My Leg

Pain. Frustration. Fatigue. Hopelessness. Helplessness. Endless misery.

No one told me it would be like this. No one can tell me when it will be any different. Weeks, months, years, never.

I’m an anomaly. The one in one thousand, or ten thousand. I’m the problem case, the curiosity, the mystery.

I just want my body back. Of all the times I’ve said that - pregnancy, breastfeeding, injuries - this time I really mean it. My legs don’t do what I want, what I need, what my children need. My back and arms aren’t strong enough to pick up the slack. My natural lack of coordination and spatial awareness is now compounded by my brain’s refusal to believe that all my limbs are unable or unwilling to do what it directs.

A constant fear of damaging myself further. By trying too hard to compensate for my failings. By not trying hard enough to do things “the right way”.

An ever-looming uncertainty. Not knowing is the hardest part. If I just knew when the end would be in sight, “years” might be easier to bear. Optimistically hoping for a recovery of weeks makes each passing month harder. More tiresome. More loathsome.

Still looking for answers, for new information, for anything useful. To move forward, to move on, to something. Waiting, wishing, waiting, hoping, waiting, waiting, bloody waiting.

I’m a burden, I’m a pain, I’m a liability. If this were 200 years ago, I’d be on the street or left behind in what might generously be called a “hospital”. If it were 2,000 years ago, I’d be left to the wolves. And maybe even so in this time, if I were unlucky enough to live in a different part of the world. A drain on society, on my family, on my own self, my brain and body fighting each other.

Thankfully, I live here, now, so I’m not cast out of my home, and I don’t have to go hungry, unable to work or contribute. I am cared for, even if those carers don’t care to hear about my struggle.

I can’t call myself disabled, at least no more than usual, but I feel very much unable. Unable to do any of the normal things my body has spent 36 years practicing. Unable to stand up straight or still. Unable to sit comfortably in most chairs. Unable to carry my children around, or drive a manual car, or put my pants on standing up. Unable to sit here now without constantly thinking of what else I might do or incorporate into my current seated position that could improve my comfort.

Is this how people with amputated limbs feel? How do they ever reach a place of positivity or even acceptance? Would I feel better if I knew for certain this was my life from now on, instead of assuming it will be better one day? Am I only miserable because I expect something different of myself, for myself?

What a fucking drama queen.