When I was born, my parents took me to several doctors in the Louisville area, where they all said, “She will never walk.” From that disappointment they drove from Louisville to St Louis, where the doctors again all said, “She will never walk.” They drove from Louisville to Duke University in North Carolina, where the doctors all said, “She will never walk.” It was a short two-hour drive to Indianapolis, where the doctor finally gave the gift of hope and said, “I will help, and she will walk. It will take a few surgeries, but she will walk.”
Before the first surgery, at ten months of age, I was fitted with a leather, lace-up brace that was made so that my little foot could dangle inside. My parents explained to the doctors and prosthetists that I had been walking around a coffee table using the lower shelf as a brace. Once I got the leather brace, I was wildly mobile. Realizing the brace was only a temporary fix, we went on to the surgeries.
The hospital room in Indianapolis was lit by yellowish fluorescent lights, pale, hospital green walls, and a single-window overlooking a mechanical building. My mother was unpacking as a distraction for what would be an extended hospital stay while my father took me in his arms, the fear apparent in his eyes and in his grasp. He held me tightly as if he never wanted to let go knowing in a few hours he would be turning me over to doctors my parents barely knew. Unable to foresee the outcome, the doctors were about to amputate my shortened left leg. My parents put their trust in these doctors they barely knew after seeing so many doctors who offered no hope.
My father recounted the story to me many times with tears in his eyes, “I handed you over to a stranger, and it was the hardest thing I ever had to do as I watched him take you down that long corridor crying with out- stretched arms and begging me not to let go.”
My earliest memory is of that surgery. I was two years old and taken to a cold, white, and very noisy room. I lay on a hard table as a large black mask came toward my nose and mouth. I spat into it as it covered my face. The mask gave off an odd sweet smell and I began feeling sick as the memory faded to black.
For my parents that waiting time must have seemed an eternity but finally the surgeon came to explain that the surgery had gone well, but a week-long stay would follow. My father went home to my two sisters and his job, worried by the thoughts of his youngest baby who lay in a hospital 100 miles away with his wife by her side.
For that week my mother never left me alone. She slept in one chair with another supporting her legs and a pillow for her head. She was there for my ever-present cries of pain.
Being a Catholic hospital the nurses were all nuns, very caring, and helpful to my mother. The Sisters found that I liked purple popsicles and plied me with them to distract from the pain. I remember the Sisters in their black habits bringing those fantastic purple popsicles.
A few months later this scene was repeated. With a knee that wasn’t functional, the surgeon wanted to fuse my femur and tibia, making the fitting of a prosthesis a reality.
It took quite a while for the bones to fuse to form a healthy stump and six months later I was able to get my very first prosthesis. Fortunately the memory of walking was still there so when they put the leg on, I was able to walk and very soon, run.
All my new legs were made of wood and laminated to an almost flesh tone. I remember getting into the car very carefully not to scratch the new leg. As we drove into the driveway, I saw my friends in the neighborhood out in their yards, playing games and climbing trees. The first thing I did was to jump out of the car and race up the tree. “Oh, NO!” my mother shouted. “Your new leg!” Before those words left my mother’s mouth there were already numerous scratches up and down my new leg.
While parents in the neighborhood measured their children’s height by marking the door frames, my parents saw scratches on my leg as growth and evidence of fun, play, and adventure.
So much more was to come with skating, riding a bicycle and running with the other children. While the speed might not be the same I was not afraid of losing or lagging behind. My joy came from being with my friends and being treated the same as everyone else.