“WHO WANTS TO SHOUT ABOUT BEING AN AMPUTEE IN THEIR TINDER BIO?”
One writer shares her experiences of dating after losing her leg
His hair – curly and the colour of Hobnobs – is what I expected. His body – slim and clad in a red tartan shirt – is, too. He wiggles his fingers at me, I wiggle mine back as I approach. I tug at my skirt, ruffle my hair. I hope he likes what he sees. I certainly do.
I think of his five profile pictures, the small window into his world that I’ve been granted. Here, in real life, sitting on a high stool, a half-drunk pint in front of him, I see he matches all of them. And then… he grins.
There, where his two front teeth should be, is a pink gummy ridge. A black void stretching right back into his mouth. I think back to those pictures: in all of them his mouth was wedged shut.
I want to spin on my heel, leave right there and then. But I sit down and accept the gin and tonic he’s bought for me. It’s not just manners that makes me stay. It’s the swirl of thoughts crowding my head, jostling for space. Can I really judge him for his lack of teeth when I’m sitting here without half of my right leg?
Three years ago I tripped… and lost my leg. No one expects something so cataclysmic to happen from something so small. But it did. I was out running with my sister when I tripped over my own two feet on a flat gravel canal path in east London – easily done, especially as I’m so clumsy. I dropped to the ground, twisting my knee in the process. It was fractured and dislocated – later, it turns out that the blood supply to my right knee was
also blocked. Three long operations tried to restart the circulation but, four days after that sunny, canal-side run in May 2016, I was told that amputation was the only option.
I remember watching as the surgeon drew a thick, black arrow on my skin. I was wheeled into the anaesthetic room, staring at my right foot for the final time. The skin was white and mottled; the toenails painted red.
That’s who I was before the amputation: someone who painted her toenails red. Who, on Wednesdays, sang loud, jubilant pop and gospel at my local choir. Who overspent at least twice a week on dinners and drinks with friends. I wore bright, patterned clothes to important meetings as I climbed the slippery career ladder of magazine journalism. Among all of that, when I could, I fitted in dating. I’d recently turned 25 and had made a decision to invest more time in finding someone I really cared about.
I’d had a first date planned the evening of that run. I’d told my sister about him while we jogged; how we’d met at a house party a few weeks earlier and how he’d made me laugh with his dry, quiet sense of humour. Just two hours after she had been excitedly asking me what I was planning to wear, she was unlocking my phone to text him and let him know that I wouldn’t be able to make it.
“I hope she’s OK,” came the reply. “I’ve got a cold so it’s probably for the best.” I didn’t hear from him again. As far as I’m aware, he doesn’t know I’m now an amputee.
Plenty more fish in the sea, they say. But after the accident, it took a long time for me to feel brave enough to dip my toes (just on the one foot, mind) back into the murky, shark-infested waters of online dating. I watched from the sidelines as my clever, attractive, funny, two-legged friends went on dates. I heard their stories, smiling on the outside while nerves concerning my own situation fizzed in my stomach. I sat in my bedroom – nine months after the accident – and idly swiped through profiles. Men with topless gym selfies; men at weddings; men who hiked up mountains and probably wore socks with sandals. There were even men who posted their Uber ratings like Nobel Prizes. “One of a kind” or “simply the best” some jokers had written under their bios. “Source: my mum.”
I wondered what sort of women they wanted. Then, I’d look at my stump, ugly and swollen; at the angry red scars, the result of eight operations, inside both of my thighs. How, I wondered, could anyone ever find this attractive? I’d catch sight of myself in the mirror and then let my eyes travel down my body… as soon as I reached my thighs I’d quickly look away.
PROFILE UPDATE
My online profile – carefully curated like most – was a nostalgic tribute to the person I used to be: pictures of me cycling through rice fields in Vietnam or dancing in a dingy university nightclub with black glittery walls. My phone vibrated each time I had a match and I’d pick it up to message people – only to put it back down again. It felt like I was faking my entire identity, so eventually I decided to be honest and tell the men I was an amputee. There was no easy way to do this. I rephrased the sentence again and again, eventually settling on “Hey, just so you know…” The aim was chatty; no big deal. I didn’t want anyone to treat me differently. But the response? Complete and utter silence. I felt like the tiny shred of confidence I’d so carefully cultivated had been ripped away.
“I didn’t want anyone to treat me differently”
Weeks went by: not a single date. So I tried a new strategy. No old photos, but no photos of my prosthesis either. This time, I felt happier; protected while remaining genuine. I didn’t want to shout about being an amputee in my Tinder bio – after all, it didn’t define me. My new seed of confidence seemed to pay off in my messages. My “banter” got better. The matches became meetings.
I’d carefully select outfits for the dates, blow-dry my hair with volume spray and spend ages attempting to achieve the perfect smoky eye. But, unlike the old me, I’d also select a leg. I have the choice of two: one lightweight carbon fibre with a mini-blade foot, and a more realistic one, which has a bespoke silicon-skin cover over it matching my exact skin tone. Wearing it gives me a strange sense of freedom, the decision of whether or not to discuss the accident left to me rather than to the person I’m meeting.
Admittedly, it’s a shame that my first date after the accident had a foot fetish. His name was Sam,* a lighting engineer who shared my love of the theatre. He had a nervous twitch, a flick of his left eye that made it seem like he was winking. Halfway through our second drink, I felt brave enough to drop the leg bombshell. Sam was enthusiastic. Too enthusiastic.
“No way!” he exclaimed, twitching or winking violently – I wasn’t quite sure which.“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this. But the thing is, I really like feet. Like, really like them…”
His eyes were wide as his gaze travelled hungrily beneath the table, seeking out my realistic prosthetic leg. He wanted to see what the foot was like. I downed my drink and left as soon as I could. I felt like I’d been violated; ogled as though
“My first date was with a foot fetishist”
he’d undressed me with his eyes. He’d made me feel like a total freak. I needed to get out.
FIRST-DATE NERVES
Within the next few months, I tried out a series of different approaches. There were the men I didn’t tell: Jay,* the (typical) journalist, worked it out, admitting he’d stalked me on Twitter; William,* the data analyst, remained oblivious but, saying that, any man who thinks a Wetherspoons in a train station is an acceptable first-date venue does not deserve my time, let alone my life story. Then there were the men I did tell. Kevin,* the teacher, asked far too many questions, including “How much blood was there when you fell?” (none) and “Can I touch it?” (er, no – we’re at a rooftop bar), while Liam* (the guy with no teeth) told me he understood what I was going through because, and I quote,“My mum works for a disability charity.” Sure.
If a date did progress to a second, third or fourth, there was the niggling fear of what came next. I was terrified of sex. A fear that was amplified by the endless questions that everyone, from friends to strangers, seemed to
think were appropriate to ask. Questions that, for a long time, even
I didn’t know the answer to.“Do you keep your prosthetic leg on during sex?”“What if, in the throes of passion, you whack the man in the face (or worse) with your prosthesis?” “What positions work?” As my flamboyant Spanish nurse said in hospital, to the horror of my mother, “You can still do the doggie”. So what would happen when I did get my (one) leg over? When I asked an amputee pal for advice, her answer was, “Whatever you feel comfortable with.”
The first man I slept with, as an amputee, was Greg* – two years after the accident. We’d been dating for a few months, and we were at his house watching Love Island one night when we started to “do bits” ourselves. I was a bit tipsy, which definitely helped. But as I sat in my underwear on his sofa, I just couldn’t relax. Mid-kiss, he glanced at my prosthetic leg. It was a fleeting moment, but it was enough to throw my delicate self-confidence off balance. I couldn’t bring myself to expose my stump.
Greg and I had sex a few more times after that – and I always kept my prosthetic leg on. In hindsight, it was a sure sign that I wasn’t fully at ease. Thankfully, there were no painful mishaps, but I don’t think Greg realised just what a big thing this was for me psychologically. I was yearning for him to reassure me; to tell me I was sexy, to restore my shaky self-esteem. He didn’t. Instead, he cut off all contact without warning just a few weeks later, teaching me two very valuable lessons. One: my fragile emotions could no longer withstand having sex with someone I didn’t fully trust. And two: even disabled people get ghosted.
I’d recount these lessons to friends, making jokes to try to mask my shame, but every unanswered message, every date that went awry, chipped away at my mental state. Greg disappearing without a trace really took its toll on my emotions, sending me into a void of grief and isolation.
THE RIGHT MATCH
It took therapy sessions, chats with friends and, most crucially, time on my own to build myself back up to realise that being single wasn’t a weakness. Learning to love myself again meant I was also opening my heart for someone else to love me.
Three months after Greg, I was idly scrolling through Hinge when I matched with a man whose smile was warm and kind. He had a dimple in one cheek and a glint of mischief in his eyes. His messages were thoughtful and funny. When talk turned to meeting up, I said that I had a prosthetic leg. By now, I was fed up of pretending.
“It doesn’t bother me at all,” George replied. He didn’t probe or comment – and the chat moved on. He’d struck the balance perfectly.
Our first date was a brunch. Scarred by previous encounters, I was nervous. But our conversation flowed easily. In a sense, we were opposites (scientist versus writer, logic versus creativity), and yet we had a lot in common. We shared family values, a silly sense of humour and a love of dogs and food. We connected on a deeper level, too.
From the start, the comfortable honesty between us felt refreshing and reassuring. George’s intuition meant he instinctively knew – and knows – what I need to hear. We deleted our dating apps together on our fifth date, sitting in the cinema, George nudging me as the light of his phone illuminated his happy smile.
As an amputee in a relationship, there will always be challenges for me. Times when I feel unattractive, when I have blisters on my stump that leave me in a wheelchair, when I’m at my most vulnerable and sad. But George is there with home-baked peanut-butter cookies, compliments and unwavering support. And for those of you wondering – yes, I do now take my leg off...
On one of my darkest days in hospital, I was lying in bed, the tears unstoppable. I couldn’t imagine how life would ever be normal again, how I’d ever find someone who loved me with one leg. I was sure I’d be alone forever. But my surgeon straightened my bedsheets and looked me in the eye.“Not all men are shallow, Ella,” he said. And, it turns out, he was right. Five Steps To Happy by Ella Dove (Trapeze, £14.99) is out now