SEPTEMBER 2019 | 53
I
’m breathing heavily as I
approach the East London
canal. It’s a bright spring
morning and sunlight dapples
the water. The narrow towpath
before me is unremarkable.
But this is the place where my
life changed. I glance down at my gym leggings- my one trainer, and my running blade on the
other leg. Muscles quivering, I begin to jog.
When I tell people that I lost my leg falling
over while running, I’m met with open mouths
and wide eyes. I can barely believe it myself. Even
when I tripped on that Sunday morning in May
2016, searing pain coursing through my right
leg, I thought it was a broken bone. In fact, my
hypermobility had led my knee to hyperextend
and dislocate. On top of that, I’d fractured my
tibial plateau, and the blood couldn’t get
through to my foot. The severity of my injuries
stunned everyone, even medical professionals.
My surgeon has since told me that when he
was bleeped from A&E that morning, he
thought someone had made a mistake.
After three lengthy operations, I found myself
in intensive care, hand shaking as I signed the
paperwork consenting to amputation, I watched
as the surgeon drew a thick black arrow on
my skin. The next time I woke up, the hospital
blanket lay flat against the mattress where my
right foot should have been. Only then did it
feel real – and a deep, overwhelming fear set
in. I knew, even then, that self-acceptance was
distant and daunting. Becoming an amputee
would change how I saw myself forever.
In some ways, I took my body for granted
before the accident. Like the majority of 25-
year-olds, I assumed good health was a given.
While I’d never been ‘sporty’, I loved swimming,
and went to the gym a few times a week. I had
my hang-ups – I tended to avoid clingy tops and
I’d try the odd faddy diet in an attempt to shift
weight from my stomach – but I delighted in
vintage shirts in bold patterns and I loved
experimenting with outfits. I’d always been
proud of my legs, showing them off in summer
and living in skinny jeans. Whenever I went
on holiday, I was the first to post a photo of
my tanned feet at the end of a sunlounger.
After the accident, my body confidence
plummeted. For four months, I was in a
wheelchair, and I felt so bad about myself,
it frightened me. Being so sedentary caused
me to put on weight and I lost all pride in my
appearance, forgoing make-up and living in
tracksuit bottoms – the same pair for weekson end. I hated how people saw me, looking
down as they offered pitying smiles to the girl in
the wheelchair. When my family persuaded me
to go out for fresh air, I’d find myself shrinking
down in the chair, avoiding all eye contact.
I found it hard to sympathise when friends
spoke about changing their appearance; diets
and fitness goals now felt like alien concepts.
I avoided mirrors, and while I’d attempt sit-ups
or bridges at home, I’d quickly give up. I couldn’t
see the point. For a long time, I couldn’t even
look at what was left of my right leg. Touching
my stump made me feel sick.
In many ways, getting my prosthetic leg was
the turning point. When I watch back the video
of my first shaky steps, the light in my eyes is
unmistakable. It was enough to remind me
that my pride would return if I was willing
to dig deeper, to re-examine my priorities and
discover a new normal. There was something
about the physicality of standing tall, of literally
and metaphorically putting one foot in frontof the other, that shifted my perception. I
remember catching a glimpse of my reflection,
head held high for the first time in months. It
was the moment I began to see myself differently.
Fitness played a huge role in my physical and
emotional recovery. It was as though walking
again was my seed of motivation – the drive that
pushed me forwards. Realising the importance
of physical strength gave me renewed energy,
encouraging me to try more at-home exercises;
one-legged planks, press-ups, squats and endless
stretches. I started going to the gym again, at
first feeling self-conscious, but gradually
realising that people’s stares were born of
admiration or curiosity rather than judgement.
I became proud of what I could achieve. The
same thing happened at the swimming pool, my
worries about feeling vulnerable dissolving as
soon as my body slid into the water. Distracted
by their own fitness goals, hardly anyone was
looking at me. And those who did just smiled.
For a long time, the prospect of running again
was impossible to contemplate. Logically, I
knew what had happened was a freak accident,
and yet I remained terrified of falling. But as
I grew stronger, physically and mentally, I began
to wonder what it would feel like. In counselling
sessions, I explored the mental block I had
around jogging, revisiting that day over and
over again to cement in my mind that it was
a one-off – that it wouldn’t happen again.
One year after the accident, I decided to get
a running blade, and I went back to the canal
for the first time. Heart pounding, I began to
jog along the towpath. Running on a blade,‘The next time I woke up, the hospital
blanket lay flat against the mattress
where my foot should have been’
PROJECT BODY LOVE
S T R O N G
(^) M
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