MEDICAL BACKGROUND:
In traditional hip disarticulation—the surgical removal of the entire lower limb at hip level—the ball is separated from the socket of the hip joint, with the removal of the entire lower limb. These amputations mean the loss of three weight bearing joints - the hip, the knee, and the ankle - definitely more difficult and complex than losing one or two, which in itself is difficult enough.
Hip-disarticulation amputations are among the rarest. According to the 2000 census, out of the U.S. population of 281 million people, 1.5 million are amputees, and less than 1 percent of these individuals, or approximately 10,000 people, are hip-disarticulation amputees.
These high-level amputations, by starting to involve the core of the body—not just a limb or even two—carry unique physical and emotional impact. They have an increased impact on self-image, There's increased worry and stress as these surgeries start encroaching on that personal area involved in central body functions and gender identity.
The surgery usually spares bowel, bladder plus genital appearance and function, but the person is essentially cut in half.
Finding a compatible lover and sexual partner to perform intimate acts is fraught with difficulties of trust and perception.
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For the first few days, it was simply awful. Though I'd exercised at a local gym, I ached and groaned with the effort of tricycling down and then up—mostly up, it seemed—the back roads of rural Pennsylvania. I slept in farmer's fields and ate food bought in small stores, or at roadside stands. I had to buy toilet paper and pain meds. I slept exhausted but with nightmares, speaking to no one, beyond my basic purchases.
As one would expect, I got tougher, dropped some weight, re-learned to live simply and gradually increased my mileage until I was averaging 150 miles a day in the mountains and more than that in the flatter mid-west. I avoided all population centers, except for small towns. I ate sparingly and drank water copiously, sweating most of it out in cycling mileage.
I bought cooking gear and other things needed for a long-term tour by tricycle. My gut peeled away, the nightmares ended and I became tough and content.
In weekly touch with my attorney, now managing the 10% of monies my ex-wife was forced to cough-up, I heard snippets of information about an un-official, region-wide man-hunt for me, un-successful. This was not surprising, considering that I was traveling by tricycle, off-grid.
[You don't believe me, one man against a multi-billion-dollar, ruthless corporation? OK, you try asking just ONE question of all the people who might possibly have this information within a 50-mile radius of a certain courthouse or condo. It's just not possible to do that. Too many people. Too many false leads. After the middle of the second day, I was well beyond that radius.]
I also heard about the antics of my former wife, as she accumulated wealth and position by prostituting herself to gain clients for her company and keeping the executives with her company happy. She caused a couple of divorces, when the wives found out about the corporate whore and her internal company 'services'.
My data-analytic skills noted that her company and her boss became more and more dependent on her willing body to be available to them, neglecting sales innovation.
I could see distant disaster for them looming on the business horizon, although my concern was abstract: they'd 'made-their-bed' by accepting her skills as a corporate prostitute for getting and keeping contracts, and they soon would have to deal with that devil's bargain.
Across Ohio and the Mid-West states, until I came to the Rocky Mountains. Through Denver and then Boulder and finally into the series of passes that led to the high desert, on roads that bordered the Interstate Highway. I continued camping in small spots, though now fully-equipped for a Colorado night (high altitude and cold), although I could now stay at motels when bad weather struck, which was about 2 nights in a week.
Which is why, several months later, I found myself at a highway pull-out, overlooking the descent into Glenwood Springs, and about to have my Damsel-in-Distress gene activated.
The pull-out was just a wide place in a well-maintained Colorado paved road. OK for taking a brief rest or letting the car's radiator cool down. Nothing special, not even a water source. Just a pretty view into the valley above Glenwood Springs. I pedaled onto the packed surface, tired but thrilled to think of a well-earned motel, a shower and a good meal instead of another dirty campground or farmer's field.
The only other vehicle in the pull-out was a small van, though somehow parked hard up against the guard-rail that kept people and kids from tumbling down the steep slope just beyond. Idly, I thought that the van's passenger side doors would be blocked shut, so the driver would have to get out on his or her side. No biggie.
That thought fled when I saw a long, dark-skinned arm wave a handkerchief out the driver's side window. Then I heard the woman's voice call out, "Help me, please. Help! I'm stuck and I can't get out. My tire is flat and the van won't start any more. Please help!"
Cautiously going up to the van's door, I quietly said, "Sure, I can help you out. Get the jack out of the trunk area, please, so I can get the tire off and the spare put on."
I heard muffled sobs, then a tearful voice that said, "I can't. I'm an amputee. I can't move around without my power wheelchair and it's stuck inside, with me. I've been here hours, waiting for some help. I think the jack is at the back, along with the spare tire. The flat's over on the other side, and right up against the guard-rail."
The spare tire, jack and handles found, I located the flat tire right against the rail, as expected. Several minutes of knuckle bashing, swearing and sweat, I got the tire's lug-nuts off, evidence that the threads had never been greased. I wondered what else I was gonna find not done or gone wrong, almost as a premonition of things to come.
The spare tire only held half pressure, so out came my little tire compressor, hooked to my electric-assist. It ran off my battery assist until the overheat light came on, but brought the car tire up to 30 psi. I re-mounted the spare onto the lug threads, with a little grease on each of the threads and tightened up the nuts.
Then it was time to s-l-o-w-l-y move the van away from the guard-rail, luckily down the slight slope of the pull-out area. Push and pull, a few inches at a time. I dropped on the ground, exhausted.
Then I heard the 'click-groan-whine-silence' of an all-but-dead battery, as my still unknown van driver tried to start her engine. No dice!
Her slim arm re-appeared with a cold bottle of water, for which I said "thanks," and gulped down. Still talking to an arm and a woman's voice, she said, sadly, that "The bottle was the last of the iced ones."
Getting my strength back, I asked her to un-latch the hood, so I could check the oil and other fluid levels. Yeah, I know, check the engine oil when hot. Screw that, as I already had a bad feeling. The dipstick barely registered any oil at all. The power-brake fluid was OK, seen through the translucent container, as was the power-steering fluid, but the transmission fluid had little flecks of something suspended in that fluid, so I knew she'd need a transmission flush and fill, ASAP. The radiator fluid was low, too.
I flagged down a passing car and negotiated a price for 2 quarts of engine oil. When The driver heard the woman's voice from the van and that she was an amputee, she got a jump-start, too and my money was returned. Just a short request, something about 'paying it forward,' as the guy drove away.
I folded up my trike and loaded it, along with my camp-out and personal gear, into the van's living space, then joined the driver in the passenger's seat, as she carefully eased the van out onto the road and started down toward town. I noted the hand-controls of the van, and looking, back, the tied-down wheelchair.
