A Leg to Stand On
Page 7
I unrolled some toilet paper and wiped my brow and then my mouth. Then I heard someone come in. “Colleen, are you okay?” It was Maureen.
“I’m better now. I guess this is more than just car sickness.”
“I guess so. Mom’s worried about you. Can you make it through the ceremony?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. But I should sit in an aisle seat, just in case.”
We walked back to our row, and everyone moved down a seat so I could sit on the aisle. I spent the next two hours wiping my sweaty brow and praying to God to take the nausea away. I just needed to get through the ceremony without any more vomit. I did.
Afterward, we headed home, leaving Matthew to go to a party with his friends.
As soon as we got to the house, I went straight to my room and fell into bed. Sleep came quickly. I woke the next morning to another wave of nausea. I was getting tired of this. I lay in bed, hoping to keep it at bay by just lying still. About an hour later, Mom came into my room. She sat down on the bed and felt my forehead.
“No fever. Colleen, I’m really concerned.” Did her face have a hint of anger, or was I just imagining it? “Could you could be pregnant?” Her eyes were hard and her tone accusatory.
“No, Mom!” I squeaked. “I guess I just have the stomach flu.” I don’t know how I got those words out. I wasn’t used to lying to my mother, but there it was; I had just done it. Lying to my mother was about the biggest thing in the world. Just strike me down dead right now.
“Well, you just rest awhile, and we’ll see how you’re doing later.” She got up and left, leaving me heartsick as well.
I spent the day in bed knowing I had to act sick all day to feign having the flu. I knew I’d give myself away if I got up and acted fine. I spent the day trying to study for my finals, but I was distracted by the decision I had to make. I longed to tell Mom, but I couldn’t imagine saying the words to her. When she was my age, she was pregnant with her second child. Her life had always been my dream, but I knew now I would never have it. A whisper of change blew through my heart, leaving me feeling empty.
If ever there was a supportive family, it was mine, but I couldn’t imagine my family supporting me in this—what I was about to do. I would tarnish the Haggerty name. At our church, we were all seen as Goody Two-shoes. After Dad’s death and my accident, the whole church rallied around us in support. It was hard to admit to myself that I had already made my decision about whether or not I’d keep the baby. Abortion went against everything I had been taught as a Catholic. It was a mortal sin. But as foreign and unthinkable as the decision felt, the path of abortion was a lot easier to imagine than having a baby. If I said yes to an abortion, it would all be over soon. If I said yes to a child, I would be walking into a lifetime of unknowns. I already felt like my life was full of unknowns: Rob, a career, my own ability to function independently, let alone as a single mother with one working leg. How would I support us? How would I finish college? How could I chase my young child away from streets and pool edges, or jump up and stop his tilting chair from toppling over? How could I exercise my greatest instincts as a mother—to protect him, at all costs? The insecurity—my sense of inadequacy—swamped me. I was terrified by the prospect of it all. I didn’t even know how my leg would affect me for the rest of my life, let alone me as a mother. I was determined to live as normal a life as possible, but sometimes, those parameters felt impossibly narrow.
The next morning, I woke up feeling sick, as usual, but also relieved that I was going back to college—and better still, back to Rob. I was not looking forward to the bus ride, but it ended up being easier than I imagined.
When I arrived at the station, Rob was standing outside with a taxi waiting. I fell into his quick embrace, exhausted. He kissed my eyelids gently and opened the door to the taxi. On the drive home, I put my head on his shoulder and surrendered to the relief of being back in his arms and not having to hide my pregnancy from my family anymore. “How did it go?” he asked as he stroked my hair.
“It was hard.” I paused, reflecting on my conversation with Mom the previous day, the guilt washing over me. “Mom asked me if I was pregnant, and …” I choked out the last words, “I lied to her.” Rob knew how close Mom and I were, and he held me tightly.
Back at my house, we finally had a chance to talk about what to do.
We went upstairs to my room for privacy and sat on the edge of my bed. “Rob, I know you don’t want this baby. I don’t want it, either. But I don’t know how to do this.” I looked down at my belly, placed my hands on it. “Isn’t this a baby?” I looked into his eyes, searching for an answer.
He cleared his throat, sat up straight, furrowed his brow, and looked me in the eye. “I don’t think so. Right now, it’s smaller than your thumbnail. It’s just a collection of cells.” He shifted on the bed to face me directly. “Who knows when it’s a baby, but I know it’s not one now,” he said with authority.
We stared at each other for a moment, me wanting to believe him, him wanting to convince me. He did.
We made an appointment to have the procedure done later in the week. We both had finals to study for, but we couldn’t concentrate. The days dragged by, filled with nausea and dread. I felt clammy and lightheaded. Since I had made the decision, I just wanted it over with.
On the day of our appointment, I walked into the doctor’s office knowing this experience would change me forever. I was giving up a huge part of who I was so I could become who I knew I needed to be. So why did I feel so sad and guilty? Would the soul I carried inside me forgive me? Somehow I knew it was a boy. Where would he go once I terminated the pregnancy? My dwindling Catholic sensibility didn’t provide any answers to my questions.
I lay on the table with Rob by my head, stroking my hair as the doctor asked me to put my feet in the awkward stirrups and scoot myself down to the end of the table. He explained the procedure was like vacuuming out my uterus, and all I could imagine was a tube sucking away the tiny speck of a baby. I couldn’t stop curling my five toes. I couldn’t stop crying. If only it didn’t actually sound like a vacuum, I might have been okay. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” I don’t know if I actually said the words aloud. I felt deep remorse and anguish, and all I could do was apologize to the baby that would never be, to my God who I distrusted as much as I wished I could believe in him, and to who I used to be—a virtuous Catholic girl.
There are precious, holy moments in life—not “sweet precious,” but “tender and vulnerable precious”—that need holding. They don’t come around very often, but this was one of those moments. In my hands, I carried a prayer with a desperate plea for forgiveness. I didn’t know how this moment would change the course of my life, but I instinctively knew it would.
The vacuuming didn’t take long. Afterward, the doctor talked to us about birth control and fitted me for a diaphragm. I disliked how it would always remind me of that fateful day when I said no to one life so I could keep having my own.
Back at home, Rob and I quietly and slowly walked up the stairs to my room. I wasn’t nauseated anymore, but now I was sick in a different, more lasting way. I stood at the threshold of my bedroom and looked at my bed, still unmade, and my desk with my homework piled neatly, just as it had been when I left in the morning. I saw my dirty clothes in the hamper and my clean clothes hanging in the closet. None of these things had changed, yet everything looked different. I was reminded of coming home from the hospital after my accident and going to my bedroom for the first time. When I left my bedroom the morning of the accident, I had two legs. I returned two weeks later with only one. I was returning to this bedroom with something missing, too.
After the abortion, I felt like I had lost another body part. I had a gnawing feeling deep in my stomach, around the place a fetus would be, similar to the phantom pain I felt in my missing limb. Rob and I climbed into bed and curled around each other. I quietly sobbed in regret and relief while Rob held me tight.
The following week, I took my finals, wondering what the hell I was doing. Everything had changed now. I knew Rob and I wouldn’t get married now that we had said no to having a child together. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I felt lost. My lousy grades indicated I should drop out of college and figure out where I was headed.
I went home to live with Mom the summer after the abortion. I hadn’t seen her since Matthew’s graduation. We never talked about the flu I had, and I was glad she didn’t bring it up because I was too ashamed to lie again. But still, I was not pleasant to be around. I was depressed, but fighting it. And my hormones, which had started doing their job when I was pregnant, but were then misdirected, were reorienting themselves. I felt perpetually premenstrual and directed all my anger inward. Now that I had had the abortion, I was regretting it terribly. While I knew I couldn’t have gone through with the pregnancy and still maintained my current level of mobility, I was angry with myself for compromising the values and beliefs I’d grown up with—those that I’d once held so personal and dear. From my feelings of selfishness, the deep gnawing in my stomach grew.
Rob lived with his parents that summer, and we continued to see each other, but I could read the writing on the wall. Our relationship was dying a slow death, but neither one of us wanted it to end. In spite of what we knew we had to do, we continued to date. I needed to be near him, to stay connected to the person who had gone through such an intense and life-altering event with me, but his usually delightful sense of humor couldn’t coax me into laughter or keep the depression at bay. Only when we took our walks did I feel at peace. Using my body physically was cathartic, as if I was somehow making up for how I’d shortchanged its potential to bring life into the world. I’d lost enough. And I knew I was losing Rob, too. I would not let my body wither away with everything else.
I didn’t go back to college the next fall. Instead, I found a job at a stock brokerage firm and a cute mother-in-law unit to rent in Seattle. Shortly after Rob helped me move, we finally broke up. I lived alone and without him. I felt lost. Since right after the accident, he had been a major part of my life. Everything I had learned to do on one leg had been with Rob, and usually because of him. He had been my number one cheerleader, my advocate, my shoulder to cry on, my scapegoat. Rob had been my best friend—practically my only friend after high school. I had been so comfortable with him; he never judged me. I didn’t have to worry about what he thought of me. Without him now, everything felt so hard. I was more afraid of what my future held than ever.
I needed to find something to lighten my heavy heart.
8
CATCHING WIND
With Rob absent from my life, I had far too much time on my hands. And a person with an aching soul, an empty womb, and too much time on her hands is bound to do what she really needs to do: grieve. I couldn’t risk going down that road. I needed to find a way to feel empowered. I needed something that would help me feel free from my limitations and connected to the greater world in some way, and maybe help me meet new people. I decided skiing would be just the thing. It’s the only athletic activity I’d ever tried and liked before my accident.
One day, about three weeks after Rob and I broke up, I huddled over the enormous Seattle phone book, scanning the entries under S. Was there anyone out there, I dared hope, who could teach me how to ski? I remembered the joy and freedom two-legged skiing had given me as I sped down the slopes in seventh grade. I missed the joy of running, walking fast, riding a bike—anything that sent my hair whipping behind me. I yearned for speed. I had feelings to get away from, after all.
Ah! Here was something: “Skiforall: Instruction for disabled skiers.” A bolt of excitement zipped through me as I envisioned myself skiing down a mountain. I called the number, desperately hoping this would be the answer. After a few minutes on the phone explaining my condition, they said yes, I qualified as disabled and could participate in their ski program. I signed up immediately, giddy with anticipation.
I was told I would ski without my prosthesis, which was big and heavy. I decided to wear my peg leg instead, which was lighter and more adaptable. A crude version of my prosthesis, it’s basically a metal pylon with a rubber foot that screws into the socket I wear around my stump. But because the pylon lacks a knee unit, I walk like a stiff-legged pirate when I use it. While skiing, I would detach the pylon but leave the socket on to protect my stump from the cold and the falls.
On the first Sunday of lessons, I woke early after a fitful sleep. The night before, I’d gone to bed feeling like a child just before her first day of elementary school. My stomach swarmed with butterflies, and questions hounded my mind: Who else will be skiing? What if I can’t do it? What if I break my good leg?
I was quite relieved to learn that Skiforall provided transportation for the disabled skiers. I avoided driving in the snow at all costs because it always made me feel panicky: bile flushed into my mouth, I broke into a cold sweat, and my knuckles turned white from wringing my hands. I didn’t like my fear of driving in the snow, and yet it felt very justified.
I met the bus a half hour away from my Seattle home. I boarded the bus with the same nervousness I had in seventh grade when I first started riding school buses. My plan was to casually scan the aisle for the perfect bus partner: maybe a fun-looking woman or a cute guy. I climbed the steps one by one, already hot from all the clothes I was wearing. Inside the bus was loud and stuffy. As I scanned the nearly full seats, my heart dropped and heat rose to my face. Everyone there, except the chaperones, was mentally challenged. I was greeted by huge smiles and generous hellos.
“Take a seat where you can find one,” said the bus driver.
Midway down the aisle, I found a seat with a happy-looking young woman who had the classic visage of a person with Down syndrome: slanted almond eyes and a flat nose.
“Ya wanna sit with me?” she asked, beaming at me.
“Thank you.” I manually unlocked my knee, and it bent.
“I’m Cindy. What’s your name?” she asked.
I had very little experience interacting with developmentally disabled people, so I wasn’t sure how to talk to her.
“I’m Colleen,” I said, feeling a huge wave of disappointment settle over me. I had been excited by the prospect of meeting a new community of people who were like me: physically disabled. I was incensed that the lady at the Skiforall office hadn’t been clearer about my fellow passengers.
“Have you ever skied before?” Cindy asked, smiling. “This is my second year skiing, and last year I won two gold medals at the Skihawks. Coach Dan says I was the most improved last year. My friend Tina won three gold medals, but I was the most improved.” Her pride was palpable.
“Really? Great. Good for you,” I said, praising her like one might a child. I didn’t want to be condescending, but I was caught off guard and was still trying to swallow the stone of disappointment lodged in my throat.
I glanced around the bus as Cindy continued talking about her skiing achievements. There were people, like Cindy, who clearly had Down syndrome. There were others whose heads bobbed steadily—who were quiet, their attention seemingly focused inward. Some were as young as ten; others looked as old as sixty. A chaperone from a few seats up looked at me with a friendly smile. I smiled back, feeling out of place where I sat, like being stuck on the visitor’s side of the stadium at a home game—much like how I lived my whole life.
Cindy finished talking and started drawing smiley faces and flowers in the condensation covering the window. Her pictures looked like a first grader’s. They made me smile, but not the smile one gives to a peer.
I felt guilty over my disappointment, but I had been hoping to get to know o
ther amputees. I was desperate to know how other people dealt with their pain, anger, and frustration. I was gradually realizing that if I didn’t have any role models, I could I never make progress on my own journey. The people on the bus were not my people. This wasn’t what I had signed up for.
The noise level increased with each passing mile we climbed toward the pass. About halfway up, a chaperone stood up briefly and raised his hand, and the crowd quieted down.
“Let’s keep it down, people. Hey, I know—let’s give this bus driver a little incentive, shall we?” This was clearly a cue; instantly, the whole bus of people, seriously off-key, started singing “The Wheels on the Bus.”
“… go round and round, round and round, the wheels on the bus go round and round, up to the mountain …”
I sat with my arms crossed, smiling lamely. I knew I should be a good sport and join in, but I just wasn’t up to it. I was feeling too discombobulated to make the best of the situation.
It took a little over an hour to get up to the pass, and I was exhausted. It was only eight thirty a.m., but I felt like I had lived a whole day already. My stomach flip-flopped as I realized it was time for the next phase of the adventure. One of the chaperones guided me to the rental office. Once there, a burly young guy with a head of curly brown hair came up to me.
“You must be here for the three-track ski lessons,” he said. His eyes twinkled.
“Ummm, is that for amputees?”
“Yeah, it’s called three-track ’cause you use outriggers on each arm and one ski. I’m Davin, and I’ll be your instructor. You must be Colleen. The other two students are already here.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, smiling. My disappointment was quickly dissipating. I hadn’t expected a cute guy to be teaching me. Things were definitely looking up. I looked down and noticed he had two legs.