From the Field
Beyond the Amputation – A Psychological Journey
By J.L. DeMine
Aug 23, 2005, 11:11

Each morning when I open my eyes I say to myself: “I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be.”

Groucho Marx

As a kid, I’d see an amputee and automatically envision the worst about them. What tremendous, physical pain that person must have endured. Never did I think about anything other than how excruciating the experience must have been. They must have suffered terribly. But the long-term psychological effects of an amputation never occurred to me. They do now.

I became a unilateral amputee in the spring of 2003 as a result of a mishap at work. While lifting a piece of heavy machinery, the boom broke free from the crane and severed my arm above the elbow. While in the hospital I recall a particular incident where the hospital psychiatrist came into my room for a visit. He asked me if I needed counseling and naturally, at the time, I had no way of knowing what the ramifications would be. Morphine, denial, and shock tend to leave you stupefied. I simply laughed in his face and asked him to leave. A deep, seething anger grew within me. I speculated that everyone considered me weak and didn’t think I was capable of handling having my right arm traumatically amputated.

Feelings of Inadequacy

Several months passed and things were going okay. Then came moving day… my wife and I were moving to a new home. I watched helplessly as our family moved us in. I idled on the sidelines carrying what little packages I could manage. I felt defeated and inferior. It wasn’t their responsibility to move us - it was mine. The real world came around with a swift, direct punch and slapped me right in the jaw with a powerful uppercut, bringing with it a lot of questions I’d never considered. How was I going to protect my family? How would I provide for them? Would my daughter think of me differently? These doubts eventually consumed me. I didn’t feel whole anymore. Hell, I barely felt like a man. I’d imagine what other people were seeing and I pictured a hideous beast that was frightening; something nightmares are made of.

Soon after we got settled, horrid monstrosities haunted my dreams, robbing me of the only time my mind got any rest from the consistent heckling I put it through. I’d see shapeless, black creatures flying from wall to wall and hear loud crashing each time I began dozing off which startled me awake and disturbed my wife. Hydrocodone became my new best friend, replacing my family and friends. I refused to admit I had a problem; the pain was excruciating and I needed a lot of pills to dull it. In my mind I had a reasonable excuse to justify my growing pill addiction. Yet, as I think back, I realize I did have a serious problem and I’m glad I got help from the people who loved me.

I’d go for days without uttering a single word. I didn’t understand what was happening to me, except that I was possibly losing my grip on reality. One day, while talking to my oldest brother on the phone, he mentioned Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. At first, I thought that was something reserved for only veterans of war, but as I considered everything that was happening to me it began to make sense. I could be suffering from PTSD.

With time, the nightmares slowly diminished and I started sleeping better at night. However, horrid images of the accident still plagued my dreams. Everyone in my family assured me that everything would get better and I believed them. I came to resent the mere mention of the long road ahead until things finally would finally get better. It wasn’t the destination that I was worried about. It was the journey.

Adjusting to Society’s Scrutiny

One of the most challenging obstacles of the many I needed to overcome had nothing to do with my physical adjustment to amputation at all. Society sows the seeds in our heads that a person who is different than others doesn’t fit into the world of “normal” citizens. People stared and pointed at me as if I was a sideshow exhibit in the circus. Teenagers would whisper awful things after I walked by and chuckle to each other.

This hurt me terribly. I experienced rejection in its purest form and it nearly devastated me. Wasn’t I allowed a chance to live like everyone else? What made them better than me? Not only was I robbed of my arm, but I was also losing my dignity. I withdrew from everything that mattered to me the most: family, friends, books and writing. My loved ones saw me getting closer to the edge of despair and tried to pull me back as gently as they possibly could. Nevertheless, I didn’t see that there was anything wrong. All I wanted to do was sit by myself in isolation and forget that other people existed.

To her credit, my wife wasn’t willing to let me give in without a fight. She kept telling me I wasn’t any different even as I became increasingly angry with what I believed to be her lies and deceptions. I didn’t want her help because I didn’t believe in her, our marriage, or myself anymore. I lost belief and faith in everything I once felt was sacred and held close to my heart. I got lost in a world of self-pity and self-loathing. I frequently wished the accident had taken my life instead of my arm.

Learning to Live Again

Clearly, I’d forgotten who had stayed at my side since the beginning of my journey into hell. My wife and my daughter were there when I tried to learn how to write again. I remember becoming so frustrated and heaving the pen and paper across the room. My daughter would calmly pick them up and tell me not to give up. The student had become the teacher. Values that I’d worked as a parent to impart upon her, she was employing as tools on my new learning curve. If not for the compassion of my wife and the unconditional love of my daughter, I would not have made it through. Both of them made me understand that life still has bright, colorful rainbows after a bad storm. They demonstrated an undaunted faith in me that I was unable to see in myself. Without them, I definitely would’ve gone over the edge without hesitation.

I’ve come to understand that life will never be the same and I still have a long, difficult voyage ahead, full of adversity. But life does indeed move on and I refuse to accept the ride without truly experiencing life in its entirety.

With thanks to the American Amputee Foundation.


Pull-quotes

“It wasn’t the destination that I was worried about. It was the journey.”

“I experienced rejection in its purest form and it nearly devastated me.”

“Life does indeed move on and I refuse to accept the ride without truly experiencing life in its entirety.”

“If not for the compassion of my wife and the unconditional love of my daughter, I would not have made it through.”



© Copyright 2004 Active Living Magazine