just a thing. We’ll work with it.” If I ever write a book about Jeff, I want the cover to read:

“It’s Just A Thing”

Shit My Prosthetist Says

By Susan Donovan

I will never forget the day I arrived at Jeff’s office for my initial evaluation. The adventure began even before I met him. My writer friend Grace volunteered to escort me. “Escort” sounds so pleasant. The truth is, those who volunteered to take me anywhere in those days had to have the patience of Mother Teresa. The job was a theatre of the absurd production in four acts. Act 1:  Wheel me down the spanking new wheelchair ramp now installed at my house, assist me up and into the truck, dismantle and fold the wheelchair for storage. Act 2: Unfold and reassemble the wheelchair, assist me out of the truck and into the chair, and wheel me inside the office. Act 3: Wheel me out of the office, help me from the chair and into the truck, and disassemble and fold the wheelchair. Act 4: Unfold and reassemble the chair, help me out of the truck and into the chair, wheel me back into my house via my lovely new ramp.

Once inside Jeff's office that first day, I was directed to a room and told to wait.  "He'll just be a minute," his assistant Ryanna said. She closed the door. I looked around, instantly creeped-out by the shelves of fake feet and hands and a variety of plastic forms in a whole spectrum of flesh colors. I broke into sobs looking at that wall of parts, imagining myself to be the abandoned doll in exile on the Island of Misfit Toys, needing to be fixed before anyone would love me again.

The first of many "temporary" legs

A later version of a "temporary" leg 

                     

Poor, poor Jeff. He opened the door with my chart in his hands, ready to offer a friendly greeting to his new patient, only to find a snotty, air-sucking, sweaty, sobbing mess of a one-legged lady slumped in her wheelchair. He handed me a box of tissues. “I only have one rule here,” he said, his voice kind. “No crying unless you fall.”

That made me cry harder. We would often joke about that in the years to come, since it seemed I cried every damn time I came to see him, except for the day I actually fell trying to get into his office. I pulled myself up and went on – not a single tear. Go figure.

During that first appointment, Jeff listened patiently as I told him everything I’d been through in the last five months or so. When I was done he told me he had some good news for me.

“You are the type of patient I love to work with. I can already tell you will do great with a prosthesis. Want to know why?”

I nodded, clamping my nose with a tissue.

“You are a fighter. You beat the odds. You were healthy and active before your illness and the amputation was not because of diabetes or other disease. You are highly intelligent and you want to get your life back.”

I cracked a smile. And our friendship began.

Jeff explained four main principles to me that day, principles we would return to many times through the years.

1.                     A prosthetic limb is a marvel of engineering, but it is not the biology I was born with. Using a prosthesis would require retraining the mind and body, but even then, it would never “replace” the function of my lost leg. Expecting that outcome would only set me up for a double helping of frustration and disappointment.

2.                     Getting my “permanent” prosthetic leg could take months or even years. I had to be evaluated, approved by insurance, and go through a long process of trial and error to discover exactly how to best meet my needs in terms of technology, fit, attachment system, and a whole slew of other factors. Like the rest of my health crisis saga, the process would be two steps forward followed by one -- or more -- steps back. I would need to be patient.

3.                     I  was fortunate to need a prosthetic in 2012, as my options would have been severely limited anytime before. The leg I received would be the result of the suffering of thousands of men and women who lost limbs in a decade of fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan. The medical establishment had been forced to quickly advance prosthetic technology to meet the demand for limbs, often for young people in supreme physical condition who wished to resume previous activity levels.

4.                     This was also unfortunate for me, because the public view of prosthetics and amputees was based on media coverage, stories almost exclusively about robustly healthy people in their twenties, products of world-class military fitness training,  newsworthy because they were running marathons six months after they lost a leg in a quick and violent incident. “You know that isn’t you, right, Susan?” Jeff held my hand. “You were fifty years old when you got sick. It was systemic. You had many, many complications and it will take a long time for you to heal – not just your leg, but your whole body. You weren’t a twenty-two-year-old Marine

                               before and you won’t be after. Unfortunately, not everyone else will realize that."

           That first appointment, Jeff and his assistant took a cast of R.L. while I stood on my intact leg, supporting myself on a set of parallel bars. They covered the thigh in plastic wrap and proceeded with what was basically a papier-mâché project. The cast hardened, and Jeff slipped it off. I had my first mold! Technicians would use it to create my very first temporary socket – the top part of the prosthesis that fits over what’s left of my thigh. It was my first one-legged lurch on the path toward walking again.

          About a year later, I told Jeff that I was thinking about writing a blog -- and eventually a book -- about my experience. It was the first time I ever saw him get crazy excited about anything.

“Yes! Yes! You could become the face of necrotizing fasciitis!”

           And what girl wouldn’t want that? I can imagine it now. The next time I’m doing a booksigning I will hear the whispers . . . “OMG! Is that Susan Donovan? She’s the face of flesh-eating bacteria!”

I told Jeff it wasn’t exactly the vibe I was going for, but he pressed on. “You could help a lot of people, Susan. You have to do it.”

           As with most everything else, I think Jeff was right.