I haven’t shared the whole story before? Huh. I really thought I had. But nope. Guess not.
Nope. Guess not.
Fine. But This isn’t Les Mis.
It’s not all tragedy and despair (though it’s had its moments).
It’s my story—told with a few musical theater references sprinkled in for your enjoyment. Some are dramatic (Hamilton), some are catchy (Rent), and some just make it easier to unpack nearly 30 years of chaos with a little rhythm. 🎶
June 9, 2022 is when I officially became an amputee.
But really? I’d been losing my leg in pieces for decades.
Let’s rewind. Rewind. Rewind.
(Yes, that’s a Hamilton. You’re welcome. Keep going?)
I remember that night:
The Crash
It was January 1997. I was in labor with baby #2. Roads were icy. Seriously icy.
And if you’ve ever seen people in the South try to drive in snow, you can already guess: ice is worse. Pure chaos.
We were headed to the hospital—husband driving, me in the passenger seat, almost-2-year-old in the back with a family friend. As we exited the highway, a pickup tried to pass us on the right and clipped our back bumper.
We hit the median, spun out, and for a second I was basically defying gravity—in the worst way—before we ended up passenger side toward oncoming traffic..
That’s when a semi t-boned us.
Boom. Full “And ALL. THAT. JAZZ!!!” moment—but terrifying.
So then:
The Aftermath
The pickup? Kept going. Of course.
We don’t talk about…pickups, no no…
The semi stopped. So did a stranger with a comforter in her trunk—she laid it over me until the ambulance came. (Real-life hero moment.)
My husband and son had broken ribs. My husband also broke his clavicle.
Our friend? A broken hip.
Me? Multiple fractures, mostly in my right arm and pelvis. The doctors did everything they could to save the baby. He didn’t make it.
I was unconscious for nearly three weeks, so I never got to see him or attend the funeral.
A nurse gave us a beautiful package—photos, a baby blanket, and a handwritten note, which I love and so appreciate.
And quietly in the background, my pelvis had severed the sciatic nerve in my right leg…
Moving on to:
The Next Couple of Decades
Over the years, I regained some movement—in the top of my leg and knee—but nothing below. About 10 years after the crash, I had surgery to straighten out my right ankle and toes with screws and pins so I could wear a foot brace (or AFO to those in the know).
Screws, pins, and a plastic brace. It’s the hard-knock leg life, apparently.
And that setup worked. Until it didn’t.
Which brings us to:
The Wound That Wouldn’t Heal
Fast-forward to about 3.5 years ago. A sore showed up on the bottom of my foot and refused to heal.
Doctors told me to eat more protein. Drink more water. Rest. I did. It didn’t help.
The hole got bigger.
I went to specialists, got sent to the ER, and got admitted. On repeat. Had tests—X-rays, MRIs, and the one that sounds like a series of heavy knocks (you know the one). Once, they even sent me home with a woundvac.
A home health nurse came every other day to change the dressing. One day, she yelled for my son to ‘get in here’—because one of the screws from that old surgery? It had worked its way out through my heel. My. Heel.
Screw literally loose.
Back into the hospital I went. They removed it and sent me home.
Sheesh…who knew “break a leg” would be such a long-term commitment?
But wait, there’s more:
The Crunch
A couple of weeks later, I was at a specialist’s office. I stood up and—crunch.
Loud. Sickening. I can still hear it.
The doctor sent me for X-rays, came back, and asked if I’d fallen that morning. I said no.
He said “Well, yes you did.”
My ankle was shattered.
Cue “Memory” from Cats. And then—please—turn it off.
I wasn’t lying—I definitely hadn’t fallen.
Gaslit much?
He sent me to the hospital. After more xrays and tests, they told me I had a bad infection and would need an amputation.
I asked why no one had caught it earlier. They had an answer. I don’t remember what it was—probably because it wasn’t good.
So then there was:
The Choice
I went to a different hospital. The doctor there took five X-rays and told me plainly:
“You have a serious infection, you’ve probably had it for over a year. You could probably die from sepsis, or you can have the leg removed. I’m free Wednesday.”
There wasn’t time for second guesses or wishful thinking. The past was in the past.
So I said OK. Less than a week later, the leg came off.
Which led to:
The Recovery
Within weeks I was in physical therapy.
Within a couple of months, I was in my first prosthesis.
Within a year, I had a prosthesis that worked better, fit better, and gave me more mobility than I’d had in decades.
I wasn’t defying gravity exactly—but I was standing taller, walking farther, and finally able to wear matching shoes again. #progress
I definitely gained:
The Perspective
So yeah. That’s how I became an amputee.
Not in a dramatic, one-day decision kind of way—but through 25+ years of complications, misdiagnoses, surgeries, hardware, wounds, and that one nurse who spotted a rogue screw trying to escape my foot like it had better places to be.
June 9, 2022, was the day they officially took the leg—but I’d been losing it in slow motion for decades.
Three years later, I’ve got a prosthesis. Some strength. Some grief. A lot more perspective. And, of course, this blog.
I haven’t figured out all the choreography yet, but I’m still in the show.
Still standing. Still learning.
And if you’ve been following along—whether we’re talking 525,600 minutes or 28 years—I appreciate you being here.
Cue the spotlight.
Happy Ampuversary to me!
Up Down Walk with Lisa 