I realized recently why I’ve been so interested in studying Civil War amputees. To explain, I will use an analogy:

Suppose you were living in a community were everyone had pre-pubescent bodies. Then your body went through puberty, and as a result your body became somewhat more complex than everyone else’s that you knew of. While you had an understanding that puberty wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, and you had a sense that there were other people in the world who had passed through puberty, you were really alone in your experiences and in trying to figure out how to manage your different body. Then, one day in the deep recesses of the library, you come across a book that has descriptions and images of people who have passed through puberty. The changes in their bodies were explained in case study format, and the images were clinical and informative. All of a sudden you realized that your feelings and appearance were not so unusual. You knew that others had experienced the same things. You no longer felt so alone.

Hmmmm…so that’s how I feel when I study the historical medical records of amputees. Their bodies look like mine. Their challenges–even given the better technology nowadays–are remarkably similar to mine.

Is it odd to feel such kinship to men who lived 150 years ago? Whose socioeconomic circumstances are so different from mine? Perhaps. But we’ve all waged enormous battles with our bodies, we have experienced the necessity and horror of loss, as well as the unspeakable pain that accompanies amputation. We’ve each had to address the reality that life goes on, despite the social prejudices that surround our physical difference and despite the fact that we have to ‘accomodate’ ourselves and our surroundings to maintain mobility.

Ckick the following link to learn more about Donato the one-legged dancer and other 19th-century amputee performers.
Disability Studies, Temple U

A bit of political commentary/amputee humor for your friday afternoon….
[Note: I’ve been getting asked lately if I lost my leg in the war. It shocks me to have to field this question, but it speaks to the recent increase in those of us who’ve lost limbs….]

Two weeks ago I had new cosmesis, or “skin” put on my artifcial leg. To do so I went to a clinic where I’d never been before to meet with the tech who’d be designing my leg. It isn’t a quick process. I’ve already written a bit about that here.

So I meet with this Tech and we talk about what I like my leg to look like. I point to some problem areas on my current skin (the wrinkly calf, the hole in my ankle, etc). I tell him that I like firmer foam around my thigh, with a softer–more bendable–style at my knee. We discuss different aspects of my lifestyle. Tech spends about 10 min looking at my real leg and taking measurements. He tries not to register shock at my 16″ calf (yes, those muscles are big!). He tells me that he always downsizes the leg a bit from the true size, “to look more shaplely and natural.” Most Techs actually trace my left leg so they can get the shape just right. This Tech, though, says he can do it from just a visual and some measurements. I decide to trust him on this.

Then he goes back into the shop for a few hours and emerges with a “shapely” leg.

Tech’s done a fine job. The leg is smooth and well-shaped. It matches the one on the left nicely. I put it on and he has me walk all around the office and look in all of the full-length mirrors. The receptionist and other techs form a line down the hall and give their opinions. Then I try on various pairs of pants to see if the leg looks right. Tech makes a few adjustments and then sends me on my way. The strong smell of chemical adhesive that exudes from my leg is disconcerting. I roll down the windows in the car on the drive home.

All day long I find myself trying to get used to the new feel. I touch my calf and it is oddly spongy. I put on black stockings and find that I like the way it looks. It’s been a very time long since I wore a short skirt.