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To my wonderful new family of amputees and amputee supporters, from whom I’ve learned so much and journeyed so far with, I would not have met you without this unfortunate event. This means you – Derrick, Hurie, Greg, Alexandria, Gabby, Aziz, Robert, Dave, Dennis, Todd and last but not least - Eric. You all, literally, changed my life.

To those who desire to rise above the circumstances they find themselves in, I pray you will seek God’s voice and listen as He speaks to your situation. It is in His voice that you find power and love. In is in Him that all things are possible!

It’s one thing to see a person you love go through the hardest trial of their life. But it’s another thing entirely to be the person going through it. Every child of God has faced an obstacle or two and many may not understand why bad things, in fact, happen to good people. One thing I know for sure is we, as a body of Believers, overcome by the blood of our Risen Savior and the word of our testimony.

This princess warrior was brave enough to share her testimony with you. I’ve had the privilege of seeing this woman live with a life changing event, still serve and reflect the light of the Lord to everyone that crosses her path. I’ve prayed for and with her. We’ve sang in the choir together. I’ve witnessed her transform into the woman of God she is today.

This is a testament to asking the right questions in the face of opposition. Instead of asking “Why me?” the author asked “What do I do now?” It is an honor and a privilege to know and work so closely with such a woman of transparency. I know that this book will help you, not only cope with the circumstances experienced in life, but also provide hope for you and whatever trial you may be facing. It is my prayer that you too are transformed as you read these musings.

Many books have been written extolling the virtues of mind over matter and “how I overcame great adversity.” I have no intentions of attempting anything so ambitious at this time, but I definitely have things I want to share. You see, my experiences were not mind over matter. I did not pull myself up by my bootstraps and I found getting back on the horse to be more than a notion. The burden of such activity would have made my recovery from amputation surgery insurmountable. And I still haven’t gotten over the loss of my leg. I live with it.

I chronicled the events and emotions during the experience of losing my leg as best I could. Often, through the haze of Demerol and Morphine, I would write in my journal while recuperating in the hospital.

There was a certain loneliness I experienced that I just couldn’t seem to make anyone understand. God knows I tried. Everyone was empathetic and sympathetic but they didn’t understand. How could they? I existed in another dimension during that time. My fate always in someone else’s hands. Heck, I had to write about this experience. It was inconceivable, unbelievable. Imagine someone telling you they were going cut off your limb!!!

This is not a day by day account of my journey through to recovery, although several of the essays certainly chronicle my progression. This is a series of essays, poems, letters, journal entries and ‘how I felt today’ writings and much of this collection was written after the event. It is an attempt to free my mind and my memory of feelings that have haunted me since mid-August 1999. Writing this book became my own style of therapeutic recovery. It also fulfilled my need to tell someone what happened to me, to strip, baring my soul and my thoughts. A chance to say it out loud.

Of course, some of the things I wrote had nothing to do with the ordeal. “Dear William” for example, was written for my brother-in-law who passed away from lung cancer. And “Naked”, well, the inspiration for it came while riding down I-94 one beautiful winter afternoon after finally getting out of the hospital. It’s always interesting to hear what readers think that piece is about.

I learned from my journey that healing is truly in the hands of God. Mine was. Mine is. I prayed many prayers, and people all over the country have prayed for me. In fact, one sunny afternoon during recovery, while alone in physical therapy, I could feel people praying for me, people all over the world. I can’t tell you what that feels like; can’t even begin to describe it, but I know it to be so. I’ve come to realize that the promises of God and the reality of faith supersede the physical realm in which we live. And while I dearly miss my leg, I am extremely grateful to be alive and breathing; still able to walk around. Perhaps as these thoughts are shared, others will realize that accepting change in one’s life, especially physical change, requires mental reconciliation. The brain must be convinced that these changes make sense. Spirit and soul must convince mind and body that these changes are necessary for survival and for destiny. This is never an easy task.

And so, I write this for my family who didn’t understand why this happened to me any more than I did, but never failed to stand by me. They journeyed with me too. And I write this for the millions of people who don’t understand why bad things happen to them, but struggle daily to cope with their circumstances. I write this for all the people the spotlight has evaded. Their stories never make the news. No one is there to share their heroism or their trials, and yet they continue on.

On November 24, 1999, I kept an appointment at the hospital to have an arteriogram. They admitted me that day because they could not find a pulse below my right knee. On December 23, 1999 I checked out of rehab after having had a right below knee (RBK) amputation. The range of emotions I experienced during those thirty days defies imagination. The fear, the pain, the anger, joy, doubt and relief were unimaginable. Did I mention fear? The feeling that I was hanging on to the cliff of my life by my fingertips was constant.

Lack of knowledge was one of the biggest obstacles to my recovery. For example, I found that people in the health care and health services industries certainly have an expectation that they can solve your problem. The surgeon can saw your leg off and staple up the ‘stump,’ but can he help you heal? The prosthetist can build you a new leg. And he will, but often there is no partnership. They have made the leg with all the technology and knowledge at their disposal (that your insurance will cover), and what’s more, they have made it just for you. It will and must work. Don’t get me wrong, these are great people – hard working and caring. They are professionals and good at what they do. I would not trade my CPO (Certified Prosthetics Orthotics – code word, legman) for all the tea in China. But many are one-dimensional.

That’s another one of the problems. Everyone is one-dimensional. Even while in the hospital, moving from one floor to another, each department is one-dimensional. On the main floor in general population you are likely to be ignored, probably because the staff is short-handed and overworked. And let’s face it, not all nurses share the same level of dedication. In ICU, the nurses are very attentive and check on you regularly; you rarely have to ring for them. Their job is to give you this type of attention. The rehab center specializes in … well; you’re likely to attend several therapy sessions per day. Whatever you do, please don’t ring for a nurse – they won’t answer within an hour or so. Can’t quite figure it out though, considering they don’t administer the therapy, they don’t assist patients and they don’t bring food. They do however, pass out pills and check your vitals and will wake you up to do so, especially in the middle of the night. Everybody is one-dimensional.

The therapists somewhat work together. They sponsor these group talks which I thought would be interesting and beneficial. I attended a session where the recreational therapist had everyone around the table introduce themselves and talk about their goals. “Goals?” I asked, all the while thinking “what do you think my goals are?” We stated our goals, mine were simple – to get back into my life. We were given a brochure telling us all about places that catered to handicapped people. A field trip was planned to a nearby McDonalds or Farmer Jack supermarket, a reality check of sorts. The idea was to get a feel of what it’s like to be in a wheelchair out in the real world. I’m pretty sure I was the only person in the group who was interested.

One of the other participants in the session was an old man who had just lost his other leg. Another older man had recently been amputated. No forty year olds in the crowd. A nice lady sat in on that session to provide words of wisdom; she was also an amputee. “Keep your socks washed,” she advised. Knowingly, I nodded, but had no idea what she was talking about or its value. The session over, I went back to my room wondering what the purpose of it all was. Did these therapists feel as if they had accomplished anything or were they merely doing their jobs? At least with the occupational and physical therapists you understood their roles and purpose.

They taught you how to go up and down stairs, get in and out of cars, and maneuver around the kitchen and bathroom. They exercised you – “20 leg lifts” here, “use those shoulder weights” there. “C’mon, just five more then you’re done!” The physical and occupational therapists were also there during dinnertime when it was their job to get us to the dinner table after a short walk. Although the food was horrible, it was enough motivation to try one more step on the walker. It was certainly better than lying in bed for another minute.

Can you imagine how confused I was when I overheard them talking about releasing me? They put their heads together whispering “Yes, she knows how to go up and down the stairs and she can get in and out of the car. She’s really doing well, plus the weekend is coming then the holiday, instead of keeping her, let’s just discharge her. We can’t do anything more for her here.” I was shocked! I was terrified! In retrospect (or reality), they were right, there was nothing else they could do for me. And at that very moment, I was petrified. “How do they think I can function at home? They haven’t taught me a thing. What am I going to do?”

The reality was that they were talking about me instead of to me. The doctors were notorious for doing this when they came into the room – intentionally ignoring you. Now the therapists were doing it too. I finally spoke up to the recreational therapist who surmised from my dripping sarcasm that I was unhappy. “Mrs. Dickson, aren’t you happy to be going home?”

“Well, I don’t know. I overhear all these conversations about me and no one is telling me what’s going on. I’m going home? Are they really convinced that I’m ready? No one has told me what happens next. How am I supposed to get my new leg? That guy from the leg place came and measured me, but he didn’t tell me when he was coming back. What am I supposed to do?”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Dickson. You’re feeling like we’re not talking to each other and definitely not talking to you, right?”

He went on to clarify that the entire team, including the therapists, doctors and nurses – my team – had met and discussed my situation. “But they didn’t tell me anything!” I pointed out again. He apologized again and then explained, confirming that they were each mostly concerned with their own “input into the process.” We chatted a bit more about the politics of his job and how things could be different, better even. He told me he understood just how I felt. Then he said, “Good luck Mrs. Dickson, you’ll do just fine.” And that was that.

And I did do – have done – just fine. But I realized that this one-dimensional thing had really put me between a rock and a hard place. It made me feel as if no one understood or cared how I felt, emotionally. They didn’t seem to understand that emotional healing was also important.

Physically, it was simple. “You’ve lost your leg, now you’ll wear this new one.” Yet emotionally, no one laid out a timetable for me to plot or plan my future, no one showed me how to do it. No one gave me useful hints, advice or instructions, well, apart from the sock washing advice. I never in my life knew of anyone who had been amputated; I had no idea what this meant or how it would impact my future. There was no one whose job it was to soothe my psyche. No one forewarned me of the daily phantom pain that I would deal with. No one was there to tell me that my emotions would flare up and that it was natural for them to do so. Thanks be to God for giving me peace and patience. It took a while, but God has all the time in the world to bless me and I had to let Him heal me.

My loneliness and sense of isolation was compounded because there was no logical explanation for my case. Not a single doctor who cared for me could explain why there was no pulse below my knee.

“But doctor, I still have one good leg and I have two children, I need to understand what is going on here.” To this day I still have no reason for this occurrence.

“No, I do not have diabetes, my blood pressure is normal and my cholesterol levels are not high. I have no illnesses or diseases except for fibroid tumors.” This was the mantra I recited to every doctor who saw me. And, to date, not one of them has been able to account for this problem that required such an extreme solution.

Despite these disturbances, life did indeed go on for me and for those around me. And during the transition, I thought of many people. I thought of all the amputees the world over, 2,000,000 of them in the U.S., wondering how they would relate to me. I was abnormal in that neither disease nor accident/trauma caused my pain as with the other patients I encountered. I’ll never forget the young man who had been in an accident and needed multiple surgeries. He tried so hard and wanted to get well so badly but was always in a lot of pain, he never stopped trying. I prayed for him to recover. Anyway, their tragedies were all explainable, mine was not. Even my own psyche was not satisfied with the situation.

My daughter’s psychology teacher gave me a very helpful excerpt from The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat that shed some light on phantom pain. It stated that in order for the brain to accept the prosthesis, pain (or sensation) is necessary, much like the acceptance the body (and brain) makes after receiving transplanted organs, i.e. hearts, livers, etc. I hypothesized that since birth; my body and brain have utilized my specific, unique DNA patterns and suddenly found itself unable to communicate with my right foot. The brain cannot account for any trauma or disease that caused this interruption and cannot readily reconcile itself to the loss. Well, neither could I. It was disappointing that this revelation came at the hands of a teacher rather than from the numerous health care professionals I encountered daily during this ordeal. Thank God for the teacher who was there to help.