I am Dreaming of Yellow.

The Tour de France dominates my July! I started watching The Tour in 2003 as I was recovering from my amputation. To be honest, I wasn't thrilled when the television was turned from Little House on the Prairie to a bunch of thin men in tights pedaling around France. I assumed that the television remote had been commandeered. I was in a lot of pain, and I was inmobile. I was a "captive audience."

I knew of Lance Armstrong. Being a cancer survivor, I was well aware of his struggle against the disease. I knew little of his cycling career other than he had one and was apparently pretty good.

That summer, as I was lying on the pull-out sofa recovering, I became transfixed. I quickly learned the intricacies of the sport. Team work, self-sacrifice, weather, endurance and machine all mingled to create a three-week race unlike any other in the world.

As I learned more about cycling, I became more informed about Lance Armstrong's story. He has accomplished more than merely survive a disease. By most accounts he should not be alive. The fact that he was pedaling over 100 miles a day, in heat and rain, and up some of the world's tallest mountains truly defied the confines of human nature.

He emerged from his disease stronger and more determined. The cancer angered him, and he fought not only to regain his life, but to surpass his own ambitions prior to the diagnosis. I felt a kinship. Lance overcame his cancer and thrived. I knew that I needed to overcome my amputation. Eventually, I would figure out a way to thrive.

When things became difficult during my recovery, I thought of Lance. I envisioned him on a stationary bike, weakened from chemotherapy but strengthened through his resolve to regain his career. On some level, I knew that if he could succeed, I could as well. I pushed through the pain and through the clouds of depression. "Bring it on" and "Livestrong" became my mantras.

Lance not only won that Tour, but also won a record seven. Many people do not realize the monumental feat he has achieved. Even sportscasters tend to minimize his accomplishment and joke about the sport of cycling.

I am riding the Tour this year with Lance. Every morning, I put on my cycling shorts and Livestrong shirt. I fill up my backpack with water, and I climb onto my bike. I set my trainer to approximate the terrain of the Tour for that day, and I ride.

Today cyclists in the peloton rode over 121 miles. I rode over 40. Robby loves to cheer me on, and his chants of "go Momma go" keep me motivated. When I first started watching the Tour, I was beaten down and I couldn't walk. Now I am running after a toddler and riding my own bike. I look back and I realize that I have exceeded my expectations for a happy life after an amputation. I may never wear the coveted yellow jersey, but I feel like a winner.

My Little Helper...

Robby is at the "independent, I can do it myself" stage. To be honest, many times it would be a lot easier and faster without his "help" but I know that this is an important developmental stage, and I do not want to discourage him.

From "helping" with the laundry to "sweeping" the floor in the kitchen, Robby is always eager to lend a hand. Today Scott was replacing the hallway light, and Robby was by his side, holding the flashlight and bringing him tools. Unfortunately, Robby became distracted by the beam from the flashlight. He ended up shining the light on his hand and up my nose instead of on the ceiling. He also delivered more tools than the ledge on the ladder could accommodate.

Robby doesn't like to help out just at home. I went to see my prosthetist yesterday, and my little guy was eager to help with Mommy's ankle adjustment. He was curious about the "buttons of mystery" on the front of my prosthetic that he has been banned from touching. He became excited when the buttons beeped and was anxious to try to press the buttons himself.

My prosthetist showed him how to press the buttons on my Proprio ankle. He also showed Robby how to insert the wrench into the screws at the bottom of my socket. My Little Helper was taught how to turn the wrench until it moved. He was thrilled to be so helpful! Because he was such a good assistant, Robby was given a wrench of his own to take home.

The sun was shining and bright today. It was hot and I was anxious for some summertime fun. I set up the sprinkler, donned my water leg and took Robby out to play. We had a blast.

After we came inside and got changed, I put on cartoons and went out to the kitchen to start dinner. After about 30 minutes I realized that my "helper" had not visited me, and my house was eerily quiet. I had a sense of foreboding when I looked down and realized that I was still wearing my water leg.

I found Robby, sitting next to my leg, with his prized wrench in hand. He managed to disconnect and remove the battery. Because of my prosthetist's wonderful instruction, Robby was able to remove the screws that keep my ankle in place. He was extremely proud of his accomplishment. He looked at me, smiled and said, "Momma, Robby help fix leg."

I bribed the wrench out of his hand with the promise of an ice cream cone with sprinkles. I was able to reattach the ankle to the socket, and the battery has been reconnected. Unfortunately, my alignment is off so I'll be making another visit to the prosthetist tomorrow. This time, I will leave "the helper" at home.

What Should You Say to an Amputee? Or not say...

There is an etiquette, many times left unspoken, when dealing with an amputee. Many of the "rules" are driven by common sense and basic manners. Unfortunately, I frequently encounter individuals who unknowingly commit a manner faux pas. In most instances, the offender is unaware of the breach. Although it varies according to the tolerances of the individual amputee, I wanted to share my personal list of etiquette "rules."

1. Yes, my name is Peggy. Please refrain from calling me Peg Leg Peg. I may use this nickname for myself, but I don't find it humorous when called out by others. Along this line, don't refer to me as "Hop Along," "Gimpy" or any other term considered endearing for an amputee.

2. I may, at times, make fun of my amputation. A tight knit circle of friends and family have earned the right to joke about my disability. As a general rule, if you question whether or not you have a relationship appropriate for such jokes with an amputee, err on the side of caution and refrain.

3. If my prosthetic should fall off, it is okay to laugh with me. I do not think it is okay to laugh at me. I know that it can be humorous, but please remember that it is also embarrassing for the amputee.

4. Many people do not understand that a residual limb becomes a private, personal part of an amputee's body. In many ways, it becomes as personal as the genitals. I don't mind showing somebody my stump covered with my liner, but I shy away from displaying my uncovered limb.

Do not ask to see somebody's stump. Do not try to "catch a glimps" when the amputee is not looking. Do not take a picture of an amputee without his or her knowledge, especially if the individual usually wears a prosthetic and is not using the device at the moment.

5. It is okay to inquire about the circumstances surrounding the amputation. Rely upon both verbal and non-verbal cues before soliciting more details. Sometimes I feel comfortable sharing specifics of my story, and sometimes I do not. Please try to be respectful because the amputee may not be ready or comfortable sharing all of the details.

6. I am never offended when a child asks about my prosthetic. I am happy explain my amputation and my prosthetic to any youngster who asks. I would rather a child simply ask and learn versus whisper and hide from me.

Along this line, sometimes children ask inappropriate questions. I do my best to respond to their inquiries, but parental guidance is always appreciated. Sometimes children will want to discuss all of the gory details at a time when I need to focus on something else.

7. My amputation has not made me oblivious to the medical struggles and the pain of others. I know that sometimes people don't want to complain to me because they view their pain "trivial" compared to my amputation. Pain is not a competition. I don't minimize somebody else's pain through comparison. I can relate, and I am happy to be a sounding board.

8. I know that I have a limp. Its severity varies depending upon a variety of factors, including but not limited to shoes, socket fit and pain. Unless asked, don't comment on my limp. It makes the amputee feel self-conscious and insecure.

9. I am continually astounded by the number of individuals who feel comfortable approaching me to voice their opinions concerning my disability. I had a woman at the grocery store tell me, in no uncertain terms, that I was not going to go to heaven because I was an amputee. I have been approached by salespeople hawking magnets and oils. I have been told that I was a sinner who was being punished by God. All of these encounters have left me unsettled and upset.

10. Yes, I have a handicapped parking placard. Yes, it is convenient, especially at malls and amusement parks. No, I am not "lucky." I would gladly give up my priority parking tag for my leg. It was not a fair trade.

Every amputee has a different set of etiquette standards. When in doubt, err on the side of caution and simply ask. I am never offended by questions brought about out of concern and with sincerity.

Slip n' Slide fun?

I strive to be a fun Mommy. This isn't to say that I don't discipline Robby, because I do. Sometimes I think the only words he hears during the day are "no," "stop it" or "put it down."

After Robby was born, I resolved to be the kind of parent that plays with her child instead of being content to sit back and watch. I do this partly because I want to show him that I am not limited by my amputation. I try to demonstrate that a disability does not have to be a limiting force in life.

Robby and his three cousins were ecstatic when they saw the Slip n' Slide set up at the Fourth of July picnic. In spite of their excitement, none of them quite knew how to use it. With no adults volunteering, I decided to take action. Strutting my cool Mom attitude, I put on my bathing suit and assumed the challenge of "Slip n' Slide Instructor."

As I stood in front of the slide, wearing my swimsuit and water leg, I realized that I have never been on a Slip n' Slide. Undeterred by my own inexperience and feeling pressure to succeed from my growing audience, I quickly analyzed the situation in an attempt to determine the best approach.

I instantly reasoned that I was missing the natural grace required for the belly flop style approach. Running and flying through the air onto a thin sheet of wet plastic just isn't my style. Besides, I was pretty sure that any combination of running and flying would quickly land me in the hospital. Instead, I opted to lie down on the very small, child-sized boogie board that was included in the package and to push myself down the slide.

Lying on the boogie board, and with a captive audience of both children and adults, I pushed with my arms to start the descent. I didn't move. I pushed harder. The boogie board stayed put, but my body went whizzing down the hill and into the splash pool at the bottom of the slide. Cold water splashed my face and grass went up my nose. The children cheered and the adults were laughing as I struggled to my feet.

I discovered that I needed to keep my prosthetic leg elevated throughout the ride to avoid snagging the plastic. Standing up after the slide was an exercise in acrobatics. My water leg is great in the pool but is not designed for walking and standing in the grass.

The kids needed the Slip n' Slide modeled only once before they caught on. Unfortunately for me, they preferred sitting on my back and using me as the boogie board versus the small plastic one included in the package. This meant that I was going down the slide a lot! This also meant that I was using my arms to push off countless times, and endured numerous splashes of water in my face as I plunged, face first, into the pool at the bottom of the slide.

Many times the pool stopped my momentum. Unfortunately, most of the time I continued through the pool and onto the grass. I had mud, grass and, much to my chagrin, I am fairly confident that I also had dog poop all over my chin and chest by the end of the afternoon. With each painful and tiring ride, the kids cheered and chanted "more more more." My ego kept me from stopping because the cool Mom never stops when the fun is in full swing.

Finally the Slip n' Slide was interrupted by the call for dessert. Cake trumps games every time. I was thankful for the reprieve. I quietly disconnected the slide and limped into the house. The rest of the afternoon was filled with Wiggles DVD's with an unlimited supply of Lucky Charm marshmallows.

I woke up this morning, very sore. My residual limb hurts and my thigh is aching from holding up my water leg during my numerous rides. Bruises cover just about every part of my body. My arms feel like they each weigh 100 pounds. I feel old.

I had a revelation as I was struggling to open the Tylenol bottle. I am a 35 year old woman with one leg. After a certain age, Slip n' Slides become a conduit for injury and pain. I am still going to attempt to be the cool, fun Mommy. I just need to make sure I always have the Tylenol within reach the next morning.

My Anniversary, My Story

Every amputee has a story, and I am no exception. My story began in 1998. I was just starting out in life and I felt unstoppable. I had just earned my Masters Degree from Michigan State, and I was working for a major hospital in the Baltimore area. I was fulfilling my lifelong dream of providing rehabilitation services to blind adults.

I was eager to attend my first professional conference. While at the conference, a computer monitor fell onto the top of my foot. The bones were crushed. More detrimental but unknown at the time, the nerves were damaged.

When the severity of the accident was first known, I resolved to "save my foot at all costs." Over twenty surgeries later, I began to consider a life without my limb. I faced the most excruciating decision of my life.

It took one year to the date from my inquiring about an amputation to when the actual surgery occurred. In many ways, this was the most difficult year of my life. I struggled with the decision, knowing that it was correct but terrified of what my life would be like as an amputee. This decision was permanent.

I did a lot of research, met with other amputees and discussed the surgery with my family and friends. I wrote letters to myself, detailing my reasons for the surgery in an effort to remind myself in the future. Those letters were a godsend and I cherish them. I still read those letters when I am having a difficult time being an amputee. I read them to remind myself of the pain that ever present in my life. Reading those words take away the doubts and regrets that still linger after all these years.

The night before the amputation seemed torturous. I remember breaking down after I took a bath. I have never before nor after felt the sense of terror that I felt at that moment. I was paralyzed by fear. All I could do was cry and it wasn't a normal cry. It felt more primitive and was totally, completely uncontrollable. It was a horrible night.

On July 3, 2003 Scott drove me to the hospital for my amputation. It was the longest two hours of my life. I felt like I was existing in a surreal daze, unable to completely connect with my impending reality.

I remember breaking into tears when trying to give my name to the registration clerk. The loneliest moment in my life was being wheeled into the operating room on a gurney. I knew that there was no turning back. I knew that I was going to be changed forever. But I didn't know how my amputation would influence every aspect of my life.

Waking up in my room, I was holding my mom's hand. I looked into her eyes, and I realized for the first time that I had become an amputee. Instantly, I began to panic. I remember telling her "Oh my God. I don't have my foot."

The recovery was arduous. I developed infections that required further surgical intervention. As a teacher, I had planned the amputation around my summer break. I was forced to return to work in September with an infected stump and unable to use a prosthetic.

Depression is not strong enough of a word to describe my state during this time. Five months later I was finally fit with a prosthetic. Regaining the ability to walk renewed my sense of hope. My body, and my spirit, began to heal.

When I was initially injured I never could have imagined my life at this time. My journey has left me feeling empowered. I know that I will have the strength to persevere through obstacles that develop. This experience has taught me so much about myself and about human nature.

I have learned about love through the support of my family and Scott. We were only dating when I had the amputation. He had every reason to leave, to get a girlfriend who wasn't confronting such issues. He devotion during this time demonstrated the true definition of being a man.

Scott and I continue to be astounded and appalled by the audacity of many individuals we encounter in public. I was ignorant about devotees and "wannabes." I was disappointed and hurt by the abandonment of many in our social circle. I was encouraged by the support of strangers and acquaintances.

I don't know if I am a better person because of my amputation. I do know that I am a different person because of the amputation. I made the choice to move forward with my life in spite of my "disabled" status. This is not always easy.

Today is a difficult day. It is the six year anniversary of my amputation. I am allowing myself to mourn. I am going to stay busy so that the tears will be kept to a minimum.

A Very Difficult Week...

I find myself fighting to remain upbeat this week, but has been a battle that I am not sure I am winning. Perhaps it is because this week marks the sixth year since my amputation. Normally I do not dwell on being an amputee during the course of my day. The last few days I have found myself hating being an amputee.

Every morning this week as I rolled on my liner and stepped into my leg, I have heard myself muttering, "I hate this thing." I didn't realize I was saying it out loud until Robby pointed to my leg this morning and said, "Mama hate leg." That made me sad.

I typically don't spend a lot of time dwelling on the limitations of being an amputee. This week I haven't been able to escape these thoughts. I am tired of having to depend on an artificial device to walk. I am tired of insurance companies and their politics. I am tired of the cricket leg I have been living with since the surgery. I am tired of being vigilant about sores and scratches on my residual limb. I am tired of people staring. I am tired of being different. I guess I am just plain tired of being an amputee.

I never envisioned the vast changes that would occur in my daily routine to accommodate my amputation. From the bathroom rails that have been installed to the well thought-out placement of Robby's swing set, I find myself feeling resentful. I never wanted to be an amputee. I know nobody really does.

So many of the decisions in my life have been influenced by my being an amputee. I quickly look at the landscape before I walk in grass or on trails. I am constantly scanning the ground when I walk so that I don't trip. I diligently wipe my prosthetic foot before entering stores after a rain to prevent slipping and falling. This week, I am angry about these adaptations.

I know that I need to allow myself these feelings, however unpleasant they may be. I keep reminding myself that it is normal to have the "amputation blues" close to the anniversary date. My close friends and family know that this is a difficult week and have shown increased patience and understanding. Their support is paramount.

Every person gets into a funk occassionally, and I am no exception. I think it is important to aknowledge the blues and then to move forward. I may hate putting on my leg this week, but I am still putting it on and walking through the day. Next week I know that these feelings will subside. But this is a difficult week.

My morbid curiosity..

After the amputation, my immediate recovery was consumed by surgical healing. After I was physically healed I focused my efforts on walking with a prosthetic. That being mastered, I moved slowly through my post-amputation identity crisis. It is during this phase that I developed a somewhat morbid curiosity.

At first I hesitated to share my question with anybody. I had convinced myself that they wouldn't understand my need to know the answer. In retrospect, I think maybe I was afraid to find out the answer. During this time I realized that I probably wasn't the only amputee to face this question. I set about finding an answer.

I needed to know what happened to my foot after the amputation. The thought of my foot, although useless when detached from my leg, being thrown in a trash can made me cringe. I spent many nights worried that my limb was being used as a prop for a fraternity party. I imagined my foot floating in an ocean, or thrown in a chipper and tossed into a bin with hundreds of other amputated parts. All of these scenerios made me sad.

Finally, after nearly three years, I gathered up my courage and asked my surgeon. I felt an immediate sense of comfort when he provided the answer. Although he could only speak specific to his hospital, I think it is safe to assume that the protocol is similar in most hospitals.

After my limb was removed, it was wrapped in a surgical sheet. It was then placed, not thrown, into a bin. After the surgery it was taken to a different section of the hospital where all of the amputated limbs and body parts were gathered. My foot was then blessed by a contingency of clergy from various denominations before being incinerated.

I am not sure why this knowledge gave me a sense of peace, but it has. I am thankful that my limb was treated with respect after it was detached from my body. I am writing this because I am sure I am not the only amputee to face this question. Maybe others will find a sense of comfort and peace knowing that their limb was treated with respect after surgery.