LOSING MY LEG, FINDING MYSELF
Red’s Ella Dove reveals how she regained her confidence after an accident changed her life for ever
The first thing I noticed when I woke from surgery was the blue hospital blanket. Like a still, undisturbed swimming pool, it rippled slightly as I moved. Where my right leg should have been, the bobbly fabric was unnervingly flat. A kind nurse held my hand as pain slammed into me and tears descended as though they’d never stop. A single moment really does have the power to change everything.
On 28th May 2016, I tripped over while out for a morning jog. I fractured my leg and badly dislocated my knee, severing the blood supply to my foot. The resulting circulatory damage was irreparable. Three days and four operations later, I became a below-knee amputee.
It’s hard to describe what it feels like to be 25 and told in a hushed yet certain tone that you’re going to lose your leg. To see the faces of my parents, the tears and the shock as reality sets in, to sign the yellow form assenting amputation and watch the surgeon draw a thick arrow on my skin, pointing down towards my freshly shaven calf above a foot with red toenails that I’d painted in anticipation of a first date that night.
In some ways, I took my body for granted before the accident. I didn’t really think about it, assuming my health was a given. Like anyone, I had my hang-ups. I tended to avoid clingy clothes and I’d try the odd yo-yo diet in an attempt to shift weight from my stomach. Yet ultimately, I was always confident in my own skin. With a permanently jam-packed diary, I enjoyed being seen as a socialite: the confident, fun one who wore slightly wacky outfits. I’d always been quite proud of my legs, showing them off in summer and worshipping skinny jeans. Whenever I went on holiday, there would be an inevitable Instagram photo of my tanned feet at the end of a sunlounger.
Sometimes, I like to look back at these pictures. The sight of my former self jumping over waves on a white sandy beach or cycling through Vietnam now brings comforting nostalgia. And yet in the immediate aftermath of the accident, I couldn’t imagine how life would ever be normal again. Not wanting anyone to worry, I put on a brave face, filling my hospital room with visitors and shrugging off sympathy. I’d always prided myself on my positivity but, inevitably, the mask would crack.
At night, I dreamt that I had two legs again. Over and over I’d wake up to face the starkness of reality, as fresh grief threatened to drown me. For a long time, I couldn’t even look at what was left of my right leg. Touching my stump made me feel sick. I suffered phantom pain so badly that my leg would jolt and jerk without warning, a searing agony in places that no longer existed. Nerve pain sparked like electric shocks every time I tried to wiggle my toes, as though the leg was desperately trying to grow back. It’s a sensation I experience to this day.
Out of hospital and into a wheelchair for four months, I felt lower and more scared of my own emotions than ever before. I hated how others perceived me, looking down as they offered pitying smiles to the girl in the wheelchair. When my family persuaded me to go out for fresh air, I’d find myself shrinking down in the chair, avoiding all eye contact.
My confidence was so reduced that I lost all pride in my appearance. I no longer wore make-up and lived in the same pair of ancient tracksuit bottoms, the material on the right leg flopping over my stump, a constant reminder of what I’d lost. I agonised about all aspects of my future, but particularly about love. I’d been single for a long time, but now I had an extra complication, yet another obstacle to overcome in what was already a minefield. If I hated the sight of my leg, how would any man find me attractive? The idea of exposing my stump to a potential partner filled me with aching vulnerability.
In many ways, my prosthetic leg was my turning point. When I watch back the video of my first shaky steps, the light in my eyes is unmistakable. I remember looking in the mirror that day and feeling a tiny seed of hope.
It was enough to remind me that I could get there, that my pride would return if I was willing to dig deeper, to re-examine my priorities and discover a new normality. That was the moment I first saw myself differently.
I couldn’t have plans every evening due to nerve pain and fatigue, but I could have friends over for a relaxed night in, or relish a solo evening with a glass of wine and a good book. I couldn’t stand up all night at parties, but I could dance enthusiastically and manically from my seat. I couldn’t wear heels, but I could – and did – buy rose-gold capped Kurt Geiger trainers to add a bit of glamour to my wardrobe. And I vowed that I’d squeeze my prosthetic leg into my skinny jeans if it killed me.
Slowly, I learnt to smile instead of worry when strangers stared at me in public. I’d become proud of my prosthetic leg. Now, when people ask me questions, I no longer clam up or panic. Since my accident, I’ve tried wild swimming, climbed the O2, told my story at conferences in front of crowds of people and I’m currently writing a book. Through counselling, confiding in friends and family and taking on challenges great and small, I’ve started to see opportunity, not darkness. The wheelchair stays folded at the back of the coat cupboard.
These days, my overall mindset has shifted. I’ve learnt to listen to my body, taking time to rest and repair when I need it. I still don’t have a flat stomach, but I no longer let it worry me. Instead, I’m focused on building strength and maintaining muscle. I know how good it feels to be on two legs, heart pounding and endorphins pumping. But now I’m fitter than I’ve ever been before. To begin with, I was fearful of walking – but now I want to run. I’ve learnt to appreciate every part of my body, and I celebrate what it can do. I know for certain that I’ll never take it for granted again.
I’ll never quite be the person I used to be. I plan more, worry more and have become far more sensitive. While you’d never know it to look at me, my feelings about my body continue to fluctuate between confidence and crippling insecurity. There are times when I still feel exposed without my leg on, and I live in fear of the days I have to return to the wheelchair due to a blister or ill-fitting prosthesis. This has happened twice so far, and both times my perception of my body has dramatically deteriorated, to
‘I WAS FEARFUL OF WALKING, NOW I WANT TO RUN’
the point where I don’t want to leave the house. However, when the bad days do strike, I vow to be kind to myself. I remember it’s okay to cry, it’s okay to rage and it’s okay to watch back-to-back Netflix curled up under a blanket. What happened to me was life-transforming – and self-love after loss is bound to be a gradual process.
Love remains a source of anxiety, and while I’m still nervous about the physical side of things, experience has taught me that my leg can be a filter of sorts when it comes to dating, preventing advances from unsuitable or unsavoury men. I know that by learning to love myself, I’m opening my mind and my heart for someone else to love my imperfections, too.
Like many of us, my body confidence will always be a work in progress. If I’m honest, I do still try to avoid looking at my stump in the mirror. Very often, I still have two legs in my dreams, but I no longer feel the grip of terror when I wake up and realise the truth. These days, when I sense that familiar tingle in my foot that’s no longer there, I feel fondness, not fear. It’s a reminder that while a piece of me may be missing, inside I’m rebuilding.