Not Enough

By Peggy Buxton

Susan Marshal was a successful businesswoman, started and sold several companies by the age of thirty. The one thing she had not mastered was the confusion about her body. Nothing seemed right about it, a feeling since childhood. Psychiatrists were of no help. One night a surgeon met her at an upscale bar, bought her a drink, told her about a recent amputation he performed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peggy Buxton
• Release date: May 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301639335

Peggy Buxton

Author, wife, lover, and amputee. I have been missing my left leg for years. Growing up I felt that it should not be there, and it is has been a blessing to have it gone. Today's term for this condition is BIID and in the past simply referred to as being a 'wannabe'. I am a full-time crutch user. Like my husband, I find amputees fascinating. 'Devotee' is the frequently used term. My stories have characters that mirror my life in some manner - wanted/needed to be an amputee or want to live with an amputee. I make no apology for my descriptions of these people and there is no intent to take away from the suffering of some amputees. I love feedback on the stories, but I cannot promise to reply.

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Not Enough

Peggy Buxton

Copyright 2013 by Peggy Buxton

Smashwords Edition

* * *

Everyone always told me I was pretty, beautiful, and I probably was. Even as a little girl I knew I wasn’t happy with my body. It was more than just my appearance. Nothing seemed right about it. I could deal with that, at least for a while. The biggest problem even then was the wrongness changed over time, sometimes on a weekly basis.

I thought I was crazy.

I made a few efforts to speak with my mother about how I felt. That had been a huge mistake. Once she began the usual refrain about how God made me the way he wanted, I just tuned out of the rest of the rant. I mentioned it casually to a friend in high school with less than desirable results, mostly disbelief and threats of telling others. From then on when recounting the problem, I always spoke of a friend with the problem.

I was in my late twenties when I sold my second business for more money than the GDP of most third-world countries. I guess I had shown all the naysayers I could be a success.

My body issues, as I’d come to refer to them, still persisted, and were screaming at me more than ever in the past. I decided to work to find myself and spent months with several psychiatrists to no avail.

I read much of the research on body image problems. There was more than I had expected. Most of it covered things that did not apply, seemed more related to OCD than whatever was going on with me. There was a single research paper from a university I stumbled upon that described people with an unwavering need from an early age to be disabled. While the paper focused on the need manifesting itself as missing limb, the author postulated that it might apply to other forms: paraplegia, blindness, etc.

My left sleeve dangled empty and free along side as I walked around the house. In the mirror, I studied the person in the reflection. At first, she was a stranger, a beautiful one never the least, with only one arm. It was obvious, clear from even a casual glance. I strolled through the house attempting various tasks. Some seemed awkward, difficult, even impossible. I understood how a new arm amputee might react the same way, only they did not have the option to pull the arm back out.

The finality of an amputation caught my attention at a primal level, aroused in ways I never expected. Back in front of the mirror I watched the woman masturbate, slowly at first, then in a frenzied manner, and blow through a massive climax.

It was only then I realized I had been the one, not the stranger I was watching.

The arm remained tucked away as I searched for information for new arm amputees. I found gadgets and aids to help with assisted daily living or ADL as the literature referred to it. I was surprised at the breadth of what was available from knife and fork combinations, jar openers, even ways to wipe my bottom if I were missing both hands.

I found a wide elastic band normally used for slimming the stomach, something I did not need, but it offered a simple way of securing my arm to prevent the temptation of sneaking the hand out, cheating.

That entire weekend I spent with one arm. I even drove miles away where no one would know me so I could be out in public. For the first time, I felt relief from whatever had bothered me.

I pretended to be missing an arm because it was simple to do, and strangely it offered relief. Just leave the arm inside my blouse, right? I would go out in public that way. Few seemed to notice the empty sleeve. I thought that was strange. I was hyperaware of it. I’d been doing it for most of a year in the city where I lived, while traveling, and all of the time at home. I managed most tasks with a single hand, even had special gadgets to help. Effectively, I was living as though I was missing the arm.

I was standing in the crowd at the Martian, a swank bar for professionals, with the sleeve empty as had become a common feature for me. I was sipping the last of a glass of scotch.

Buy you another? the handsome man said.

It took me a moment to realize he was speaking to me. Rarely did any men, especially when they did realize I was missing an arm. Before the search, I’d been through my fill of men and women, usually never lasting more than a few nights. Now my social life was nonexistent because I did not want to complicate the search for myself. I rarely dated other than to satisfy primitive needs. I could do that for myself quite well, but there were times another person just made it better.

I looked the man over a second time.

Sure, scotch. I finished the glass and handed it to him.

He returned a few minutes later with drinks, nodded to a standup table just vacated by two women holding hands and walking close.

Sam, he said, holding a hand out, Dr. Sam Howard.

Susan Marshall. Hmm, a doctor...what kind?

Successful. He laughed. Orthopedics.

A man after my other limbs. I snickered.

My last amputation was two days ago. A woman about your age needed her arm amputated. He pointed just above the elbow, midway to the shoulder.

How does that make you feel? I sipped my scotch, savored it as it rolled down my throat. It was a fine scotch I had never tried, and I had sampled many. It was very smooth, probably very old.

I do my best to leave a good stump, functionally and cosmetically. She’s doing well. It was the dominate arm, so it will be awkward for a while.

I swiped at a few drops lingering on my lips trying to be suggestive about it. From his reaction, I thought I succeeded.

Do you perform many amputations?

More than most people would like. Maybe one a week. Mostly legs from vascular problems or motorcycle accidents.

His cell phone made a noise. He read the text message, frowned. If you need help with the arm, make an appointment. He handed me a card and walked away.

I stood there stunned for the longest time. My mind racing at the words I’d just heard. I was sure he knew it was inside my blouse. Any fool could tell, though no one ever called me on it. Maybe he just thought it injured, in a sling, or some kind of medical problem.

I hadn’t really analyzed my body issues other than to find some relief by pretending to have one arm. At first, it was for days in a row. Now it was all the time. I never cheated anymore by sneaking my hand out.

Suddenly, everything was clear about what I had to do. I had to have the arm amputated. It wasn’t the first time I’d thought about it, but now it seemed I had to have it done. After pretending for so long, losing the arm seemed benign, and not the end of the world if it did not result in what I expected.

I looked at the card, rubbed a thumb over the embossed letters. Just one arm I promised myself.

I called to make an appointment first thing the next morning. I expected it to be months before I could see him just for the first consultation. I gave the woman my name. She said I already had an appointment for eleven that morning, and asked if I could keep it. Stunned, I babbled about how I must have forgotten, that I would be there.

I hurried to shower, dress, and get to the medical office building. For the first time, I felt self-conscious about my empty sleeve. I didn’t see any amputees, or people staring. There were plenty of people walking about with their own problems. I looked at the card - Suite 1214. The elevator was empty and made no stops.

Susan Marshall for Dr. Howard, I politely told the woman at the reception window.

Yes. He just finished with a patient and can see you now.

Patient I thought. I had never considered I would be that to him.

Let me give you this clipboard and forms to fill out while you wait.

I followed a nurse to an exam room where I began writing about and checking off details of my medical history. I’d never been sick a day in my life. Then the big question: what is the reason for the appointment?. I pondered a moment: problem with arm. Wasn’t as if he didn’t know I had one, that it had been inside my blouse.

After a light rap on the door, it opened. Ms. Marshall...good to see you.

Just didn’t expect it to be so soon, maybe a few months to get an appointment.

I suspected you would want to see me, so I moved a few things around just in case. He grinned, read through the forms. What seems to be the problem?

I have an arm. I guess he expected me to continue, but I said nothing else.

And?

It shouldn’t be there.

Why?

Have not a clue, but I no longer use it...haven’t for a year. I looked down at the empty sleeve. You mentioned the woman...the arm amputee, well I want you do amputate my arm.

He leaned back, crossed his legs, rubbed his chin with one hand. How do I know that will help?

Huh?

Losing one arm isn’t a huge impact to your ability to function, but what if you regret it, or what if in the future you come back wanting a leg amputated, or the other arm? What do I do?

I realized his problem. He was exactly right. What would he do? I thought quickly. I’ve not used it for a year; I don’t see how there could be any regrets. It’s never been anything but this arm. I won’t be back.

It’s unethical for me to amputate a healthy limb.

But it isn’t healthy, far from it. I don’t use it. It just dangles there. It is in the way.

I see. He wrote some notes on a blank sheet of paper. How much of the arm are we talking about?

Above the elbow. I pointed about the same place he had when describing the woman.

I’d rather do something on the forearm so you could use a prosthesis more successfully.

That’s not enough. Besides I don’t want one.

Which is your dominate hand?

I held up the right hand. It was the left arm inside my blouse.

At least it isn’t that one. He wrote again on the same page. How long have been feeling this way?

Forever. I lied, stretching my body image issue to include being an amputee.

Have you discussed this with a psychiatrist?

Yes, two. Neither wanted to help, just talk. It did nothing, only make it worse.

How would friends or family react?

I’ve been on my own for years. I’ve owned several businesses, sold them. I’m quite independent these days. I would pay cash, not use insurance, if that matters.

When would you like the surgery?

As soon as possible. Frankly, having an arm that doesn’t function is very much in the way of me living my life.

You were pretending at work?

Never. Since I sold my last one, I’ve been doing it all the time.

What kind of reaction do you get?

You were about the only one to notice. Oh, men see the empty sleeve and don’t get past that I have one arm before they walk away.

Does that bother you?

Not as much as having the arm.

Have you spoken to others that feel the same as you?

I thought I was alone.

Okay. He looked at the iPad screen. I have some time in the operating room at nine tomorrow morning. Would that work for you?

Sure!

I need to do an exam. Then you need to go over to have lab work, and fill out admitting forms. They will tell you when and where to report in the morning.

Wow-w.

I moved from the chair to the exam table, undressed. He did the usual tests, took my blood pressure, looked in my throat for airway issues. We discussed how long a stump to leave. He measured, made notes, left a small mark from a Sharpie on my arm, told me it didn’t matter if it washed off.

Remember no food, or liquids after midnight.

To think I almost had not gone to the Martian the night before, and now scheduled to have an amputation for the next morning. My whole body was on fire.

How long will I be in the hospital?

Overnight, if you want.

And if I don’t?

You are in great health. I’ve discharged a few arm amputees the same day. Since you live nearby, I’d consider letting you go home late in the afternoon. Of course, you will need to come here once a day to check the incision, and change dressings. At day ten, I’ll remove the sutures and you will be able to bathe and do whatever you want.

They gave me forms and letters to take to the hospital admitting desk where I filled out more forms, promised to pay the full bill upon discharge, then directed to the lab were I was poked for what seemed a pint of blood. Save some for me I teased, but the woman had no sense of humor.

No one seemed concerned or interested about my surgery. It was just another day at work for them. For me, it was the start of a new life, a solution for a problem that lingered for a long time.

I hoped.

I didn’t sleep well. I barely slept. I was up at four, showered, washed my arm for the last time, dressed in jeans and an old tee shirt that said nothing on the front. The mark was still there, a few inches below the hem of the sleeve. I found my reaction to realizing the stump would be visible was different than I might have expected.

It was electrifying.

I wore sandals, knowing I would never wear shoes than need tying again. I looked at the pairs of running shoes that would need replacing with ones with Velcro closures. It was okay.

I had a small beach bag with a few toiletries and a change of clothes slung over my right shoulder as I walked though the hallways looking for the nurse’s station where they would prepare me for surgery.

The large woman snapped a name band on the right wrist, made a joke about how she couldn’t put it on the other. I laughed. She seemed pleased I was taking this in good order.

I exchanged my clothes for a gown with no back. She started an IV in the arm with the band, poked at the other. She shaved it again, just in the area where they would cut and under my arm.

When?

She looked at the clipboard, then the clock on the wall. Soon. Someone from the transport department will be here to take you up.

I assumed up meant the operating room. I asked. She laughed and assured me that would be my next stop. About the time she became quiet, another woman appeared. She covered me with a blanket, pushed the gurney out of the room and to a bank of elevators.

No turning back.

The woman was silent, never asked what I was having done. She was just doing a job, and that was to move people up then back to their rooms afterwards.

They parked the gurney along side the operating table, which was just a narrow thing with shelves sticking out for the arms and legs. I moved myself over, then