Happy Anniversary, Baby!

I got my first prosthetic leg on February 26, 2024–173 days after surviving the worst vehicle accident of my life. I am incredibly fortunate that my only injury was to my left leg. I opted to have it amputated rather than attempt to reconstruct my shattered limb, something the surgeon said would be difficult, long, no guarantee of success, and chronic pain. I have friends who are amputees and they seemed to be getting along fine with their prosthetics, so I figured I would just slap on my new leg and get back to my routine. As is typical of me, I underestimated the assignment. After the amputation I had a long difficult healing process, spending most of those 173 days in a wheelchair. When I was finally cleared to be fitted for a leg, I figured that at last my recovery would be complete.

Each prosthetic is custom made, starting with a clear plastic test socket which is used to fine tune the fit before making the final leg. When my prosthetist Brian set me up with my first test socket, I was so excited. This was my moment, the moment I would abandon the wheelchair and walker and be free. I stuck my leg in it and stood up. The pain that shot through my leg made my eyes water. Ben was with me, so I didn’t make any comment. I took my first steps, holding on to the rails for dear life. Some tweaks were made, and about a week later I got my socket. I walked to the car, walked into the house and promptly dropped on the couch, exhausted. I pulled off the leg, and at that moment I realized I had a long, long way to go. It would be months before I could tolerate wearing my leg all day.

I went to therapy twice a week to learn to walk, balance, sit and stand with my new leg. Each time I stood up, I’d experience that familiar stab of pain. Like most people, I thought leg amputees bore their weight on the bottom of their limb. The socket is designed so that your weight is supported by the bones of your knee–something our knees are not designed to do. The only thing to do is to get used to the feeling. One time I asked Brian if I’d ever not experience pain on standing. He was non committal–my particular kind of pain was related to nerve damage from the accident “it depends,” he said, “most people get used to it.”

As the weeks wore on, I did get used to the feeling I had when I stood. Once I got going I was fine, but any time I was off my feet for a period of time, standing up took my breath away. My limb was changing shape too. Amputated limbs atrophy and I saw Brian every couple weeks for an adjustment. That’s when I learned new amputees can go through several prosthetics in their first few years after amputation. Blisters, sores and bruises are typical occurrences for most of us, depending on the configuration. It’s a hassle when that happens–often times the only cure for that is to avoid wearing it or a time, meaning a loss of function, mobility and freedom.

I’m not one for sharing all the details of my recovery. I’m from a long line of women people used to call “tough cookies.” We don’t explain or complain when adversity hits. Let’s just say that I found this experience daunting. Despite outward appearances, I wrestled with PTSD and depression as the reality of my situation sunk in. Fortunately for me, I am surrounded by caring people, and I joined a support group that helped me cope, but external support only goes so far. I needed something to help get my head through the tough days.

Quite by accident I stumbled on an action that helped me psychologically. I gave my prosthesis a name. Some amputees name their devices, others don’t. I’ve written before about how I chose the name for my leg. It wasn’t a name I would have come up with on my own–Beverly. Naming it turned into a way for me to compartmentalize my struggles and ups and downs I faced coming to grips with my altered existence. When I had to get rid of most of my shoes because they couldn’t accommodate my fixed ankle and foot, I framed it as “Beverly thought my boots and clogs weren’t stylish.” When I had to get rid of jeans because they wouldn’t fit over the leg, I’d say “Beverly decided my jeans made her look fat.” When my leg ached so much I couldn’t wear it, I’d tell people “Beverly needs a break from carrying me around.” There were times I struggled going up and down stairs, and I’d grunt “Dammit, Beverly, let’s do this.” I classified her as “Beverly 1.0,” meaning it was my first socket.

Beverly has become a fully realized character in my life. She took a lot of grief from me at the beginning of our relationship. Beverly and I are lucky to have a great prosthetist. Brian was always able to modify the socket on a moment’s notice–I never spent one day off my leg because of sores or injury. A year into this new relationship, I find it’s gotten better–there are moments where I am blissfully unaware of Beverly’s presence. We have become a team.

Beverly got an upgraded socket September 27, 2024, becoming Beverly 1.2. She won’t get a 2.0 designation until I get a new post and foot. She is more sleek than her earlier version, and much more comfortable to wear. We are both maturing into our relationship. On days when it seemed I stumbled on or tripped over everything, I’d thank Beverly for not dumping me on my ass in public. She’s the first thing I put on in the morning, and the last thing I take off at night. I remind myself that I am always an amputee and I need to be grateful for her presence in my life. Beverly and I are getting stronger every day. We’re in it for the long haul. Happy 1st anniversary, baby, you’re my ride or die.