3 
Just a few months after we got back from Russia, the hospital visits started. I was born with fibular hemimelia, a birth defect in which all or part of the fibular bone is missing. I didn’t have ankles, heels, or most of the bones in my lower legs. One in forty thousand babies are born with this defect every year. The cause is unclear. The defect usually occurs in only one leg—the right fibula more often than the left—but both of mine were compromised. It looked like my bones didn’t continue to grow beyond a few inches below my knee, though I did have a small foot, with three toes on each leg. After consulting several specialists, my parents were advised that the best choice for someone with my severity of fibular hemimelia was amputation, just below the knee. This would allow me to be fitted with prosthetics and eventually learn to walk.
My mom says that the night before my surgery was really hard for her. My family loved every part of me, including my little half-formed feet that were going to be amputated, but they knew it was necessary. My mom cried. She and my dad prayed that I wouldn’t experience much pain, that the doctors would be precise and alert, and that my eighteen-month-old self wouldn’t feel a loss because of no longer having my feet. The following morning, we drove to Saint Agnes Hospital, where Dr. Robert Bright would perform the surgery. My mom was fighting tears, so my dad held me a lot of the time while we waited.
My grandparents were struggling with emotions too, but I’m told I was happy until the nurses came to take me for the surgery. By then I was starting to get hungry and fussy, but my mom wasn’t allowed to go in with me. Still, my parents made sure to send my little doll with me. They had cut off her feet and bandaged her legs so she would look just like me afterward.
My baby doll with missing feet just like me.
When I woke up in the recovery room, the doll was lying by my side. I could see red poles coming out of the casts wrapped around my legs. They were my first pair of prosthetics, my pole legs. Within twenty-four hours of waking from my amputation, I stood up on that first pair of legs, balancing there in the middle of the children’s playroom in the hospital. My parents had made an appointment with a physical therapist, but I was walking around on my prosthetic legs so soon that they canceled it.
My baby doll and my dad—what more could a little girl want while getting ready for surgery?
Learning to walk, balancing on my prosthetic legs.
Even at such a young age, I knew I could do what everyone else was doing. That determination, along with a fiercely competitive spirit, made everything a race between my siblings and me. Oh, you think you’re going to finish your ice cream before me? Guess again. Walking through the door? I will push you out of the way to get inside first. Don’t even get me started on board games. If I wasn’t good at the game, I didn’t want to play it. I was determined to dominate at everything I did.
As I grew, I would have to go back for several revision surgeries to remove the bony overgrowth so my bones wouldn’t puncture through the skin. Afterward I would use crutches or occasionally a wheelchair to help me get around while I healed.
Climbing on top of the refrigerator was a favorite pastime of mine. I would scramble from the countertops to the fridge and hide behind the cleaning products. I was unbeatable at hide-and-seek. My siblings quickly caught on to my strategy, but it was years before my mom found out that I used to hide up there. It was a daily goal of mine to see how much I could sneak past my mom and how much I could get away with. I’m not sure how she homeschooled six vastly different children while still maintaining a semblance of sanity, but my mom is incredibly kindhearted and strong, and she always encouraged me to try new things and be the best I could be.
I’m going to assume my dad is the one who let roller skating in the house take place while my mother took care of new baby Hannah, circa 1996.
I made the daily choice to not let anything hold me back, especially my legs. Now, even when I am too tired or too sore to put on my prosthetics, I still make that choice. I choose to rely on my competitive nature and determination to be as tough as I was after that first surgery. I refuse to let that little girl down by giving in.