Chelseas Story

How I Lost a Leg

and

Gained a Husband

My name is Chelsey. I'm twenty-five years old. Four years ago, I had a series of blood clots which cut off circulation to my left foot. I spent two months in the hospital which finally resulted in the amputation of my foot, just above the ankle. But the infection persisted, the stump wouldn't heal, and they did a series of revisions, the last of which was through my leg about mid-calf. Instead of a foot and lower leg, I now had a stump that extended about six or seven inches below my knee. And although the objective was only to remove my foot at the ankle, I was now effectively one-legged.

I had lived alone before the amputation, and didn't want to depend on someone else now. I declined an offer from my parents to move back in with them and returned to my own apartment when I left the hospital. Although a prosthetist visited me in the hospital, I felt I needed time to adjust to my new image before spending more time with people in white coats. I had no idea it would be two years before I saw him again.

As my stump healed it seemed to become more and more sensitive. Standing on it didn't seem feasible to me. I decided to continue on crutches rather than get an artificial leg.

It was difficult to adjust to the sensation of my leg ending not in a foot but in a stump, just hanging there in mid-air with nothing attached to it, and no apparent purpose. At first, I kept wanting to step with it. Then I tried holding it stiff so it wouldn't move. Gradually I learned to just relax and ignore the way it swung back and forth as I walked. Finally, I came to enjoy the sensation it gave me as it dangled uselessly beneath my skirt.

Since I lived alone it was hard to manage everything using two crutches. So, I started learning to use just one, to leave a hand free. At first, I did this mostly while doing housework, but as I learned to move smoothly on the single crutch, I began going to the grocery store this way. It was nice to be able to have a hand free to push a shopping cart or carry packages, to have no need of someone along with me.

At first, I was not big on allowing my stump to be seen. If I went out, I always wore jeans or pants and just let the empty part dangle. But as summer approached, I realized I wasn't going to be able to wear long pants much longer. That caused me some concern. Although I had always worn shorts or short skirts in hot weather, doing so now would expose my entire footless leg, stump and all. But after much thought I decided to continue doing as I had in past summers, for two reasons. First was the expense of buying an entirely new wardrobe of lightweight long pants. Second, and more important to me, I refused to make any more concessions to life with one leg than I absolutely had to.

I knew I was drawing more than a few stares, and I had to admit it probably wasn't every day that people saw a girl in cut-offs, a leg with no foot, a crutch in one hand and the handle of a grocery cart in the other! I quickly learned not to be bothered by the looks I got, and in fact began to enjoy the attention. This was the way I was, and I couldn't change it.

I still went clubbing on occasion with the other girls from work, and it was then that I really missed having that foot. I was asked to dance a few times when I was seated at tables, but as soon as I explained I only had one foot, the guys beat a hasty retreat.

Before the surgery I'd dated several guys with varying degrees of regularity and always considered myself reasonably attractive to men.

I hadn't been dating anyone when my foot was amputated, and I wanted to think that wasn't the reason I wasn't dating anyone now. But I couldn't help thinking that even though I had remained as active with my friends as I could, I never was asked out by a man. I began to question whether I was still desirable, and indeed, what it would be like in bed with a man. Those questions remained unanswered for over two years.

I was no virgin. When I was in college, I had a steady I liked very much, and we had sex as often as we could. He was my first, and that relationship lasted until he graduated (two years ahead of me) and went off to college. After college I attended two years of grad school before I lost interest in academics and left to join the work force.

At the urging of my doctor I finally called the prosthetist to see about getting a leg made. He told me that wonderful things were taking place in the field of prosthetics; my new leg would look and function just like a real one.

I can't tell you how disappointed I was when I received the finished product. It not only looked like plastic, but it had an ugly, clunky foot that looked like it had been purloined from some giant doll. I had always enjoyed wearing sandals, but there was no way to do that with this foot. Nor could I wear high heels with it - only flat-soled shoes. But despite my disappointment with the leg's looks, I did enjoy having both of my hands free when I moved around.

The first week I had the prosthesis, I went out to dinner with some friends. One of the girls saw a guy named Chris whom she used to work with and invited him to join us, and before dinner was over, he had asked me out. I was wearing jeans, so he hadn't noticed the prosthetic leg, and I didn't tell him. I felt guilty for not saying anything, but I didn't think it was a coincidence that I'd gotten the leg and a date in the same week. Later, when the guilty feelings persisted, I decided to tell him when he came to pick me up and give him a chance to back out gracefully.

When Chris arrived, he sat patiently while I beat around the bush before finally blurting out my news. He responded, "Do you mean you don't want to go out with me after all?" He looked so serious that I couldn't help laughing.

If only I'd known about the shock that went through him at that time. Chris remained so calm that I didn't find out until later what was going on in his mind.

We had a wonderful evening. I gladly accepted when he asked if I would go out with him again.

I hadn't had the prosthetic leg long when the thrill of being able to walk again began taking a back seat to the hassle of daily life with a prosthesis. Just getting dressed and undressed took so much longer, and for the first time I was limited in what I could wear. I had several pairs of pants that wouldn't pull over the foot; I couldn't wear any of my sandals or high heels and getting that foot into any shoe was a real hassle. The leg soon began spending more and more time standing in the corner of my bedroom while I went about my daily affairs on crutches, the left pantleg dangling empty as before.

On one of our dates, I told Chris about my dissatisfaction with the leg. He listened, then told me it sounded like the leg part was okay; it was just the foot and ankle that was causing the problems. I agreed and said that I'd decided not to wear it anymore, and hoped he could accept my choosing life on crutches, as I saw no alternative. He winked at me and said he had an idea I might try. I didn't know what he intended, but I let him take the leg with him when he went home.

The next day I found out what Chris's alternative was. He had taken the foot off the leg and attached a wooden peg to the socket, finishing the peg off with a tip from one of my spare crutches. He'd made me a simple peg leg, something that had never occurred to me.

I tried it on, although I didn't think I'd really be able to walk on it. I was wrong about that, too. It felt so light, just like my real leg, and I

could

walk on it, as it turned out, much more smoothly and comfortably than I had ever experienced with a prosthetic before.

With a foot attached to the prosthesis I had to consciously push off with my stump at each step. As a result, I tired quickly and the whole thing felt like it weighed a ton. The peg leg allowed my natural momentum to carry me along with no necessity for rolling up onto the ball of a stiff foot with a rigid ankle. I no longer needed the use of my partial calf muscle to walk. In addition, I was spared the weight of a shoe. Now I could walk with no effort, no limp, and I didn't have to dress and undress a leg all the time. I could wear a high heel without using crutches; I could go hiking and wear hiking boots; I could walk as far as I wanted. In summer I could wear sandals again... well, one, anyway.

Chris seemed to like my peg leg as much as I did, but he still had made no effort to be more than a friend. Was it because of my missing foot?

When he finally decided to tell me, it was more than I could believe. We had gone dancing. I wore a black silk pantsuit with a spike-heeled sandal and, of course, my peg. It was the best evening I'd had since my amputation - I'd always loved to dance. I was feeling very sexy, and I thought my peg leg added to the effect rather than detracting. I sensed that Chris felt the same way.

When he took me home, he said there was something he wanted to tell me. The way he said it was so serious, I thought he wanted to break up. Little did I know!

He told me that there were men who were actually attracted to female amputees - and that he was one of them. He said he didn't know I was an amputee when he asked me out the first time. He didn't find out until I told him, and my telling him was one of the most exciting things that had ever happened to him. I didn't know what to think. I had always felt I would be able to please a man sexually as long as we could both just ignore my stump.

I soon found out how wrong I was.

Chris asked me to slip off my peg while he went to the bathroom. He returned with a bottle of massage oil and asked me to pull up my pantleg. As he massaged the oil into my stump the feelings were unbelievable. It was a combination of relaxation and erotic stimulation at the same time. It was the first time anyone but my doctor, my prosthetist or myself, had touched my stump, and it felt great.

We moved into the bedroom and slowly undressed each other. By now I felt so euphoric I wasn't even conscious of my stump hanging there and had no reservations about what was to happen next.

As we lay down, I lifted my stump and softly stroked it up and down Chris's back. I found I could put a pillow under the end of it and use it like a normal leg as we made love. As I neared climax my stump developed a mind of its own, swinging wildly around. It only increased my pleasure. Any doubts I had about my ability in bed with a man quickly vanished.

Without realizing it, Chris and I had each found the perfect partner. He didn't know until the night I told him I only had one foot. And I didn't know until that first time in bed. Our relationship has grown constantly better as I've learned more and more ways to tease Chris with my stump.

I enjoy it just as much as he does. For years I thought my stump would have to be ignored for me to be considered sexy. Now I use it to increase my sex appeal. When I had two normal feet my sex life was never as good as it is now. There was no way it could have been; Chris and I both derive so much added pleasure from my stump. I still draw stares in public because I am always either on crutches or the peg leg. But I have learned to accept being different and have no desire to ever battle a "modern" artificial leg for the sake of looking "normal." For all practical purposes I am a one-legged woman, and I always will be. I see no reason to present myself otherwise.

####

Well, not exactly. It's true that I'm an amputee, that I have a prosthetic leg, and that to get around it's either the prosthetic or crutches. But, from my knees up I'm no different than any other girl. From my knees up, I have two legs.

When Chris told me about the group of men who admire amputee women, I began to explore the world of stories, pictures, and meetings that make up the devotee community. I found that Chris was by no means unique, and that my process of finding out about the "interest" was pretty typical.

But it did appear that most of the interest was in girls who were missing a lot more than just a foot. According to what I could get from Chris (and other girls I met later confirmed it), the most sought-after amputee women in this crowd are those who have a leg amputated somewhere around mid-thigh. A 'long BK', as I'm apparently classified, is far down the list. Well, no matter. Chris and I were getting along just fine, especially in bed, where we'd managed to come up with all sorts of games involving my stump.

But I did notice that he always loved to see me in a skirt that was long enough to cover my stump, giving me the appearance of an above-knee amputee. He said nothing turned him on as much as watching me gliding along on my crutches with only a single leg showing below my skirt.

Not that he gave me any indication that he was losing interest, but as it happened, I was beginning to think that I, too, would like it if more of my leg had been removed. After all, without a foot, my remaining leg was nothing but decoration, something with which to entice my lover to bed - not a bad thing, actually - but I thought I could do more, if I had less.

It finally reached the point that I made an appointment with the surgeon who had originally operated on my leg. I laid it out for him in this way: I have never had much success with a prosthetic leg, even though I still have my knee. The only prosthetic I wear now is the peg leg that Chris built for me. If I had the rest of my leg amputated, I

could

still use a regular prosthesis, and since crutches are my walking aids 95% of the time, it seems not much of a loss.

The doctor listened to me kindly and nodded in understanding. Apparently, I was not the first young female amputee who had come to this conclusion. But in the end, he told me that the only way he could amputate more of my leg was if there was some medical necessity, and prosthetic use (or non-use) isn't enough.

He wasn't unsympathetic. He said he understood where I was coming from, but that I had to understand he couldn't just go around sawing off girls' legs just because they were tired of them. If he were revising a stump, he said, or if my knee were to give out, well, that would be different. But given my age and my generally healthy condition, none of this was likely. But he did make another appointment for me six months later, and said he'd be willing to discuss it again. If I felt the same way, then perhaps something could be done.

As it turned out, I didn't need that appointment. Our conversation took place in late October. In January things resolved themselves.

Chris and I were going to the grocery store. It had sleeted the night before, and snowed that morning, so the ground was very treacherous. I was wearing my peg, and Chris was tightly holding my arm as we walked out to the garage. It was just a short distance from the back door of the house to the garage, and we were being as careful as could be.

But sure enough, my peg slipped out from under me and I went down. It happened so fast that Chris had no time to react, and I landed solidly with all my weight on my knee. The knee, and the prosthesis, were shattered. And it probably didn't help that the sudden movement pulled Chris down on top of me.

I knew right away that I was badly hurt. Chris said later that my face was so white he thought I was going to pass out. But he scrambled to his feet and carefully pulled me upright. Fortunately, my real leg was not injured.

I put my arm around his neck and leaned on him as we made our way slowly back up the icy sidewalk to the back door. Once inside, he laid me gently on the couch and spread some blankets over me. I was white as a sheet and shaking, which we figured was shock. My leg hurt like hell.

Chris decided that with the current weather conditions he'd never be able to get me to the car and drive me over the icy streets to the emergency room, so we dialed 911. During the 15-minute or so wait for the EMTs, I called my doctor and explained what had happened. It must have been obvious that I was in serious pain, because his immediate response was that he'd meet us at the emergency room.

Chris rode in the ambulance with me and held my hand. I was almost asleep, I guess from the IV the EMTs had started. They had spoken by radio to the doctor on the way, so he had a pretty good idea of what was going on by the time we got to the ER. Whatever was in it that IV, the pain was fading out.

I don't remember a lot about our arrival in the ER. When I was next conscious, I was in a room with machines monitoring me and pumping more drugs into me via another IV line.

My doctor was there, along with Chris. The doctor's first comment was that he guessed I wasn't going to need my appointment in April after all. I was a bit too zonked to laugh, but Chris snickered, knowing exactly what he was talking about.

"Okay," he began, "your knee is pretty well wrecked - a medical term, of course," he winked, "meaning that your insurance company is going to take a hell of a hit. The standard treatment for a case like this is a replacement knee. We go in, clean up the mess, extract all the shattered bones and pulverized fragments - you did a really good job with that, by the way - and put in a Teflon and titanium replacement knee of the type usually used by the elderly who finally wear out their originals. Then we rebuild and reattach the torn ligaments, try to put them substantially back where they belong, and wait. The actual surgery requires at least six hours and takes six to eight weeks for recovery, plus usually another four weeks to make sure the ligaments are strong enough to support you, plus eight to ten additional weeks of physical therapy and rehabilitation."

I could feel myself getting sick to my stomach. But the doc wasn't through.

"However, in your case, if you'd like to avoid six weeks in the hospital, plus rehab, etc., etc., just so you can regain the use of that dubious home-made prosthesis you sometimes use, I can offer an alternative."

I could hardly wait. Which is what I told him.

He laughed. "Okay, instead of all that major repair, the medically indicated alternative, since you are already an amputee, is a simple above-knee amputation. We'll just saw off all that mess and throw it away. That'd take me about an hour. And since you're an otherwise perfectly healthy young woman, you'll be home in a week, and up and around in six. And no rehab, until you go back for a store-bought, high tech above-knee prosthesis. And I'm not holding my breath for that."

"And," a slight grin, "your insurance company will turn cartwheels and fall down the stairs approving

that

claim."

He was looking intently at an image on a large cart-borne monitor of, I supposed, my knee. At this point he swung it around so I could see the screen. "See here," he pointed, "this is your knee, here is where your tibia and fibula end, and this shadow is the outline of your stump. As you can see here," he moved his finger along the image, "your knee is now not much more than splintered fragments. If you were to get a repair, as I say, we're looking at least six hours of tedious surgery here - and that's before the new knee can be installed."

I assured him again that I didn't want that procedure, and that I was very grateful that he could just 'saw it off,' as he put it so colorfully.

"All right then," he said, "We'll go that way. Now I expect I can make you an excellent usable stump, in case you change your mind about those prosthetics when you get to be a little old lady."

I giggled. "Maybe by then," I responded.

He went on, "If I remove it just about here..." he pointed at a spot which appeared to be about three or four inches above my knee.