After Loving Our Own Bones by Julia Watts Belser

In 1968, I tossed a prosthetic ankle brace into my closet. Wearing that brace had caused a purple welt on the back of my knee. A hematoma formed from the pressure of the strap. The brace had to be modified more than once before I could wear it without injury and, when that was done it did not give the support that my ankle needed. I wore it for almost a year before throwing it into my parent’s attic forever.

In addition to being less than functional, it exposed me as a cripple. The looks strangers gave me were of pity. At nineteen, I did not love my own bones, yet I would rather use a wheelchair if necessary, than do additional harm to my body.

Osteoarthritis in both of my ankles, both knees, both shoulders, one hip and, one wrist, is the legacy of my congenital bleeding disorder. Over the years however, I have become proud of my identity as a disabled person and learned the power of coming out of the crip closet.

Since that first brace, almost sixty years has passed. The doctor looked at my X-ray and ordered me a new brace. After I wore it once, I refused to wear it again. Instead I did physical therapy for what the doctor called “serious arthritis.” That helped to make walking more stable. For the second time in my life I tossed another prosthetic support aside.

When the ankle became inflamed and so painful a few weeks ago that it would not bare my weight, I pulled the brace out from the closet. My bones may be fragile, fused, and misshapen but, I care for them.