I can never move by myself for the rest of my life, I thought mournfully as I was handed a pair of crutches for my morning walk in the hospital corridors, the next day. I felt strange strolling around the hospital with my face bare and my hair undone. I was so used to wearing long dresses that I felt naked wearing a pair of black gym shorts and a gray tank top. The passing doctors and nurses were polite enough to not stare at my stump; the patients and their visitors, not so much. Most of them felt sorry for me; one mother even muttered, "Oh, that poor pretty girl!"
Figuring that I cannot possibly bump into anyone, I put on the earphones attached to my iPod in my shorts' back pocket. Listening to Opeth calmed me while listening to Yasmin Levy energized me. On my way back to my ward, I listened to a few songs by P.O.D. and Matisyahu. By the time my mother helped me onto the couch to watch TV, I felt stronger.
Later that day, Mama and I got a visit from my physical therapist, Anna-Beth Walton. Miss Walton drilled us both on the process. The key word was "exercise." Apparently, I had to be physically fit and strong to keep my healing and recovery at an ideal pace. The main goal was to keep my bones and muscles strong and healthy while making my circulation consistently good. After surgery, my systems supposedly became a little weaker because my entire body was induced to become somewhat limp and inactive. It would make my body weaker and more prone to serious complications unless I exercise a lot.
"That's not a problem," I said. "I dance. I trained in ballet and gymnastics as a child. I'm in the cheerleading squad. …"
"Good!" said Miss Walton.
Miss Walton was pleased with my surgeon's report. At 5'5" I weighed 130 pounds; I was probably lighter now that my 10-pound leg was gone. By this first meeting with Miss Walton, all I was allowed to consume were whole grain noodles, milk, honey, and water.
She examined my musculoskeletal strengths with a few exercises. She made me reach for my toes, and lie down and lift my hips as many times as I could. (This gave me abdominal cramps later.)
"Her condition wouldn't affect her recovery, would it?" asked Mama, referring to my low platelet count.
"No," said Miss Walton, who helped me sit on a plastic chair. "But I'll see if we need to adjust anything. But as with every patient under me, you're going to learn a few basic tasks that you shall have to get used to. The first thing you need to remember that although your stump seems useless, it is still a part of your body that needs as much exercise, care and hygiene as the rest of your body."
"Understood," I said, looking sadly at the thing as I lifted it from the seat and let it back down.
"Besides, it's going to need strength and coordination when we fit your prosthetic leg."
After Miss Walton informed me on what to expect in the next few days, Jessica and Lauren arrived to bring me homework. They told me Eric and Angela would have come, too, but they were both too busy working on the next issue of the school paper.
"You don't have to worry about school. I'm sure you'll catch up," said Lauren. "But how are you? Are you healing okay? Does it hurt?"
"I'm on some morphine right now, so it's no problem," I said, smiling.
"It must hurt like hell without the drugs, then," suggested Jessica.
"Oh, yes," I said, nodding. "It even hurts even with the right meds. It's like my leg is still there."
"Eww, why?" asked Lauren.
I chuckled at the way she asked. "It's like my brain can't accept that my leg is gone. Sometimes, it hurts; sometimes it doesn't. But when it does, the drugs can't make it go away."
"How does it hurt?" asked Jessica.
"Well, my surgeon says it's different with every patient. It may feel hot or cold. There can be a shooting pain or numbness. In my case, it feels like it's getting crushed."
Jessica and Lauren gasped in mingling shock and pity. "When can you come to school?" asked Jessica.
"My surgeon said that, at the rate that I'm healing, I can probably go back next week."
Jessica and Lauren hadn't yet left the ward to help me with homework when the rest of the cheerleading squad arrived. They brought me stuffed toys, greeting cards, flowers, and balloons. As I watched them kiss and hug me and console me for my injury, a heavy burden weighed me down, pressing me so hard against the mattress that I could no longer lift my arms: I could never join them in cheerleading again.
My face crumpled from the pain splitting my heart apart. I couldn't breathe. I didn't want to.
"Beulah?" someone said. I couldn't identify the voice because my hearing was becoming muffled from holding my breath for so long. They were watching me, afraid and concerned that I was in pain. Their gaze was exactly what broke the dam that held my grief. A high-pitched cry escaped when I parted my lips. I shook my head. This was too much to bear. I sobbed uncontrollably in front of my fellow cheerleaders, and they hugged me, knowing exactly what I was grieving for.
#
It took a week to get used to the limb exercises. I was on a lot of morphine after the surgery. It was like there was no pain, but I couldn't feel anything else either. There was only this light feeling, like I was at peace though even that peace didn't really feel right. But I tried the best I could to keep moving and eating right. It was only in the night when there was nothing to distract me that the pain would take over. The morphine had dulled it somewhat, but it was still there. Apart from the stinging and itching stitches, which I couldn't just scratch because it would hurt even if I had the strength to unwrap my bandages, there was this crushing pain in my invisible leg. It was like there was a metal sock tightening and tightening over my leg. The pain blocked out any thinking until I fell asleep.
My surgeon prescribed me quite a few pain medications; one of them was for the phantom pain. I doubted if it would work because I knew it was in my head. At least that was how I could understand it. My doctor explained to me that the sensations come from the peculiar fact that my brain somehow cannot tell that my leg was gone. My brain was somehow still feeling for the leg through the reflex points that used to be there.
I wasn't allowed to get the stump wet in several days after the surgery. It stung when the bandages were taken off for the first time. Miss Walton showed me how to wash it and wrap it again. This process ought to be repeated until my residual leg has completely healed.
By the weekend, my surgeon visited me and said I could go home. On the way, I kept feeling for the stump. Everything was going to be different from now on. Golem was sitting in the garage; then, he stood and barked happily when the car entered. He bolted toward me when I got out of the car.
"Stop!" I commanded, raising my index finger warningly. He immediately obeyed and whined questioningly.
"I'm sorry, Golem," I said, stroking his head. "You mustn't jump toward me anymore."
Golem sniffed at my leg, wondering why there was only one. He sniffed at my stump and whimpered. "I know, Golem. You won't be chasing me in the beach for a while."
