Without A Leg To Stand On

Without A Leg To Stand On

Noel Laflin

January 19, 2015

My mother always admonished me to never take anything for granted.  And of course, mothers are always right.

So, as each January 20^th makes its annual pilgrimage on the calendar, I am filled with remembered gratitude (not to mention just a shiver of near-forgotten pain) as it’s the anniversary of the day I broke my leg in three places.  And although the shattering of my lower left tibia, due to a sledding accident, took place long ago – the memory of that recovery still plays an integral and important role in how I view general health and simple mobility nearly five decades later.

 

Now the fear of a repeat episode also kept me off of sleds for many years.  But even that major trepidation also evaporated on another day in January, some years later, when I met a man with only one leg.  And as fortune would have it, he was in dire need of my assistance - and as fate would further have it, I needed to pilot a sled once again.

The breaking of my leg took place on a Saturday.  The year was 1968 – I was barely fifteen. The location was an icy slope in Idyllwild, known as Devil’s Slide.  That name alone should have set off alarm bells to our church’s youth group – but alas, we paid it no heed.  And all went well initially.  Sleds were dragged up the hill and then ridden down the steep icy slope, time and time again.  The rides were fast and bumpy as some major natural indentations in the mountain had formed over time.  The trick was to avoid the larger holes as they threatened to do bodily damage if hit.  But that’s exactly what I did on my last run down the hill – I hit one dead on.  Had I been lying prone – and alone – I might have just been thrown off the device and slid the rest of the way relatively unharmed.  But, as luck would have it, Debbie Wolensky and I were riding double and sitting up. Thus, it was my left leg that flew off the rudder, went into a rather deep hole, and stayed there while the rest of us flew violently forward.  Consequently, my tibia snapped.

The cast that I had to lug about for the next three and a half months ran from toes to crotch.  It took two hands wrestling it into bed at night. It meant sleeping on my back at all times until the damn heavy hindrance was removed sometime in May. I have never begrudged the inconvenience of a night filled with ‘tossing and turning’ since then.  Sleep may elude me occasionally, but at least I have had the mobility to deal with it.

During my cast-encasement I became an expert at washing up in the bathroom sink.  Years later I came across the term, ‘whore bath.’  I grasped the concept immediately.  I’ve appreciated the simple ability to shower ever since.

A boyhood friend and his father faithfully picked me up and returned me from junior high each day, helping me to both slide into and out of the back seat of their classic 1940’s-era car.  It had a massive back seat that allowed me ample room to stretch out with both cast and crutches.  And, I rode in style. I give silent thanks to that dynamic duo to this very day.

School mates carried my books and opened doors for me.  Teachers gave me a five minute head start so that I could make it to the next class on time.  Friends signed my cast.  I only now hope I adequately thanked everyone for these simple acts of kindness some forty-seven ago.

And when the cast was finally removed and I felt as if the weight of the world was lifted once and for all from my lily-white leg, I gave heartfelt thanks to the medical profession in general for saving my leg and the doctor with the magic saw, in particular, who loosened and ultimately freed me from my plaster shackles.

But I was hesitant about ever getting on a sled again until I met a one-legged man named Dan some eight winters later.

Now, Dan may have explained to me just how he lost his leg – but I apologize for having forgotten the circumstances all of these years later. Not that Dan would have cared most likely, as he was an independent cuss and shied away from any pity that folks may have wanted to toss his way.

 

But here we were - this old wood-chopping, pipe-smoking, sarcastic, one-legged Souter and me - sharing winter duty on a cold, snowy January day in Camp Ahwahnee.  With chainsaw and me in tow, Dan led the way through camp as we headed out to first find, and then deal with a reported fallen tree blocking the old camp road some half mile away from our warm quarters back in the camp’s parking lot.

And although the snow was deep and Dan had to really swing his artificial leg in awkward fashion in order to propel himself forward, we made decent tracks.  The only time we moved out of the center of the icy snow-packed road was to let the occasional Scout on a sled come barreling by.  I wished them all a safe landing.

The fallen tree was eventually found and expertly dealt with as Dan was a master with the chainsaw.  As we turned to head back, however, one of the straps that held the man’s artificial leg in place snapped.  Dan lurched forward into soft snow.  The fake leg with boot still attached, lay uselessly upon the icy road.

Well, Dan was normally pretty clever about coming up with solutions at times like this – and he knew exactly how to remedy the situation.  But, the tools by which to do this lay back at our sleeping quarters.

 

As evening was drawing neigh and the temperature was starting to drop, we knew that we were in a bit of a fix as far as getting a one-legged man twice my age – not to mention a great deal heavier than me - back to his leg-fixing tools.

But, as luck would have it, a whooping and a hollering from up the hill preceded a young daredevil on a sled careening our way.  The lad had no choice but to veer off his track once he saw the two of us - one with chainsaw in hand, sprawled across the snow - blocking his path.

Like cops commandeering a civilian’s car, Dan and I kindly confiscated the kid’s vehicle and had him push us off.

 

So, there I was piloting a sled through the woods once more.  Only this time my traveling companion was not a pretty girl from Sunday School class, but rather a cantankerous old guy, smoking a pipe and holding a chainsaw across his lap.

 

And across my lap, as I nervously grasped the ropes and rested my restless feet upon the steering rudders, sat a plastic prosthesis - with boot still attached.

I was filled with gratitude the entire ride back to warmth and legs anew.