My Legs
My legs are curled up in the womb, pressed to my chest; blooming cells ache with the dream of running.
My legs are so bendy at two years old—I sit on the floor in an acrobatic split. They are a part of me—but not ready to stand—so I am labeled a “lazy baby.” My legs and I are misunderstood.
At four, I love that my legs are attached to my feet. My legs carry me to all of the best places. Ten toes wiggle in the grass. Ten toes burrow in the sand. Pink, warm, and happy, my legs, feet, and toes love to tap.
On the first day of summer vacation, my legs climb a favorite maple tree in the backyard, where I dream of climbing other trees. By the last day of summer, my legs have skinned knees. Mom and Dad yell that my head is in the stars and I’m uncoordinated, so I’m sent to ballet class. Donned in pink tights like the other eight-year-olds and practicing pirouettes, my legs remain unsteady at the bar. I see the other girls—dance comes so easily to them. Their knees don’t hyperextend, their muscle tone isn’t low. They have energy for days, while I only have a willingness to smile.
I’m sixteen, and I’ve been shaving my legs for three years. As I walk down the corridor of the science wing, my freshly shaved legs tremble when I walk past the boy I had once given my heart to, remembering how my legs folded beneath me when he handed it back.
My legs look great in the Levi’s I wear at a party—at least, that’s what the tall guy in the corner tells me. His directness causes me to flush, yet I step in closer. Nine months later, my legs want to run to him. He’s waiting for me at the altar, looking spiffy in his suit and just as nervous as I am. April is perfect for weddings, and ours is held outside. Friends and family stand beside us—watching as we meet, toe to toe and chin to chin, sealing our vows with a kiss.
Hot legs and cold feet, winter lovemaking is a dance my legs finally understand.
Motherhood comes with movement. My legs pace in the nursery—knowing when to kneel, knowing when to still. My legs carry me as I wrestle with fears. Am I strong enough to become the mother Miranda needs?
I know one thing. I’ll never call her lazy.
Years pass, and one child becomes three. Running, running. My legs are always running after children through sun-streaked days, running into piles of crunchy leaves, running up and down stairs because I don’t want to miss a single moment with them.
I examine my legs as they soak up the sun on the porch outside our first home. I imagine playing Connect the Dots with each freckle. With our children playing in the yard, Jerry looks at me, and his grin becomes sheepish. He’s remembering the sensation of my legs wrapped around him earlier that day—the same legs that have scars, cellulite, and knobby knees are his favorite parts to explore.
Legs on vacation.
Legs walking at graduations.
Legs in the ocean.
Legs on shore.
Legs standing in line at Walt Disney World and Universal Studios.
Despite the chronic pain and too many falls, my legs have carried me to so many places. I’ve walked the beaches in Waikiki. I’ve strode through San Francisco’s Chinatown. I’ve climbed down into the tunnels behind Niagara Falls to catch a glimpse of its majestic cascades. I’ve rode the gondola, the Funiculaire du Vieux, in Québec. I’ve soaked my legs in a clawfoot tub at the historic hotel, The Driskill, in Austin, Texas. I’ve toured the Christmas light display at the Gaylord Opryland Resort in Tennessee. I’ve hustled through a dozen airports and bus terminals—my legs, although slower than those around me, have taken me everywhere I’ve strived to go.
At 51, my legs are still bendy; that never changed—the answer as to why came when I least expected it. Despite the effort of my legs to carry me around—I was born with a genetic disorder, Vascular Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, that creates issues with connective tissues—a diagnosis even my legs can’t outrun. The condition causes arteries and hollow organs to rupture and fail, but it also causes joints to dislocate and muscles and tendons to be weak.
Years of being criticized for falling and not being athletic had diminished a healthy sense of self—but no longer. Despite everything, my legs have tried their best. They are still trying, but it has become more complex. My legs are now blue and cold, and I scream in pain. I’m so uncertain of everything.
The vascular surgeon worries. Surgery is a great risk. It may be safer to let my legs go. I don’t know what to say when he asks me if I’m ready to do it now. I am still reeling from the news. “You’ll eventually beg for me to take them,” he says, not in an unkind way. His legs work like they’re meant to, but he’s seen others like me. He grants me time to make peace with the inevitable, but I’m unsure if I’ll ever get that far.
My legs move slowly as I leave his office—I depend on a cane to help carry me to the car. I wish I knew how to decide between two bad options: sever them entirely—or risk an arterial rupture that would be deadly in the operating room. With a list of accomplished life-saving surgeries behind me—how is it that I never considered potential amputation? I’ve lost pieces of me—spleen, uterus, gallbladder, sections of the small bowel, corneas, fragments of the aorta and iliac artery, and an outer thigh. Though painful, I parted with them all by depending on resilience and positivity to pull through. I don’t feel resilient or optimistic about this one, although I hope to find it in me.
I am home looking out the window, watching heavy snowflakes coating the trees. Instead of letting my legs feel the sting of wind gusts, I cover them with a soft blanket and feel the warmth of Odie, a four-year-old Chiweenie, dreaming happily beside me. I don’t know who I will become without my legs, but at this moment, I am complete.
Read other Creative Nonfiction by Bonnie Ruane Wheeler, “Syllabus: Advanced Stage Vascular Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome Course,” in this issue of Wordgathering.
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About the Author
As a disabled author with a chronic illness, writing became Bonnie Ruane Wheeler’s full-time passion after graduating from hospice six years ago. Bonnie believes that their experience with disability gives their writing texture and authenticity. With an undergraduate degree in social sciences, Bonnie is currently pursuing an MFA degree from Fairfield University. When not obsessing over books and what to cook for dinner, Bonnie hangs out with their Chiweenie and volunteers to raise awareness of Bonnie’s rare medical condition, Vascular Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome.