My name is Brodie Winn Allen.  I am 30  years old.  I live with my family in Olathe, Kansas.  I am still recuperating from my surgery I had three months back; just got out of the hospital two weeks ago.  I was very, very sick; I nearly died.

It all started innocently enough.  Had nicked my finger while opening a can of peas; thought nothing of it until a few days later when the pain in my arm woke me up from a good night's sleep.  When I turned on the light, I was shocked to find out that my whole arm was swollen and an angry red color.  It scared me, so I had my mom take me to the emergency room of the nearest hospital.

The pain was excruciating.  It was nothing like I had ever experienced before, and I felt weak, feverish, dizzy.  It was all I could do to keep from passing out right there, in front of God and everybody.  Mom had me sit in a wheelchair; she did not want me falling onto the floor.

I waited maybe a half hour, which isn't bad, considering the ER was full at the time.  I was rolled into a cubicle after the ER nurse called my name and mom had handed her the necessary paperwork she'd filled out when we'd first gotten there.  Shortly after that, a doctor came and looked at me.  He grew very concerned.  He said something "bacterial" was going on, and I would have to have x-rays and other scans to see what was occurring.

I didn't care at this point.  I felt even worse; all I wanted was for someone to get a gun and shoot me to put me out of my misery.

The next thing I remember was a nurse shoving a tube up my nose, which really hurt.  I gagged and gasped, but I was too sick to fight back.  That was when everything went black as I mercifully passed out cold.

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I woke up a good while later.  Like two months later.  I had missed Christmas.  New Year's Eve and New Year's Day.  President's Day.  Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.  Ground Hog Day.  Valentine's Day.  I remember being extremely confused and in severe pain, but the pain was somehow nothing compared to what I had when I'd first came to the emergency room.  I was stunned to find that my arm had been removed:  all that remained was a stump, heavily swathed in thick bandages.

I had many questions.  Why would my arm be removed?  What had happened to me?  All I had done was nick my finger.  Why would I end up needing surgery just for a cut on my finger??  What day was it?  What month was it?  Why was I hooked up to all these extra tubes and monitors?

Patiently, but efficiently, the doctor in charge of my care, explained everything.  It turned out that I had developed a very rare (but deadly) bacterial infection that "went crazy"; it was known as "neck-ro-tizing fah-she-eye-tis" (necrotizing fasciitis), and the bacteria had gotten into my system, causing extreme damage to my arm; to save my life, it had to be removed, or I would surely be dead in only a few hours.  That's how serious this condition was.  I also had to endure debridement of any remaining dead skin and ultimate skin grafts, to replace the skin I had lost in the course of both surgery and general treatment.

He said once my stump had healed enough, I would be fitted with a prosthetic (artificial) arm if it was up to me.  Immediately I had an image of Cap'n Hook of Peter Pan flash through my mind's eye.  I decided right then and there that I would do better without an ugly hook hanging off my stump; I'd do everything one-handed once I had learned how to manage. 

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It was incredibly difficult.  I never realized just how "handicapped" I became with having just one arm.  I couldn't tie my shoes.  Button buttons on my shirts or pants.  Pull up my pants or put on a shirt.  Put on socks.  Hold something bulky in my arm(s).  Push a grocery cart.  Read a book and/or turn the pages.  Operate a computer keyboard.  Cook.  Carry groceries.  Drive a car.  So many things I had to learn all over again, things I had once taken for granted when I had two good, working arms.  Now everything was brand-spanking new:  it was like I was a newborn baby learning things all over again.

I had days where I raged at God, for allowing this to happen to me.  I was angry, bitter, resentful.  I didn't want to live again; I wanted to die.  Then someone said I'd better start thanking God for allowing me to live because so many others who had this "thing" called necrotizing fasciitis died.  I was one of the luckier ones, as I survived despite overwhelming odds.  I had only lost an arm where I could have very easily lost my life.

Once I got my attitude in check and made peace with God, I started working harder at my therapy.  I had physical therapy.  Occupational.  Mental health counseling.  I was soon determined to get my life back, and this battle still continues today.  I am learning new ways to do things one-handed where I used to do them with two; it is an ongoing (often frustrating) process.  So this is where I am at at the current time, and my fight will continue until I get used to living life as an amputee.

That is my story up to this point.  I still wonder why God allowed me to have this terrible disease that could have very well wiped me off the face of the earth, but then I figure He must have a plan for me; it is up to me to figure out what that is.  It still isn't easy at times; there are days where I grieve over what I lost, but in time, even that will heal and go away, as I continue my walk towards independence.

I will share more of my story with you in future installments, so you can see the progress I am making.  Just keep me in your prayers; I would greatly appreciate it!  Take care; this is Brodie Winn Allen signing off!  God bless!

~Brodie.  :)

*to be continued.*