Revulsion

My residual leg is unattractive. It is covered in skin grafts. It's lumpy in weird places and it's full of scars. I keep it covered, even when I'm in the swimming pool. I wear long board shorts. I say, only half joking,that I don't want to scare small children.

But I also think people might be a little freaked out by what they do see. I use a walker to get to the pool. I sit in the chair that will lower me into the water, then I remove my prosthesis and put it in the tote bag that hangs from my walker.

What they do see is what is visible beyond my board shorts-- a metal rod with what looks like a bolt at the end. I know it's kind of weird, because most people who wear a prosthetic leg don't have that. But no one has asked me about that. Most choose to not speak to me at all. One woman did speak to me, and perhaps she was uncomfotable, because she said a string of the most inappropriate things I had ever heard. So now I ignore her.

But what came to mind today is something that happened shortly after I had returned to Baltimore. It's not the first time I've thought about it, but I guess it's taken me a while to write about it.

Three years ago, when we had returned from England, I was pretty helpless, and Jerry was overwhelmed. A Facebook friend organized a meal train, and several evenings a week, food was delivered from a local restaurant, and occasionally, people made us food and brought it over.

One evening, a couple we had known for some time brought over dinner one of them had made. It was quite a substantial quantity, so I asked if they would like to join us.

The excuses started rolling. There were several. I think the excuses even contradicted each other.They did stay for a short visit, but it was so obvious the husband of the couple was incredibly uncomfortable. Barely any eye contact. Sitting on the edge of the couch. It was like he was ready at any moment to sprint to the door.

It was apparent they wanted to get out of here, so I thanked them and said goodbye.

We haven't seen them since.

I have tried to second guess why they disappeared from our lives, but I guess it doesn't really matter. Fear? Disgust? I don't know.

They aren't the only friends we have lost, but I am thankful I have made new friends, which is no mean feat for us old people.

I still do cover my residual leg, but I am far braver about wearing things that expose my prosthesis. Dresses, pants that show some of my metal no-ankle.

And speaking, or in this case, writing about my no ankle, with any luck I will be getting one. I see my rehab physician next week, and she is already on board with writing me a prescription for a new foot. As I get more active, the one I have just can't do everything I need it to do. It will be easier to walk down inclines and across uneven surfaces. You know, like a regular foot. And Medicare will likely pay for at least part of it. I am so excited!

I have visions of doing lunges in Pilates, walking across cobblestone streets in Bordeaux. Walking down the ridiculously non-ADA conforming curb cuts just about anywhere in Baltimore.

It is disheartening to lose friends, but I don't want to spend time with people I make uncomfortable.

And knowing that it says a whole lot more about them than it does about me, makes it perhaps welcome.