I walk slowly. My left foot droops. Its brace doesn’t eliminate the falls that are worsening. The muscles ache. Yes, the leg tires faster now. It won’t hold me up for Tai Chi. Cuts and bruises are a long-time healing. Mind you, they always have. An old age leg to complain about? Certainly not! It’s a leg for gratitude.
60 years ago, I run out in front of a truck. It crushes my left leg and tears it apart. I don’t feel the hit or any pain. One of those instances when the brain protects itself, I suppose. It doesn’t block out fear and screaming. They still haunt me.
The ambulance ride is fraught. I’m losing blood and my leg is unstable. Rushed into the Operating Theatre, the senior surgeon judges that my leg is beyond saving. He plans to cut it off below the knee. His assistant disagrees. Everything must be done to save the leg of a six-year old boy. And he does.
He can’t restore it. The flesh is dangling off, the muscles are distorted and the bones are off line. Over six surgeries, they build a leg that will work somewhat. It is revolting. I can’t bear to look at it for months – angry tissues that pretend to be a leg. For so long, I can’t move it. Even now, there’s no hiding the skinless distortion of muscles and bones. Flashback triggers. For all that, the pieces are there and not in a pile of discarded limbs. Miracle #1.
The hospital’s prognosis is less than spectacular. I will need crutches for life. Should I get past them, I will always limp. And forget about running.
My mother ignores the report. We go to every therapy session and practice endlessly. She cleans and dresses the wound to ensure that what needs to come together does grow together. More and more practice. Olympic athlete grade. So, I do limp a bit. My foot turns in, particularly when I run. Don’t ask me to go very far except to chase a ball. Take away the years and I’m an OK soccer and rugby player. There’s no doubt my leg is weaker and does have to be bandaged against cuts and bruises. But still … miracle #2
People do stare in the gym or the pool. The cuts and bruises are more frequent and do, it is true, take longer to heal – even with great care. Mostly, though, it’s a forgotten limb doing what it’s asked.
The surgeon – who saw a little boy as well as a mangled leg – deserves more thanks than I can ever give. It probably is the greatest of gifts. 60 years and ticking. My mother, too, who saw a rambunctious boy and not a cripple. Workers of miracles, both. My leg salutes you.
