Amy And Ginnie

A tall tale inspired by Peggy Buxton

It all started with Ginny. One day I walked into her room... she was sitting on the bed wearing a t-shirt, except she didn't have her arms in the sleeves. She was just sitting there, staring at herself in the mirror, at the image with the dangling, empty sleeves. When I came in and asked what she was doing, she didn't even look around. She just kept staring into the mirror.

Finally she said, "Mom, how old would I have to be to get my arms off?" Momentarily stunned, I just stared at her, my mouth open. Finally I asked her where she got such an idea, but she didn't answer. She just kept looking at her armless image in the mirror. Finally she said, matter-of-factly, "I'm not supposed to have arms."

I said, "But if you didn't have arms how would you do things... how would you...?"

She turned to face me. She had a bemused look on her face as she said, "Mom... with my feet!" She raised a bare foot and waved it at me with a perfect expression of 'Duh, mom!' She was eight years old. And I swear I had never said a word to her.

After that she started practicing doing things with her feet. She tried eating dinner with her feet, and her father had a fit, of course. There was a big fight, the first of many. Finally, she gave up practicing her 'foot skills' where anybody could watch.

George just didn't understand, and I guess couldn't be expected to. Neither did I actually, at the time, but something had awakened inside me. I wanted to see where she'd go with this. Did I secretly want her to have no arms? Maybe so, deep down somewhere in my darkest psyche -- but I couldn't think that clearly back then.

She began to do her homework in her room with the door shut, a big change for her. Always before, homework was done in front of the loudly-playing TV. One time I walked in on her, unannounced. She had her feet up on the desk, writing in a notebook with a pencil gripped between her toes. I got a good look before she stopped -- the writing was as clear and neat as she could have done with her hands. Another time, I discovered her with her computer keyboard on the floor under her desk, typing away with her toes.

She became more and more secretive -- she always got dressed in her room with the door closed. Not that big of a deal for a pre-teen girl, I guess, but I couldn't help suspecting that she wasn't getting dressed in the usual way.

When it came time to buy bras, she insisted on the sports type with an elastic band and no hooks. I didn't ask; I just went along. We didn't mention it to George.

George and I have been teaching ever since we got out of college. Before Ginny was born, we took summertime overseas teaching assignments. I guess it was a way to "give back," as they say, but it was also a cheap way to see a lot of the world. We were paid, of course, and the agency sponsored our travel, so we came out okay, some years actually making a little money. Early on, we usually went to Africa; later, Central and South American countries; and once, to the island nation of Tonga. All very interesting.

We think Ginny was actually conceived in Honduras, but of course we were back home in plenty of time for her to be born here. We turned down the assignments for the first two summers after she was born, but by the time she was three we were missing the adventure, so we packed up (we were going to Mexico that year) and took her with us.

After that we took her every year until she was eight, when she began to complain, especially if we were assigned to a really crappy back country in South America, or someplace else out of internet range where there was not much for her to do. We told the agency we were going to have to give up our assignments until Ginny was old enough to be left on her own over the summer.

But the agency had heard it all before.

We were told about an arrangement they had with what amounted to a classy summer camp in Belize, kind of a Club Med for kids, I guess. Many of the personnel, couples and singles, stashed their children there for the duration of their overseas assignments. There was even a subsidy arrangement from the foundation if somebody couldn't afford it on their own. This was a highly-rated place, equipped to keep the kids occupied and out of trouble, for the entire summer. The summer she was nine Ginny agreed to go. We promised her that if she went this time and didn't like it, we wouldn't make her go back the next year.

But it turned out she loved it. She made friends, became fluent in Spanish, and came back not only with a golden tan, but with whole new set of tournament-level swim and surfing skills.

She had also met some, ah... interesting kids down there -- though just how interesting we had no idea at the time.

And then the summer she turned fourteen, we had a scheduling problem. We were assigned to a village in Peru, a place near Machu Picchu we'd been requesting for years. Trouble was, we had to leave two weeks before Ginny was out of school, two weeks before she could head for the summer camp in Belize. We didn't want to blow off the assignment, so we worked a deal with the next-door neighbors. They agreed to keep up with Ginny for the last weeks of school, and to get her off to camp after we left. The camp couldn't accept payment for her tuition until after we'd left, but we just transferred the money into Ginny's own account and told her to forward it on when the season opened. Again, no problem.

The summer went smoothly, Peru was beautiful, and a good time was had by all. We kept in touch with Ginny by email -- Skype or Facetime being too taxing for the primitive internet arrangements in the back country of Peru. She reported having a good time, nothing unusual.

But there was in fact something very unusual. We didn't know about it until the end of the summer, when we went to fetch Ginny at the airport: Ginny no longer had arms.

I didn't even notice until I reached out to hug her. She was wearing a serape, more or less a cape which covered her upper body, with just her head sticking out. When I put my arms around her and realized what had happened, I jumped back and screamed. I yanked the cape off. Under the cape she was wearing a sleeveless blouse, revealing a pair of smooth, empty, totally armless shoulders. I could only stare at her, mouth open, speechless.

Finally I blurted out, "What happened, baby? Was there an accident? Why didn't you let us know...?"

She said, "Sorry mom, I just didn't know how to tell you. It was no accident. I didn't go to camp this summer. You know I told you a long time ago that I wasn't supposed to have arms. So... I found a place where I could go and get rid of them."

George's reaction was just what you'd expect. Once he understood that there had been no accident, that Ginny had actually gone someplace and voluntarily had herself "maimed," he absolutely blew a gasket... ranted and raved like a madman, so much so that somebody threatened to call airport security. He shut up for the moment as we scurried out to the car to avoid any more embarrassing confrontations.

Once we were on the way home, however, he lit into Ginny again: "How could you do that? How could you be so stupid!? How could...!?" On and on. Ginny sat stoically in the back seat, staring straight ahead, not saying a word, not making a sound. I turned around to see if she was all right, and tears were streaming down her face. That was enough.

At that point I shouted, "George, just shut up! I don't want to hear any more!"

Then to Ginny, "It's all right, baby, we'll sort this out when we get home." She still wasn't making a sound, but the tears continued to flow.

George started to rant again. "Who would do this to a child?" He was going to call the police, his congressman, the FBI, Homeland Security, etc., etc. I spat out with all the venom I could muster, "George, if you don't shut up, you're going to stop this car and Ginny and I are going to walk home." He lapsed into a sullen silence.

When he pulled into the driveway and stopped the car, I got out and opened Ginny's door. She bolted from the car and headed for the front door on a dead run. I watched with open mouth as she kicked off a shoe, opened the door with her foot, stomped her foot back into the shoe and raced up the stairs and into her room, slamming the door behind her.

I followed her up the stairs, knocked quietly on her door and let myself in. She was sobbing hysterically into her pillow. I didn't say anything. I just sat on the bed beside her, pulled her into my arms and hugged her tightly. At first I didn't even think of the arms thing. I just did what I could to comfort my little girl, who was obviously in great pain, and not from surgery.

I pulled out a tissue and began drying her tears. I thought of all the times when she was little and I'd dried her tears after some minor catastrophe or other. This time, I suddenly realized, I had to do this for her now. She could no longer dry her own tears. Or so I thought at the time. Emotion almost overwhelmed me.

After a while she -- we both -- calmed down. Neither of us spoke; I just held her. Finally she said, "Mom, I'm so sorry... but I had to do it. You know I had to do it. I told you years ago I had to do it. But I didn't know daddy would hate me!"

She began to sob again.

Finally, I began to think more clearly. I straightened up, looked her in the eye and said, "I'll talk to him. He will not hate you. I'll see to that. But meanwhile, I think it'd be a good idea if we called Dr. Pierce (our pediatrician, and long-time friend) and have you checked. We really need to know that you're medically all right."

I picked up another tissue. "Blow your nose now, and just lie down and rest. I'm going downstairs to straighten things out with your father." One way or another, I thought to myself.

As I stood to go, she reached out with a foot and took the tissue from me, blew her nose, and placed the tissue in the wastebasket by her bed. She gave me a faint smile, and laid back down.

I closed the door behind me, straightened my shoulders and headed down for my confrontation with the father of our now armless child. I began to realize that she would be fine. About the rest of us I was not so sure, but I was determined to do my best.

When I opened the door to the study George was already on the phone with Dr. Pierce. "...Yes, both of them, right at the shoulders... no, she seems to be all right... apparently it happened some weeks back, or maybe longer, I don't know... yes, we can come right away. Fine, meet you there."

As he hung up the phone he said, "We're taking her to see John Pierce. Perhaps he'll be able to shed some light..."

"Of course," I responded. And I continued with all the venom in my voice I could muster, "But you've already turned her into a hysterical wreck. If you even open your mouth again, I swear, I'll call a cab and take her by myself!"

I went back upstairs to get Ginny and to explain that we were going to see Dr. Pierce... and that I'd threatened her father with mayhem if he so much as uttered a peep. She'd calmed down, had her laptop open on the bed and was typing -- with her toes, of course -- when I entered her room after knocking softly. I explained as best I could that we wanted to take her to see Dr. Pierce. She agreed it was best for her to be examined, if for no other reason than to pacify her father, slipped on her shoes, and accompanied me downstairs and out to the car.

George was as good as his word, and we rode in relative silence. When we reached the office he started in with Dr. Pierce about how he was going to call the police, etc., etc....

"Now George," Dr. Pierce said, cutting him off and guiding him none too subtly to a chair in his office. "Let's see what the story is, shall we? Ginny, do you feel up to having me examine you? I'd like to make sure you're all right."

"I don't mind," said Ginny, "but I really feel okay."

"Fine, fine," he responded, "I'm glad to hear that." And to us: "Why don't you two make yourself comfortable here in my office while I do a bit of probing, and take an X-ray image or two. We won't be long."

Obviously it was not just a suggestion, so George and I waited while Ginny went down the hall with John to an exam room.

"Well, Ginny, I see you've had a bit of adventure since we've last seen each other. I'd like to take a closer look, if you don't mind."

She nodded. "I don't mind, but I really do feel fine."

"And I'm glad for that. Still, I'd like to get some images of your shoulders and examine the work, just to be sure we don't miss anything that'll cause you trouble later."

They reached a door labeled "RADIOGRAPHY" and went in. Dr. Pierce had Ginny sit up on the table while he fiddled with the machine, then said, "Now Ginny, I'd like you to take off your shirt... do you need me to help you?"

"No," she said, with a bit of triumph in her voice. She kicked off her shoes and deftly unbuttoned the blouse with her toes, shrugged it off, picked it up with her foot and hung it neatly over the back of the chair beside her. Dr. Pierce smiled, but said nothing. "All right, just lie back and keep still for a minute. He adjusted the machine, pushed a button a couple of times, readjusted her position and snapped some more pictures from different angles.

He had her sit up, examined her shoulders, probing gently, asking more questions, trying to elicit a clearer picture of what had happened, how, where, how long ago. Ginny responded as briefly and as best she could to the questions.

When he'd finished, he said, "All right," he said, "you can put the blouse back on."

She picked up the blouse with her foot, draped it over her shoulders and again deftly buttoned it up. No problem, no fumbling, accomplishing the task just as quickly and easily as she would have had she been using her now-absent hands.

"Sooo..." said Dr. Pierce pensively, "you're very comfortable using your feet?"

She nodded.

"And this is the way you've wanted to be for some time now?"

"For as long as I can remember. Since I was a little kid, anyway." She paused. "Do you think I'm, well, crazy?"

"Not at all," said the doctor. "I believe you have a condition the psychiatric community has designated BIID, body image integrity disorder. It's not a very common syndrome, but it apparently isn't unheard of. From what I can read in the literature, once a patient has achieved their desired image, that's the end of it. But I do believe we'll need to work out a clearer explanation for your parents who, as you can surely understand, are horrified."

Ginny paused before she answered, obviously struggling to control her emotions. "Yes, of course," she finally said firmly. "I'd like to tell them the whole story. In fact, I'd like to do it here, in your office, where I feel, well, safe."

"Very wise," said Dr. Pierce. "and I think I can offer some background that might help. Are you ready to go back?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," she said with a slight grin.

She climbed off the exam table, slipped into her shoes, and together they headed back down the hall to face her parents.

As she took a seat next to her parents, Dr. Phelps sat behind his desk and called up the images on his computer screen. He began, "First, you should know that Ginnie is fine. The surgery was done expertly, and there should be no further trouble." Her parents leaned closer as he turned the monitor around and pointed with a pencil to the image on the screen.

"There is no residual damage. The scapula and the associated structure is intact. The humeris -- the upper arm bone -- was removed just at the joint, leaving the ball in place. This will prevent a concave hollow from developing, and will ensure a beautiful, smooth shoulder. And as you can see, it's the same on both sides. What little surface scarring remains will fade, and Ginnie will always look like she never had arms."

"But John," her father sputtered, "Who would do this? How can they get away with doing this to a child?" The anger was beginning to resurface. "Can't anything be done to... to shut them down?"

Dr. Pierce smiled. "I doubt it. Based on what I've been able to find out, The Island, as it's known -- no other name that I've been able to find -- is a privately-owned tiny spot just off the Pacific coast of Ecuador. It's only a few hundred acres, a couple of miles long and maybe a mile wide at the widest point. It was originally developed in the early twenties as a coffee plantation. Then during World War Two it was taken over by the Ecuadoran military. They built a small airport, and stationed a garrison there as a part of their coastal defense network. After the war the military moved out and it was sold to a private developer who turned it into a sort of resort. But the resort didn't flourish, soon closed, and the place lay untouched for many years.

"Finally, sometime in the seventies, the island was bought by an investment group which developed it into the complex it is today. The purpose was to provide a place where people with -- let's say, certain needs -- could go and have their needs fulfilled. And the surgeon Ginnie knows as Dr. Anna is, I believe, Dr. Annamarie Melito-Rodriguez. Born in Columbia, she's a graduate of Harvard Medical School, and her day job, if you will, is chief of pediatric surgery at Texas Children's Hospital in Houston. For many years she's taken summers off to travel to small out-of-the-way Latin American hospitals, teaching and doing procedures in backwaters where twenty-first century medicine is not normally available. And where, apparently, she also volunteers her services on a part-time basis at the clinic on The Island."

George said, "But it must be... illegal! Can't something be done to..." He was sputtering again.

Dr. Phelps smiled. "Best I can tell, the investment group that runs the place includes several high-level officials of the Ecuadoran government. And rumor has it that a number of family members are, shall we say, alumni of the place. For instance, the president's son has two one-legged daughters, and the prime minister is married to an armless woman. And those are the only ones I could actually more-or-less verify. Apparently there are many others."

George just shook his head and flapped his jaw a few times, but kept quiet.

"Why don't we let Ginnie tell us how she came across this place," said Dr. Phelps. "Perhaps we can learn more. Okay, Ginnie?"

Ginnie nodded, and began her story.

"It all started that first summer in Belize. The camp is organized into 'Haciendas', they call them, eight girls and a camp councilor-type in a little cabin, two rooms on each side, opening onto a common space, two girls to a room, with a single room across the end for the councilor. My roommate was a girl named Janie. She was paired with me because this was her third year and she'd guide me and show me the ropes.

"Janie and I hit it off immediately. She's from Houston, and her parents spend their summers traveling the middle east on some kind of oil-related business. She'd hated going on those trips, she told me, because the places they'd go are terrible for kids. There's absolutely nothing for a kid to do. So finally they'd sent her to Belize for the summer. I told her I could relate."

At this point her mother couldn't suppress a giggle, answered by an eye-roll from Ginnie.

"Anyway, as we began our various activities I noticed that the councilor in one of the other haciendas used a crutch to get around, because she only had one leg. The other one was just a stump -- about half of her thigh. And since we all always wore shorts we could see it jiggle and bounce as she walked and moved around, and she apparently had no problem either getting around, in performing normal camp activities, or with people gawking at her.