I was on a journey of healing, and I was grateful to finally have a guide in Lynn. But the road ahead was going to be long, and I wasn’t getting any younger—wasn’t becoming more eligible or more fertile. After having the men I’d loved tell me how beautiful I was, how wonderful I was, but that they couldn’t marry me, I started to consider that maybe my life could be different than the norm in more ways than just the fact that I was missing my leg. Perhaps I wouldn’t ever get married like my siblings and friends. And maybe that was okay. Once I’d forgiven myself for the abortions and forgiven Harvey for indelibly altering my life, I allowed myself to consider life without a man. And this idea made me feel so free. Perhaps I could live life on my own terms, with a boy-toy thrown in for good measure now and again if that’s what I wanted. Perhaps I didn’t need a man—or children—to complete my life. Perhaps I could go through life by myself and still be happy.
I started living my life as if I would spend the rest of it on my own. In my early thirties, I took a three-week trip to Mexico and had a great vacation. Alone. I decided I was a great traveling companion. To myself. I thought about buying a house. For myself. I looked into joining the Peace Corps. I searched master’s programs at local universities. If a husband and family weren’t going to fulfill my life, I’d find other passions to bring me joy.
Then something happened that often happens once a person starts forgiving her past and genuinely lets go of her dreams. They started to come true.
I met Mark.
I was Mark’s supervisor at a social services agency in Seattle for a year and a half before we connected romantically. I found myself looking at him, especially as he walked away, to catch a glimpse of his cute butt. I chatted too long at his workstation and was surprised at myself, both that I was flirting and that I was enjoying it without any sense of urgency or self-recrimination. Mark had been flirting with me, too, but he was proper and appropriate in the workplace. He was a part of a small group of us who occasionally went out together for drinks. The group had even been to my apartment a few times. When he told me he was applying to the Peace Corps and might be leaving in the months to come, I decided to throw caution to the wind. What the hell. I was in charge of my life now. If he was leaving, I had nothing to lose; we could have a little fun before he left.
I invited Mark over to my place for breakfast. He came over on a hot August Sunday morning. I tried to pretend I was cool as a cucumber, but when I found myself on the phone with my brother David an hour before Mark arrived, frantically asking how to make a Greek omelet, my stomach tied up in knots, I knew I was in trouble. It was Mark who appeared casual and at ease during breakfast and even during our walk on Alki Beach, just a block from my apartment. As we sat on a log watching the Bremerton ferry slide across the sun-sparkled water, I watched his green eyes track a seagull through the air and his curly hair blow slightly in the wind. Then I just blurted it out: I was attracted to him.
That was all we needed. Someone had to break the ice. We walked back across the beach, hand in hand. That was enough. That was everything.
A month later, Mark and I took a camping trip to the coast for the weekend. I wore my peg leg. I knew I’d come a long way when I didn’t fear his attraction to me would dissipate at the sight of my crude water leg. Our hike was a three-mile trip on a boardwalk through a moss-laden forest. The boardwalk was covered in a thin layer of slime, making it quite slick. I suddenly found myself on my butt, my backpack laying catawampus by my side. Mark and I were equally surprised by my fall. I, the seasoned backpacker, was initially embarrassed, but then I accepted, again and sincerely, this was just who I was. Self-acceptance is a gentle but powerful feeling. I sat for a moment and collected myself.
Mark quietly took my hand, and for the rest of the hike, we walked slowly over the boardwalk. I was hunched over like an old woman taking baby steps to avoid falling again, loving every minute with him. Had I really grown and changed so much that I could fall on my ass in front of someone I was attracted to and still enjoy myself? Or was Mark an incredibly special man? Maybe it was both.
Regardless, I felt solid in who I was, both as a woman and as an amputee. Take me or leave me, I was finally in a space where I didn’t care more about what other people thought than about being myself. Mark and I talked and talked, and I fell in love with him on our hike. Truly in love. His kindness was quiet and powerful. He didn’t use words to prove his acceptance of me; his actions said it all.
Together we talked to my administrator and requested Mark’s supervision be transferred to my peer. After three more months, he withdrew his candidacy for the Peace Corps.
In February, we took a weekend getaway to Orcas Island. Over dinner, we got engaged. I felt as giddy as a little girl in Disneyland and as grounded as the cedar trees outside the windows. The next morning, as we stood on the grassy cliffs, overlooking the San Juan Islands, sailboats gliding across the water like whales, I broached the subject that was always at the forefront of my mind.
“Mark, my leg will matter. If we get married, I don’t know how it will affect our lives in the long run. When I’m an old lady, walking may be hard for me.”
“I know.” Quietly. Sincerely.
“But I really don’t know what I will be like. What if I can’t walk?”
“We’ll be fine.” Did I hear assurance in his tone, or did I just want to? He didn’t seem fazed by how my leg could affect his life. With Mark, I felt whole.
Mark and I wanted our wedding and marriage to be different than the norm. We weren’t going to follow the traditional course of middle-class America: have a church wedding, buy a house in the suburbs, have two kids, and join the PTA. Nope. Not for us. Mark and I wanted to do it our way. We talked about taking our kids traveling, exposing them to the world, and living in a culturally diverse neighborhood. Yes, we did talk about children. For me, the topic brought up the tiniest tendrils of worry, since I didn’t know what my body was or wasn’t capable of, but the guilt I’d lived with for so many years was absent. Gloriously absent.
We had an untraditionally traditional wedding. My brother Matthew signed up to be a legal minister by calling a number from an ad we saw on the back of a matchbook cover. He married us in a beautiful garden. Since I didn’t have Dad to walk me down the grass-laden aisle, Mark and I decided to walk together into the circle of a hundred and fifty of our closest family and friends. Standing at the altar, lighting the marriage candle with my groom, who looked so handsome in a double-breasted suit that matched his green eyes, my heart flooded with the warmth of joy and gratitude. I was in awe of this man who was willingly sharing his life with me, and in awe of our deep love. We had written our own vows. When we recited those vows, Mark, a soft-spoken man, read his so loudly he bordered on shouting. Shouting his love for me in front of everyone. My heart nearly burst. Ours was a perfect wedding. We felt held, loved, and supported by everyone there.