Present Perfect(89)

I was at Emily’s place, sitting in an almost exact replica of my bedroom at home. My parents had basically moved my bedroom from our house over here. They wanted me to feel comfortable and thought being surrounded by familiar things would achieve that.

My hospital stay lasted four days. The first two days, I was so drugged up with morphine, I didn’t know what was happening. Day three, my head was clearer and physical therapy had started. They got me out of bed and had me using a walker to walk to the recliner in the corner of the room. It was probably six steps away from my bed. I was exhausted by the time I got to the chair.

I had only glanced down once, very quickly, at my residual limb. I was informed it’s not politically correct to call it a stump anymore. I figured if I wanted to call it a stump, I would. It was my stump after all. I still hadn’t built up the courage to look at the stump side-by-side with my right leg.

Mom stayed with me all day and Dad and Emily visited at night after work. I don’t know how he did it, but somehow Noah managed to sneak in my room and stay with me all night. No doubt, he flashed his sexy smile, winked his bright light blues a few times, and completely charmed the panties off of the night nurse.

Day four, I was discharged. Physical therapy would come to me three times a week. In two weeks, if my surgical site was healed well enough I would start the process of being fitted for a temporary prosthesis and start chemo. Good times.

The two things that I was most afraid of right now were starting chemo and having phantom pain. It felt like the lower portion of my left leg was still there. It was a mind f*ck when I looked down and saw no leg, but felt it. Dr. Lang said not every amputee experiences phantom pain. I was hoping that would be the case for me.





Day one of physical therapy was exhausting. I walked around the apartment using the walker, did some stretching exercises, and that was it. I was resting on the bed, leaning against the headboard, with my legs stretched out in front of me.

My eyes trailed down and froze. This was the first time I had allowed myself to look at my legs side-by-side. I stared for a long time feeling very detached from my lower limbs, as if they didn’t belong to me. It felt like I was staring at someone else that I didn’t know.

Slowly the realization washed over me. This half leg was mine. Quiet tears started flowing out of me. It was gone. A part of me that had always been there, wasn’t coming back. All I could do was adjust.

I told myself that I hadn’t ever given much thought to that portion of my leg in the past. I told myself, that part of my leg would have definitely killed me if I had kept it. I told myself once fitted with a prosthesis I’d be able to walk again. All of these reasons ran through my mind as to why I shouldn’t be upset. Why I should be grateful.

The problem is you can’t reason with loss, you can only feel it. No matter how valid your reasons, they don’t stop you from hurting and mourning the loss. In that moment I didn’t think about the advances in prosthetics. I didn’t think about the intense pain I had experienced over the past two months. I didn’t think about the cancer. In that moment all I thought about and all I felt was how much I missed my leg and maybe I had made a huge mistake.

I wasn’t sure what to do. Talking about it with someone wasn’t going to bring my leg back, nothing would. I don’t get a do over or a second chance. Sadness and frustration consume you when you’re forced to accept your loss and you’re made to adjust.





Six days had passed since the surgery. Emily, Noah, and I had ordered pizza for dinner and we were now watching a movie. I wasn’t feeling well. I didn’t have a headache or stomachache. I just felt uncomfortable in my skin. My mind and nerve endings were still telling me that the amputated part of my leg was still there. The sensation started to change into feeling like I was wearing a tight shoe. It wasn’t painful, just annoying.

“I’m going to go to bed,” I said.

“You alright?” Emily asked.

“Yeah, I think I’m just tired.” I started rolling away in my wheelchair.

“You need any help, Tweet?”

“No, I’ll be fine. Goodnight.”

I got to my room, threw on my pajama pants, t-shirt, and got into bed. The tight shoe sensation kept getting worse and worse until it felt more like a vice had been clamped on to my leg. Then out of nowhere, a jolt of pain shot through the lower part of my leg that wasn’t there. I let out a blood curdling scream.

Noah was the first to burst through my door followed quickly by Emily. I was screaming and sobbing uncontrollably, I couldn’t tell them what was happening. Noah sat on the side of the bed and scooped me into his arms. The pain was relentless. Someone needed to take the vice clamp off my leg, but there was no visible vice to remove.

I kept screaming into Noah’s chest as the pain got even more intense. My body convulsed with every jolt of electricity that shot through me. Emily stood at the end of my bed looking helpless, tears running down her cheeks. There was nothing anyone could do because there was nothing there. Noah started rubbing my back trying to calm me down.

One hour turned into two, turned into three. By the time we were headed into the fourth hour, I thought I was going to lose my mind. The pain started to ebb and flow. I got some relief for fifteen to twenty minutes and then the vice would start to twist and tighten again, and the shockwaves came from nowhere, surprising me each time.