You dread an above-knee amputation. It changes your life. I can’t run. Steps can be terrifying
When I went to bed, I felt as though my ribs shot out of my chest. They helped expel the pain. And itching: the two were intertwined. It itched. It hurt. I screamed under my breath, “Don’t scratch Don’t scratch!” My hands sprang back from my leg, fingers stretched. Like distressed stars. I shook. If I scratched I couldn’t stop. Vestiges of the scratching compulsion remain.
I’m an amputee. My right leg was chopped off above the knee some years ago. I have a conical vestige of a leg. People call that my “stump”. Ugly word. I call it “my leg”. It is my leg.
