A pretty basic plan, but it represented more in my mind. From this moment on, I wasn’t going to hide. I would still wear my prosthetic hand when it arrived—the passive one that looked like a real hand—but deep down I wasn’t going to be ashamed of my disability. That’s what this challenge meant to me.
I picked my outfit carefully: a bright green tank top with black pants past my knees. My shoes were black with bright green laces.
Sheri came with me for the run, along with an athletic trainer named Sarah. The run itself was simple. We went for two miles, and plenty of people were out that morning. No one was looking at my arm during the run. I quickly forgot about myself and concentrated on my breathing, my pace, and the beautiful day around us.
After the run we went to Company Café, and Brittany and Shaun met us there. I felt a bit insecure at first, because now we weren’t running on the trail, and I was sitting there with my arm out in the open. But everyone got to talking pretty soon, and I forgot about how huge the moment had seemed in my mind. James came to the café too. He’d seen me in the hospital right after the accident with my head half-shaved and my face all puffy, but he hadn’t seen my arm. It had always been covered with a long-sleeved shirt or jacket. James pulled up a chair, gave me a hug, and ordered lunch along with everybody else. He wasn’t fazed at all.
The paparazzi snapped a photo of me that day. The headline began, “Lauren Scruggs Steps Out for First Time Proudly Displaying Her Amputated Limb.”18
Oh well. I didn’t do it for the news. I did it for me.
Although the physical pain in my left arm eventually subsided, the emotional pain never seemed to let up. To help me work through my feelings, in early spring I began meeting regularly with a counselor, and I continue to meet with her once a week.
My counselor encourages me to speak openly about my struggles and fears, and then she consistently leads me to God’s perspective on my challenges. She helps me fight the lies I tell myself (and sometimes hear from others) by filling me with the truth. When I try to gloss over my pain, she challenges me to dig deeper into my heart so I can uncover the source of my emotions and find true healing. One of the most important things she’s done is help me come to terms with losing my hand.
I leave every appointment at Advanced Arm Dynamics—which generally lasts about four hours—absolutely exhausted. I appreciate the skill and honesty of the people at the arm prosthetics center, who have been open with me from the beginning about some of the challenges of learning to live with a prosthesis—particularly the myoelectric, the one I’d be able to open and close using my forearm muscles. For instance, people who haven’t learned to use the arm correctly have been known to inadvertently crush things like computer screens and phones with it. That, and the fear that my new arm wouldn’t look or feel feminine, frightened me early on.
When at last my myoelectric arm was ready in late May, my mom, Brittany, and Sheri went with me to have it put on for the first time. I was determined to be strong and calm when they brought it out. Brittany and my mom started tearing up and left the room as it was being put on, but I got through it, grateful I had managed to look “okay” in front of everyone.
My facade crumbled as soon as I got back home. I left the bag with my new prosthesis hidden in the trunk of my car and crawled into bed. Although I’m a morning person who typically pops out of bed by seven or eight, I stayed in bed the next day until early afternoon. I cried and cried, depressed and dismayed at the thought of using this new arm.
For two days, I refused to even show it to my dad. I couldn’t stand the thought of looking at it again.
Sheri had asked me to bring it to training on Monday, but I just couldn’t. I left it at home. Sheri didn’t scold me, but she did insist on driving home with me while I got it. Once back at the center, Sheri took me into an empty room and had me put the prosthesis on. Through my tears, I confessed how afraid I was of hurting someone with the arm, even if I was just giving that person a hug. Sheri “hugged it out” with me just to prove that was untrue. She told me she didn’t even feel the arm. In that moment, I had to face the fact that my own fears and insecurities had led me to worry unnecessarily, and I was so grateful to Sheri for challenging me to test my false assumptions against the truth.
Before long, I realized another source of my anger—my “new” hand. I had learned to live without my left hand; in fact, I had figured out how to do most everyday tasks without it. Now I faced the challenge of relearning how to do everything with a prosthesis. In that way, something I was told would make things easier actually seemed to be making life more difficult again.
Thanks in large part to Sheri, who refused to let me wallow in my fear, I learned to operate the myoelectric arm comfortably within just a couple of weeks. I could even hold something as fragile as an egg without being afraid I’d break it.
When I told Dana that I’d gotten my myoelectric arm, she asked me to come over so she could see it. I still didn’t feel comfortable wearing it in public, so I walked over to her house without it on. When she met me at the front door, I was crying hard. Dana immediately took me in her arms and prayed with me. What finally dried my tears was the story she told me next. Years ago, Dana said, when she was learning how to play the flute, whenever she’d hit a bad note while practicing in her bedroom, she’d get so frustrated she’d hit the flute against the mattress on her bed. As she told me the story, Dana did an impression of how she’d pound the flute against the mattress. She had me laughing so hard. Then she told me she thought I was mad at the arm, just as she’d been angry at the flute.
She nailed it. I was directing my grief over losing my hand toward this high-tech piece of plastic and steel.
Several weeks later when I was at Athletes’ Performance, Stewart, my taekwondo trainer, came in the room where Sheri and I were working. I was wearing my myoelectric arm. He asked if I minded him being there. I shook my head no.
“You know, Lo,” he said, “we all face tests in our lives, but that is exactly what makes each of us unique, interesting, and influential.” Then he kindly challenged me to embrace where I was at that moment and be confident in it.
Steve, a performance coach there, reinforced this encouragement a few weeks later. “You’re doing more than anyone thought you’d be capable of doing,” he said. Then he listed off the activities—push-ups, side planks, TRX intervals, taekwondo, and even half marathon training—that I’d been engaged in. He said I needed to acknowledge and own that progress.
In fact, I accepted my other prosthetic arms far more easily because each one served a purpose. Even though my passive arm couldn’t move at all, I liked having the option of wearing something that looked so much like a real arm. I knew it would help me blend in at Fashion Week and other industry events. I thought I’d hate my workout swim arm because it looks so much like a machine. But the day I went to pick it up, I got a pleasant surprise. The designers at Advanced Arm Dynamics had studied LOLO Magazine to see what the current color trends are and then designed this arm specially for me. It’s pink and green—two of my favorite colors. Designing it with me in mind was such a thoughtful gesture, and besides that, this arm doesn’t pretend to be more than it actually is. It is a machine, it looks like a machine, and that’s okay. Not only that, but it enables me to work out—something fun that I love doing.
Later, Sheri and I came up with nicknames for my actual arms. Tipping the hat to Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, we call my left arm “Angie” because it is smaller now than my right arm. The right arm is called “Brad” because it is more buff. We also have names for each of the prosthetic arms. We call my passive arm, the one that matches the finest details of my right hand, “Beauty.” My workout arm is called “Beast” or “Pushy” because it can only do pushing moves. The workout swim arm is called “Squirt.” And the myoelectric?
In honor of Dana’s music lessons, it’s “the Flute.”
CHAPTER 32
Giving Thanks
Laur
en
Weeks passed, and from the outside, life appeared almost normal again.
I was still surprised at how a wave of grief could come over me, even when I was convinced I’d finally found my way into calmer waters. Sometimes this was triggered by a reminder about my loss. As strange as it may sound, sometimes when I look in the mirror, I am still shocked to see I have a fake eye or a missing hand. I also have to fight a new fear: What will happen if I lose my other eye or hurt my right hand?
Yet I value my independence more than ever. I think that’s why I sometimes lash out at my parents when I feel as if they are babying me or trying to do for me what I can do for myself. “Just let me struggle and learn how to do it in my own way,” I say.
Getting back my driver’s license was huge for me. While I had some great conversations with my friends and family as they drove me around, depending on them to drive me everywhere had made me feel like I was fourteen again. I longed for the fully capable, independent lifestyle I’d had before the accident.
Because not all driver facilities conduct evaluation tests, I had to wait awhile to take it. My name went on a waiting list, and I spent a week practicing parallel parking with my dad.
Finally, the day of the test came. Just as I got into the car, we heard reports of some tornadoes hitting our area, and the test was canceled. I was back there first thing the next morning, though, and I got my license.
On a Wednesday morning in late spring, just an average day in my new post-accident life, I got up early, feeling refreshed, and made breakfast for my parents. Holding the pan with my right hand and steadying it with my left arm, I started with pancakes. Then I cut up some fruit for smoothies and whipped it all up in a blender. When I was done, I washed the dishes.
I dressed myself in gym clothes, tied my shoelaces with one hand, and drove myself over to the center for training.
At the training center, Sheri put me through all the regular rehabilitation exercises. Then I threw around a football with one of the quarterbacks who frequents the center. I was able to both throw a spiral and catch the football with ease. This was a big encouragement to me, as I hadn’t been sure if I was capable of this anymore.
Some of the guys there were talking trash to me (in a funny way), so we planned a “dance off.” I pulled on my sweatshirt jacket, put my hood up, slipped on my aviators, and danced to “Yeah” by Usher. They were cracking up. The staff danced along with me. I talked to a few of the guys at the center, guys I’d met just a few weeks earlier, and caught a rumor that a couple of them wanted to ask me out. What was cool in my mind was to experience a public expression of attraction like that. Guys still wanted to date me—and, I had to admit, that felt good. Particularly now that James and I had reached a decision.
Since we weren’t sure our relationship would be the right one for either of us in the long run, we had agreed not to date each other anymore. From Brooks, I’d realized the danger of dating someone who doesn’t hold my faith and values. James, on the other hand, shares my faith and has been absolutely amazing through everything. Yet as much as I enjoyed being with him, I realized I was not ready to commit myself fully to him.
Once I was clear on that, I knew I had to trust God rather than give in to my insecurities, which fill me with self-doubt and fear about what lies ahead. Eventually, James and I came to see that we’d been confusing affection with love. We agreed we are better friends broken up than we are when we’re in a relationship together. We care for each other deeply, and maybe that affection will turn into something more someday. But for the time being, there are too many unanswered questions for us to keep dating.
I’m not seeking the perfect guy anymore. I know he doesn’t exist, and that’s where grace will need to come into the relationship—time and time again. It is reassuring to think that God knows who I’m supposed to be with, and when the time is right, God will let both me and the guy know.
I came home from the center, showered, and changed. I was able to open shampoo bottles, put on my own deodorant, and blow-dry and style my hair. By now my own hair had grown out almost three inches, so my hairstylist had removed the old extensions and put in new ones that glued on. They felt so much better, almost like natural hair again. I figured it would take about two years for my hair to grow out fully to the length it was before. But no matter for now.
I’d always loved doing my hair and round-brushing it, which I still wasn’t able to do, although I was figuring out ways around that. (I’ve got a system worked out where the blow-dryer is attached to a fixed stand.) A girl’s hair is important to her, especially when she has long hair and it takes years to grow it out. I smiled wryly, thinking about how far I’d come.
As I continued getting ready, I reflected on all the attention given to my story. Before the accident, few people in the public eye knew who I was. After the accident, it seemed like every move I made showed up in a magazine, news story, or online. Life changed so fast for me—in so many ways—and I was still coming to grips with that.
When I was a child, I was always the shy one. Going to New York was a big confidence-builder for me, and I really became my own person there. Developing that stronger sense of confidence as a young adult has helped me today. Still, it has taken a long while to start thinking of myself as a public person. Some days I want the public notice to go away. I just want to be normal again, and I don’t want to be recognized whenever I leave the house. Yet I truly have been humbled by people’s caring comments and words of encouragement. I also see how God has put this new trait of “being recognized” in my life for a greater purpose.
As I finished applying my makeup, my mind leaped to the plan for today. It had nothing to do with my career or guys or being independent or the fashion world or interviewing anybody famous.
It was simply to deliver some special treats to some special people.
Months earlier, when I was nearly at my lowest, a class of very precious third graders at Prestonwood Elementary School had decided to raise money for me. I’d graduated from the high school portion of the school, so I already had ties there. But I was so surprised and honored by this kind gesture. These little kids had done odd jobs and raked leaves and washed dishes for their parents, and I’d been able to go to the school so they could present me with their hard-earned donation. I hadn’t felt too good at the time, but the children were so sweet. They made me brightly colored cards and gave me hugs and told me they were cheering me on.
Today I would return to the school and say thanks.
I drove over to Prestonwood, and Brittany, Mom, and Dad met me there. The teacher announced I was coming, and the kids all smiled and shouted when I walked in.
I’d baked them cupcakes, so we passed those out. The kids all thought they were great. After we’d eaten, the teacher held a question-and-answer time. At first, the kids were all pretty shy. But then they began to open up more and ask things like, “Does your arm hurt?” and “How much can you see anymore?” and “Was it hard for you to go out in public for the first time without your jacket on?”
When the formal class session was over and I was just about to leave, the kids gave me hugs again. Several kids lingered around me in a semicircle, asking a few last questions. The kids in this smaller bunch held nothing back. They asked questions with the sort of absolute bluntness that can come only from eight-year-olds.
“Um, Lauren,” said one boy. “What does it look like?”
“My arm?”
“Yeah.”
I could see a number of other students in the semicircle had the same thought. “Well . . .” I tried to formulate in my mind how to articulate what it looked like, but then I switched gears and said in a mischievous, low voice, “You guys want to see it?”
The group of students nodded as one.
I unwrapped my arm and showed them. The kids oohed and aahed. This was part of the ongoing healing process for me. I realized that people will always have questions for me about the accident and my injuries. I
can’t hide what’s happened, and it dawned on me that I’m actually glad when people don’t hide their questions either. I’d prefer that people ask so we can talk freely, rather than see them act squeamish or uncomfortable, or pretend that nothing’s different. It was a good moment for me—a really good moment. I think it was a good moment for the students, too. They were learning that people don’t all come in the same package—and that that’s okay.
The little boy who had first asked to see my arm summed up the moment beautifully. He put his hand lightly on my shoulder and gave a relaxed chuckle.
“You know, Lauren,” he said, “it isn’t creepy at all.”
I never could have imagined how the straightforward honesty of a sweet third grader would become part of my larger healing process in such a big way. One simple phrase from him helped transform how I thought about myself. The boy’s words—something so small—grew into something big. His words helped heal my grief and helped transform my life’s purpose, and I reminded myself of his words over and over in the days to come.
After the accident happened, it had been easy for me to believe so many lies. Snippets of untruths floated through my mind and became exaggerated, filling me with anxiety. My life is ruined. I am ugly. I will never be loved.
But the truth is luminous. Truth fills me with hope, even when I can’t see the future, even when I don’t know how my life will all turn out.
Before the accident I’d had my share of insecurities, like we all do. I had been concerned about how to attract guys, and that had led me to become competitive and even make wrong choices about who I dated. After the accident, it was like my insecurities had become a magnifying glass that I turned on myself and my outward appearance, even more than before.
In one utterly traumatic and unplanned moment, my life had been forever changed by a sixteenth of an inch of steel. It was such a small catalyst that almost destroyed my life. And yet a small thing could also change it again for good.
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