Tackled Demons" addresses the crucial function of writing as two good oars in the raging rapids of grief. The prefix of "dis" in disability meets its counterpoint. This article was first featured in "In Motion Magazine," December 1999.

There is, or should be, a significant distinction between reflecting upon fate and the trap of self-pity when it comes to coping with an amputation. I am not a psychologist or a psychiatrist. I am an amputee. My research is primary rather than secondary, and I hold no distinction among my peers beyond my share of scars and a plethora of congenital deformities. I do, however, fathom the presence of the "crippled" sticker and have processed a certain degree of its bubble gum over a period of roughly forty years.

When a child or an adult is afflicted with seemingly insurmountable struggle and pain, it is usually met with panic, denial, and/or the inextricable IV of determination and courage. If the amputee is lucky, these stage-streams flow gently into one large channel of self-acceptance. Since we are human and want the "best" for our loved ones, we urge the strife to disappear. But whacked off limbs don't grow back. Like abused children, amputees are often seen as victims and stamped surreptitiously with the infamous sticker of "set apart."

Parents and friends have a kind of double-duty: they must acknowledge suffering and navigate around it at the same time. Reflection's stepping stones are often pounded in place by spirituality, denial, and over-compensation. Protectiveness takes many forms. I grew up as one of seven children, so my disability was not a major player on the family stage. The hurried lifestyle of raising that many kids made it (fortunately) rather impossible for my family to treat me as if I were the only chunk of beef in the stew. My medical needs were met by the very best doctors; I was given state-of-the-art limbs; I have been lucky enough to weather the requisite revisions of my salvaged bones. My disability existed for forty years before I even recognized that there were any emotional issues with which to cope. It is perhaps fruitless to wonder why we didn't talk about it, but I think some of dismissal's phlegm was born of sheer helplessness. My father, a physician who put a great deal of energy and faith into the miracles of medicine, could do very little to assure that his daughter would grow up "normal" and "able."

The cattle-drive of stoic was for the most part led by the pony of approval. Stubborn became an umbilical cord to self-sufficiency. Keeping pain quiet and subtle was rewarded, and I needed those rewards. I must say that it is not my intention to pass judgment on my family's quietude. In many ways, my father's purple robe of courage gave me the grit I needed to succeed. If had been spoiled with attentiveness, I think my own private tendons and strength reserves would have withered from stasis.

Combinations to the lock of self-acceptance are as various as the fingers that turn them, but one thing all well-adjusted amputees can do is discuss the issues and emotional pressure-sores. The key player in this drama must be communication (at all costs). I never thought I would say this, but writing and publishing disability-related poetry and humor has given me the strength and the will to tackle demons of difference and thwarted femininity that two years ago I'd have assured you did not exist. The question that arises here is this: "What is the distinction between 'Who Am I?' and the familiar ogre of self-pity?" The answer, I believe, is connected to the approach of self-discovery and the ambiance of reflection. For practical reasons, I was encouraged to play "normal." Fitting in was everything. A major symbol in my poetry, as one might guess, is that of "eyes." I wear long skirts, never go out in public without my limb, and for the most part dress around my difference; this is done, I suppose, in an effort to put everyone at ease, especially me.

If I am not comfortable with my own body, how can I do anything but pass that distress along to others around me? In all honesty, I don't know how people react to me, because I make a point of not looking, of avoiding the intrusion of eyes, whether they be driven by disgust or by praise. Laughter is a safety valve and I use it too often perhaps in an effort to let the steam of struggle escape, but sometimes it's all we have to cling to. My third total hip replacement several years ago was done on my only existing leg, so the subject of a "chair" was broached. I'm told that, under the influence of drugs, I bit off the head of a well-meaning friend when she brought up the topic, so she posted a sign in my hospital room that said: "Mentioning wheelchairs in Janet's presence is hazardous to your health." I'd like to blame my rudeness on the Demoral, but I think it had deeper roots.

Several months ago, I was limping down the halls of our orthopedic center behind a nurse pushing a wheelbarrow full of my X-rays, and she said: "You should give lectures on coping with a disability to other amputees." I'm sure she was referring to the gloves of poised smiles and resignation regarding the next round of surgery, but I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth: that I run around like a chicken with my head cut off around my own disability, so I haven't much clout when it comes to helping others. Surgery is like dandruff to me: I brush it aside until things hit the blizzard stage and then we talk. Some find answers in God, some in booze, some in bitter, some in stubborn, some in art. The outlet for me has been writing.

There are no recipes for success in the kitchen of self-discovery, but I have learned a great deal about what made me what and who I am through exercises on the empty page. I have no blinding regrets about the manner in which my family handled my health problems, but I do feel a sense of loss in terms of conducting a lucid and productive emotional life. My stubbornness, at times, was a shot of Novocain or a trash compactor for the physical pain, but it was also ether to feelings that should have had a place to sleep. For decades, "rise above" and "carry on" were the bibles I toted everywhere I went. No one ever saw the rattle of insecurity within, because the current of my energy was directed at proving self-worth. I knew that so long as I didn't bemoan my fate and steam its wrinkles into the lives of those around me, I would earn respect.

In many ways, I over-extended myself. I was sent to a small boarding school in Portland precisely because a larger high-school in my hometown involved a great deal of walking. It seems hilarious in retrospect, but there is a certain irony that my family paid thousands and thousands of dollars to "save me steps," and while I was there, I hiked twenty-seven miles through the Columbia Gorge, played on the tennis team, taught myself to ride a bike, went rappelling (despite my fear of heights), and felt the need to apply an excessive amount of courage to just about everything I attempted. Though my friends at OES supported my decision to hike through the Wallowa Mountains, their speed and comfort I'm sure were clipped by the presence of my struggles. I still swim 2/3 of a mile a day, despite three total hip replacements and one partial shoulder last January. In some ways, these accomplishments have back-fired because my mobility is growing more limited; I have, however, no regrets about my choices, even if they can be packaged in ribbons of disability's denial.

In addition to sports, another outlet for me has been writing about my perspective and experience. Though I never thought I'd live to see the day, I now sense a profound distinction between self-discovery and self-pity. The paths of both are littered with emotion and expectation. Self-expression no longer seems the self-indulgence it once was. As a child, I dined on my parents' silence; then I fed it back to them. Honesty was not triumph; overcoming was. If I had a child who was disabled, I would (I hope) make channels of communication open caves that we all wander through together and assure him or her that candor is not necessarily the evil trap of self-absorption. My journey as a writer has led me to other amputees and led me to them as well. We've discussed the things we hate the most: empty shoes on a closet floor, useless pantyhose like serpents in a bedroom drawer, and by God, we have talked about those eyes. I can now type the word "stump" without hives of ring-around-the-collar shame. Every human being gathers lesson rocks in his life when it comes to suffering, and my trials have taught me many valuable things: moments of health are diamonds that cannot be appraised; motion, even in its scissored form, is a sacred current; mortal axes are always resting above our thumbs; every step we take should matter. To put it bluntly, I had self sawed off, but it grew back in other ways.

The juggernaut of coming to terms with disability often feels like an unstoppable wringer. Writing, at times, resembles one long labor pain, but blessings come in shapes we seldom choose. What can a family and loved ones do to encourage an amputee's health? Listen. Just listen. It's Listerine in a clammy mouth. Articulating fear is often the first step toward erasing its grip. Give tears air and space to dry. Art is the ideal venue for self-exposure of this kind, because a writer has the distance of a paper mask. Readers are moved and touched by the rosaries of words I roll, but they are not attached to them with the plop of emotional glue that a family always is. Wearing difference on one's sleeve is a tender application for everyone involved. I once had student in my writing class who suffered a "drop foot," the perfect mirror of my remaining one. We discussed sentence fragments, comma splices, pronoun case errors and every dangling modifier in the world, except the one that really mattered. I could have been a better teacher than I was.