COSMOPOLITAN · 89also blocked. Three long operations
tried to restart the circulation but,
four days after that sunny, canal-side
run in May 2016, I was told that
amputation was the only option.
I remember watching as the
surgeon drew a thick, black arrow
on my skin. I was wheeled into the
anaesthetic room, staring at my
right foot for the final time. The
skin was white and mottled; the
toenails painted red.
That’s who I was before the
amputation: someone who painted
her toenails red. Who, on Wednesdays,
sang loud, jubilant pop and gospel at
my local choir. Who overspent at least
twice a week on dinners and drinks
with friends. I wore bright, patterned
clothes to important meetings as
I climbed the slippery career ladder
of magazine journalism. Among
all of that, when I could, I fitted in
dating. I’d recently turned 25 and
had made a decision to invest more
time in finding someone
I really cared about.
I’d had a first date
planned the evening of that
run. I’d told my sister about
him while we jogged; how
we’d met at a house party
a few weeks earlier and
how he’d made me laugh
with his dry, quiet sense
of humour. Just two hours
after she had been excitedly
asking me what I was planning
to wear, she was unlocking my
phone to text him and let him know
that I wouldn’t be able to make it.
“I hope she’s OK,” came the reply.
“I’ve got a cold so it’s probably for
the best.” I didn’t hear from him
again. As far as I’m aware, he doesn’t
know I’m now an amputee.
Plenty more fish in the sea, they say.
But after the accident, it took a long
time for me to feel brave enough to dip
my toes (just on the one foot, mind)
back into the murky, shark-infested
waters of online dating. I watched
from the sidelines as my clever,
attractive, funny, two-legged friends
went on dates. I heard their stories,
smiling on the outside while nerves
concerning my own situation fizzed
in my stomach. I sat in my bedroom- nine months after the accident – and
idly swiped through profiles. Men with
topless gym selfies; men at weddings;
men who hiked up mountains and
probably wore socks with sandals.
There were even men who posted
their Uber ratings like Nobel Prizes.
“One of a kind” or “simply the best”
some jokers had written under their
bios. “Source: my mum.”
I wondered what sort of women
they wanted. Then, I’d look at my
stump, ugly and swollen; at the
angry red scars, the result of eight
operations, inside both of my thighs.
How, I wondered, could anyone ever
find this attractive? I’d catch sight
of myself in the mirror and then let
my eyes travel down my body... as
soon as I reached my thighs I’d
quickly look away.
PROFILE UPDATE
My online profile –
carefully curated like most- was a nostalgic tribute
to the person I used to
be: pictures of me cycling
through rice fields in
Vietnam or dancing in a
dingy university nightclub
with black glittery walls.
My phone vibrated each time I had
a match and I’d pick it up to message
people – only to put it back down
again. It felt like I was faking my entire
identity, so eventually I decided to
be honest and tell the men I was an
amputee. There was no easy way to
do this. I rephrased the sentence again
and again, eventually settling on
“Hey, just so you know...” The aim
was chatty; no big deal. I didn’t want
anyone to treat me differently. But
the response? Complete and utter
silence. I felt like the tiny shred of
confidence I’d so carefully cultivated
had been ripped away. ›
“I didn’t want
anyone to
treat me
differently”READOPENING SPREAD: SHIRT, ELLA’S OWN. DRESS, H&M. BRACELET, SEOL + GOLD. RINGS, ELLA’S OWN, WORN THROUGHOUT. TRAINERS, SIMPLY BE. THIS SPREAD: JACKET, CITIZENS OF HUMANITY. T-SHIRT, MICHAEL STARS. SKIRT, RIXO. BRACELET AND NECKLACES, SEOL + GOLD. THIN SHORT CHAIN, ELLA’S OWN. TRAINERS, SIMPLY BE