How Much Does the Amputation Affect Your Day-to-Day Life?
I put on the prosthesis every morning. I have to have the skin repaired frequently. I’m pretty rough on it, so I get tears and broken nails. I’m dependent on it, like someone with bad vision relies on glasses. It seems like losing a body part—a breast, an arm, or a leg—would be among the most horrible things to endure. It has its annoyances. But human beings have an incredible ability to adapt—especially children. The new body becomes your reality. You really do get used to it. Before long, having one leg becomes the new normal.
Adult amputees do find it harder to adapt, but they do. I met a man recently who was missing his arms and legs, and he was one of the happiest guys ever. He had a beautiful wife and child. When people see him, they don’t know what to do. They can’t shake his hand. So he says, “Come on and give me a hug.” Everyone feels at ease. He’s an amazing person with an indomitable spirit. If you are a naturally affectionate, happy person, you will be that way whether you have four limbs or three. Or none. If you’re a cranky, whiny bastard, then you will probably be that way after an accident or disease. Your basic personality doesn’t do a 180 just because you lose a limb. You’ll still be you.
The only example of my leg getting in the way of my living is having to get frequent repairs. It’s a time-suck to schlepp to Long Island and wait for the fittings. Luckily, my prosthetist will let me mail the leg to him for simple repairs. I’m grateful for the skill and work that goes into my repairs. But I hate losing a day to get them or being without my prosthesis while it’s in the mail.
But If You Could, Would You Have Both Legs Back?
I don’t go there. No one can go back in time. I’m not going to say that the accident was a blessing in disguise. It was an accident. It changed the course of my life. Looking back at what might have been would be a waste of time. With four kids, I have no time to waste. I haven’t let my leg (or lack of one) slow me down or keep me from doing anything I wanted to do. When people rewrite their own history—if I’d married that man, or landed that job, or hadn’t had my foot chewed off in a barn cleaner—they’re living in a fantasy world. I’m a realist’s realist. I exist in the here and now. Right here, right now, I have a great life. No complaints.
Are You Discriminated Against?
A lot of people in my social and professional circles never knew I wore a prosthesis. Appearing on The Real Housewives of New York City was like coming out of the amputee closet. Since then, I haven’t noticed any marked change in the way people treat me.
The only time I’ve felt a pang was when pregnant friends have an amniocentesis or sonograms. “If there was anything wrong with the baby, I would abort,” they’ve said.
I asked, “Anything? Really? Like, say, the baby had a missing arm or leg?”
“Absolutely.”
That smarts. Those people believe that their child couldn’t be happy and have a full life with a missing limb. My existence wouldn’t be worth having? Really? They simply don’t know what they are talking about. I tell myself that if they walked a mile in my shoes, they wouldn’t feel the same way.
What Other Leg Options Can You Get Besides Flat, High Heel, Swimming, and Running?
You can get a skiing leg, a dancing leg, a tap dancing leg, different legs for different sports. The sky is the limit. You can get anything you want, if you are willing to pay for it or your insurance will pay for it.
I heard Heather Mills, Paul McCartney’s ex-wife, had a nightclub dancing leg. I don’t know how it was different from a normal prosthesis. I danced on tables in Paris in my primitive, abrasion-maddening, hard plastic leg just fine. But if she or anyone could think up a certain kind of leg, if she has the resources, she can get it made.
What Happens If You Gain or Lose Weight? Would the Prosthesis Fit?
No, it wouldn’t. And that’s a huge problem. If you gain or lose ten pounds, it can affect the fit and balance of the leg. During my pregnancies, I gained forty pounds. Ideally, I would have had a pregnancy leg. But I made do with what I had. We all wake up in the morning more swollen, and as the day goes on, we shrink, especially when we’re pregnant. My prosthesis was really tight in the morning. I figured out that if I slept in the silicone sleeve, I wouldn’t swell as much, and I could get the prosthesis on more easily. During normal weight fluctuations, I add socks to make the socket tighter if I lose weight. If I gain, I don’t wear any socks. Because of this issue, I have to be very careful about not putting on extra pounds, or eating salty food that would make me bloat.
Is It a Great Feeling to Take It Off at Night?
I do love getting into my bed and clicking it off. It just feels good to stretch out under the covers and relax. But, honestly, it’s a bigger relief to take off my bra at night. My bra is more uncomfortable than my leg.
Does the Residual Leg Get Itchy or Need Special Skin Care?
It can. Fortunately, I’m not rash prone. Heat rashes can happen. Overall, the silicone sleeve protects my stump from chafing. I haven’t had a single abrasion since I had that second amputation at twenty-six. I do have calluses on my knee from wearing the prosthesis. I don’t slough them away, though. They give me protective natural padding.
Do You Shave the Stump?
I don’t need to. I’m blond and don’t have a lot of hair. The hair that grows on the residual limb is fine white baby hair and not worth risking a nick over. For others, I think shaving is not recommended because rashes can occur.
Do You Shower with the Leg On or Off?
Off. I shower standing on one leg. This is my real talent. I can shampoo, condition, lather, and scrub on one leg. If I need help with the balance, I lean on the wall for a second. In our current apartment, however, our bathtub is big and round with a curtain. I don’t have a wall to lean on, so I got a little stool and sit on it in the shower.
The worst part of showering isn’t having one leg. It’s having kids! There’s a constant parade through the bathroom. They never leave me alone in there. I don’t wish I had another leg to shower. I wish I had privacy.
What Do the Kids Think about Your Leg(s)?
They think nothing of it. My kids are still very young, from eleven to two. When the time is right and their vocabulary is more advanced, I’ll explain it all to the little ones. But for now, they know the basics. I had an accident when I was younger. I wear a “special leg” because I had a big boo-boo. I don’t make a big deal of it, and neither do they. My older kids know some of the details. My ten-year-old stepdaughter, Veronica, came into my bedroom last night and put my prosthesis between her knees and said, “I’ve got three legs!” (Okay, stop thinking dirty here, guys.) She seems to have more curiosity about my leg than her siblings. When she asks me a question—a lot of the ones I’ve included in this chapter—I give her a clear answer she can understand. Harrison, my oldest son, is eleven, and the only time he mentions it is when I hop into the pool with my leg off. He is very protective of me and gets nervous when I swim without the prosthesis, like I might drown. It’s easier to float without the heavy prosthesis, but he thinks being able to kick with two legs is safer. I explain to him that I’m perfectly fine. My five-year-old has never said a word, and my two-year-old likes to play with my silicone toenails when they fall off.
Um, Your Toenails Fall Off?
I call them my “prosthetoes.” Yes, the glue that holds them on the leg wears away, and the little toenails fall off. My prosthetist sends me extra glue and spare nails. I call and say, “Yeah, hello, I need a pinky and a fourth nail. Thanks!” They send the replacement parts by FedEx, and I just do spot repairs myself. My stepdaughter Veronica thinks it’s hilarious when I randomly shed a nail. We make fun of it. It’s not creepy or weird to her. She loves to make fun of my foot when I get tears as well. She makes fun of me all the time. I like being the butt of her jokes. The leg is just an extension of that.
Do You Ever Use Your Leg to Get Out of Things You Don’t Want to Do?
No.
Well, once. I was all tucked into bed, and one of the kids called out for a glass of water. I turned to Reid and said, “I’d do it, but I’ve got my leg off. Sorry, honey.” Reid looked at me and laughed. I think I even got an eye roll on that one.
• CHAPTER NINE •
Wild about Harry
Ricky and I broke up for the fifth time. My friend Lori said, “Enough with him! That guy is a jerk. You should go out with my friend Harry.”
I agreed to the fix-up, but I probably wasn’t in the best frame of mind to meet Harry Dubin. We had dinner anyway. My first impression of the man who would become my first husband? Only positive. Harry was a kind and real gentleman. And handsome, too, with light brown hair, sparkling eyes, a bright smile, and a solid chest in a beautifully tailored blazer. The man had taste.
I enjoyed his company and we had lots of mutual friends. I was surprised we hadn’t met before. He had a worldly charm, and certainly knew his way around a restaurant. He told funny stories about his life in Washington, D.C., where he was from. I learned from Lori that he came from a family well entrenched in Washington society and that was in real estate there. (At this point, you might be thinking, In Avivaland, every man is well to do and in real estate. I can’t explain how or why I always hooked up with guys from wealthy families. Maybe because I come from one. Like attracted like. And then like repelled like. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself. . . .)
With Harry, it was not lust-at-first-sight like with Ricky. When we parted for the evening, we kissed on the cheek good-bye. I thought, He might call again, he might not. Whatever. I wasn’t that into him. He didn’t seem bowled over by me either. I went home, and telepathically begged Ricky to call. He still had a hold on me.
A month or two went by. The next time I heard from Harry, he invited me to the presidential inauguration and inaugural ball for George W. Bush in January 1997. Although I’d been to Asia and Africa and Europe, I’d never been to our nation’s capital before. But for the inauguration of a president-elect I didn’t support? I was flattered Harry asked me to the ball, but he was not my prince. I said, “Thanks, but no thanks.”
He kept calling me, though, and we became phone friends. I ran into Harry in the city, and was pleasantly reminded of how entertaining, sweet, and funny he was. Compared to Ricky, Harry was a teddy bear, an all-American mensch. I couldn’t imagine him telling any woman that she had to learn to cook or to dress a certain way. He didn’t judge. His manners were impeccable. He seemed besotted by women in general. He was an inveterate flirt, but not in a creepy way. It was just part of his happy-go-lucky personality. He could talk to anyone like a lifelong friend.
My feelings for him started to change. He was someone I could relate to. I wouldn’t have to try hard or be on guard with him. Harry and I started going out to dinners regularly. Afterward, we kissed on the street. It was all still very innocent and chaste, though, for months.
The turning point was when Harry invited me to a wedding in Washington. We were going to fly down and back together. We hadn’t had an overnight date yet. We’d only kissed, and I wasn’t ready to share a bed.
I said, “I’ll go away for the weekend with you. But we’ve never been intimate and it’d be weird to share a room.” It’d be odd for any new couple to share a bedroom so early on, but especially for me. There was the prosthesis (and bathroom) factor to consider.
He said, “Okay. I’ll get you your own room.”
Just like that. No fuss, no arguments. He booked two rooms at the Four Seasons in Washington for the wedding. He was just so easy! No arguments. No ego clashes. No judgments. Just smooth friendliness.
I went shopping for Washington-style clothes for the trip. I had a picture in my head of what D.C. society looked like: men in gray suits; women in conservative knee-length dresses. I picked out Jackie O–type sleeveless frocks, very conservative with high necklines. My friend Sarah took one look at them and said, “Where do you think you’re going? Washington isn’t that buttoned up. It’s just like Great Neck.” In the end, I borrowed a long cream Hervé Leger dress from a friend who worked with the designer.
Ricky came over to my apartment the night before our flight. We were technically over, but we still got together (for sleepovers) occasionally.
“I’m going to Washington tomorrow with Harry,” I told him as we sat on the couch, holding hands.
“Don’t go. I’m begging you! I need you! You can’t leave me. Please, Aviva!”
Ricky sniveled when he thought another man had moved in. He’d never been so vulnerable before. And you know what? It was so not sexy. I looked at him that night, bleeding need all over the couch, and felt turned off by him. The spell was broken, finally. I went to Washington.
The wedding was beautiful. We danced and had a good time. In the back of my mind, I kept thinking, Oh, God. I’m going to have to fool around with him. Sarah had warned me that if I didn’t, he wouldn’t date me again. “There comes a time when you have to shit or get off the pot,” she said.
After the party, we went to Harry’s room and fooled around.
The night was sweet. Harry made me feel treasured and respected. Unlike Ricky, sex with Harry hadn’t overwhelmed me, or turned me into an obsessed crazy person. I felt safe and sane with Harry, which, as I fell asleep next to him, seemed like a refreshingly healthy way to be.
As usual, I kept the leg on. Harry didn’t ask about it. I was only too happy not to have to tell the story on our first night. He didn’t ask about my leg on our second night either. Or the third. Or the hundredth. Not once, in our two years together, nor the ten years since our breakup. I used to think he didn’t bring it up for my sake. But I came to learn he avoided any unpleasant conversation like the plague.
• • •
Harry liked to go out to dinner, to a bar, to parties. As his girlfriend, I went along. We made a nightly tour of Manhattan restaurants and parties. Once again, I found myself in a relationship with a man who came alive at night, like Alexandre. It was one thing to burn the candle at both ends when I was a twenty-one-year-old undergrad. But now I was twenty-seven, studying for the bar exam, and worrying constantly about my mother. I was an adult, with real responsibilities. I just couldn’t keep up with Harry, too.
I woke up sick to my stomach each morning. The nausea lasted all day long. I cut out coffee, but that didn’t help. For a week, the queasiness got progressively worse. I’d get hungry for a soup or salad, and order it. But as soon as it was put in front of me, a wave of nausea hit hard. I’d rush to the ladies’ room.
The only possible explanation: stomach cancer.
I made an appointment with my doctor for an MRI. I couldn’t study. I couldn’t focus. I felt like I was wading through a fog. I described my symptoms to a friend. She said, “I spent nine months in a fog when I was pregnant.”
Oh, shit. Not stomach cancer. An at-home test confirmed I was pregnant. Until then, I’d been so careful—almost to the point of fascism—about birth control. Knocked up? This is just not my speed. I wasn’t married or even engaged. I’d envisioned a future with Harry—for a couple of months, but not the rest of my life. Was this gadfly the father of my future children? I couldn’t see it. Plus, I hadn’t been taking care of my health, and was taking caffeine pills to stay up late studying. I wasn’t so young anymore. I wanted to have children. But it wasn’t the right time.
Surgery Number Six: Termination of Pregnancy
I had to find a doctor who’d let me stay awake for the abortion. That took some doing. Finally, I found someone who’d shoot Novocain into my uterus, and let me stay awake. The abortion took ten minutes start to finish. I felt nothing. No pain, no regret. It was the obvious decision, and Harry supported it. We were totally in sync about it. Ironically, ending the pregnancy brought us closer together.
Three months later, in February 1999, my life had changed dramatically for the better. The bar exam was behind me. Whew! The stress of studying was over. Harry and I were a solid couple, and
doing well. We were lingering in bed one morning, neither of us ready to start the day. Harry reached for his pants on the floor for something in his pocket. He came back up with a ring.
It was a four-karat emerald-cut diamond set in platinum. Harry had sparkling, if conservative, taste. His sense of occasion, though, was a bit dull. The delivery was so nonchalant, I wasn’t sure if he was proposing, or just giving me a diamond.
“You’re asking me to marry you?” I asked.
“Okay.”
I paused. “Um, okay.”
And we were engaged.
The wedding planning process with Jonathan had been elaborate and complicated. This time, I kept it simple. We wanted a June wedding, so that only gave me five months to pull it all together. I was crazy busy getting everything done in time, and along with an extended trip to London, the engagement period blew by in a blur. I barely had time to think.
Even if I had had the time to leisurely analyze our relationship and my feelings, I would have married Harry. I loved the guy! I adored his family, especially his grandparents. Unlike Jonathan’s and Ricky’s fathers, Harry’s parents were very supportive of the marriage. Almost too excited. It felt great to be warmly welcomed into the clan Dubin. Harry’s brother Louis had been recently married himself to a wonderful woman named Tiffany. Tiffany’s family was involved in the real estate, banking, fashion, and art worlds of New York. Her mom had been a Ms. Israel and was herself a stunner and a no-nonsense woman. Her adopted father was A. Alfred Taubman, owner of Sotheby’s. They were a gorgeous couple, living a life that only a select few get a front-row seat to see.
One night, Harry and I had dinner with Tiffany and Louis at Scalinatella, a great Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side. The downstairs was cavelike, as if you were dining in an Italian villa’s wine cellar. When Harry excused himself, Louis and Tiffany looked at each other, and then at me. Something was up.
Leggy Blonde: A Memoir Page 12