I didn’t know your size

When I was 37 ½ weeks pregnant with my daughter, my father decided to go on a motorcycle road trip. And that was the last time we saw his left leg. Just kidding, only partially kidding. 23 hours into the trip he decided to take a detour that involved a rain storm, a chunk of mud, and the back end of a vehicle. I don’t remember all of the details because I had serious pregnancy brain going on. I do know that he ended up with a broken leg and an emergency surgery down in Utah. I wasn’t allowed to go down to see him since I could pop at any second. Something about stress can induce labor or some other medical excuse. (I was as big as a whale and on bed rest, I would have loved for labor to induce itself!)

My brother drove through the night and picked him up AMA to bring him to Gillette, where he could have family around to help. His leg was a mess when he made it here. The infection was so bad the skin was blistering off. It looked like the zombie apocalypse was starting in room 425 on a left lower appendage. It stunk very-much-bad as well. The stars were not pointing toward him maintaining a bipedal lifestyle.

One doctor tried really hard to convince him to go through 16 surgeries to possibly save the leg. He kicked the doctor out of the room and told him to send in “someone that isn’t a money hungry leech, and would actually answer his questions” The next doctor was rather blunt. He came in the room, introduced himself, sat down on my dad’s bed and then looked him dead in the eye “I think we need to cut your leg off.” And it was decided.

I came up with the crazy idea of throwing a going away party for the leg. I choose to handle all situations with a dark sense of humor. It makes life more interesting. (It also makes colossal shit-storms far more laughable.) I got balloons and streamers and a cake. I also got my dad a present. It was a bag of Right side only shoes and a left Barbie leg. What?! I saved the receipt so he could exchange it for one in his size…

Maybe I should have found a Ken leg instead? How do you tell what gender a left leg identifies as?

He called me a bitch. Not having tact is apparently a family trait. But he did laugh while he was saying it.



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