Chapter 23 - MY PROSTHETIC LEGI received my first temporary prosthesis four months after the funeral.
Later than planned because Richard’s stomp had inflamed tissue enough to delay fitting.
Nothing permanent.
Frustrating.
My physical therapist, Jordan Lee, warned:
“Do not turn walking into a courtroom argument.”
“What?”
“You’re trying to prove something every session.”
“I’m trying to walk.”
“You’re trying to walk fast enough that your uncle loses retroactively.”
Annoying person.
Correct.
I slowed down.
Learned socket fit.
Balance.
Stairs.
Energy expenditure.
Falling.
Getting up.
The first time I walked across my living room without crutches, nobody applauded.
I had specifically forbidden applause.
My aunt Diane ignored me and cried silently.
Acceptable violation.
People kept calling me:
inspiring.
I hated that.
Losing a leg had not improved my personality or clarified the universe.
It made some tasks harder.
Others different.
That was enough.
Richard had called me useless.
Rehabilitation taught me something less cinematic.
May you like
Usefulness is a terrible measure of human worth anyway.
Even if I had never walked again, his statement would still have been vile.
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