A Leg to Stand On

by Colleen Haggerty

  Praise for A Leg to Stand On

  In the midst of adolescence, when we are all trying to figure out who we are, Colleen Haggerty literally loses a part of herself when her leg is severed in a brutal accident. In the years following, her wounded body makes it impossible to ignore a deeper wound in her spirit. Without self-pity, she confronts her own misgivings and regrets as she moves through a difficult lesson in forgiveness, both of self and others. I was engaged and cheering for her every step of the way on this courageous journey toward wholeness.

  —Hollye Dexter, author of Fire Season and

  co-editor of Dancing at the Shame Prom

  A Leg to Stand On is a true shero’s tale, not because its author was disabled and bravely carried on but because she did something even more brave: she opened herself to the transformational power of loss. And in the way of the shero, she has brought back the details of her journey that we may share in the wisdom, growth, and grace that was hidden along the way. Yes, we see clearly here what it is to live without a leg, but more we see what it is to walk with our own becoming. That makes this book more than touching, informative, or inspiring … it makes it alchemical.

  —Lyena Strelkoff, storyteller, performer, speaker, and coach

  Colleen Haggerty tells her poignant story with clarity, bravery, and a healthy respect for the depth and texture of life’s choices. A Leg to Stand On follows a young woman’s journey through crashing loss—her leg at seventeen, two abortions, two difficult pregnancies, and a long crisis of faith—to arrive at the place where she can share the truth in this courageous memoir.

  —Laura Kalpakian, author

  In this well-written, multi-layered story, author Colleen Haggerty plays the ‘honesty card’ with skill, poise, and probing as she writes her way to a fuller understanding of her life. In an instant, told grippingly in the opening pages, Haggerty becomes irreversibly ‘different’: how she integrates this maiming into her self-identity, her sense of womanliness, partnering, and motherhood is told in such a way that her own life experience increases readers’ insight into our own experience. This is the transformational magic of memoir at its best. Read if you are a woman on your own journey of understanding; read if you are a man who loves such a woman.

  —Christina Baldwin, author of

  Life’s Companion: Journal Writing as a Spiritual Practice

  and Storycatcher: Making Sense of our Lives

  through the Power and Practice of Story.

  “Colleen Haggerty is a fierce, and mighty woman, and a force of nature. Her book—memoir—is fierce and mighty and stunning. Truthful, raw, and deeply profound, her moment of personal forgiveness will leave you breathless. I cried for her, I laughed with her, I rooted for her, and I cheered her on. I also fell in love with her all over again. This is a book about life, loss, faith, forgiveness, and love. It is also a book about awakening to the absolute greatness and beauty of our own lives.”

  —Amy Ferris, author of

  Marrying George Clooney: Confessions From A Midlife Crisis.

  A LEG TO STAND ON

  Copyright © 2014 by Colleen Haggerty

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2014

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-923-8

  e-ISBN: 978-1-63152-924-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014943851

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1563 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  In order to honor the privacy of those people who were kind enough to share their stories, the author has changed some names, places, and recognizable details.

  With love and gratitude to Mark, Luke, and Tessa

  for walking beside me.

  PART I

  In the midst of winter I finally learned there was inside me an invincible summer.

  —Albert Camus

  PROLOGUE

  I run my fingers through the lace curtains as they flutter against my bedroom wall, and watch their shadows play with the sunbeams streaming through the window. A family of crows perches on the old fir tree outside, talking over one another in a cacophony of calls. Pots and pans clink downstairs as Mom and my two sisters make dinner.

  I lie there in my bed, listening to the sounds of my own raucous family—six kids between the ages of five and thirteen. Dad and my oldest brother, Kevin, are in the yard just below my second-floor window, working on their usual Saturday afternoon project, their voices a familiar back-and-forth hum. My two youngest brothers, Matthew and David, come barreling around the corner of our well-kept colonial, their little feet slapping the concrete, yelling about some slight one did to the other. Dad’s voice is placating but firm. Matt and David are always at each other. I roll my eyes, but inwardly I find their bickering somehow sweet and secure. Maybe it’s because we all do it, all six of us kids. We jab at one another, literally and emotionally, always trying to rile one another up, but it is generally good-natured ribbing. We do it knowing that even if we cross the line, we’ll be forgiven, no questions asked.

  “Hey, Colleen!” Mom yells from downstairs. “Come set the table.” I’m nine years old, and this is one of my chores this week. We all pitch in and help; we have to. Running a household of eight people takes a lot of work.

  I roll over in my bed, allowing the curtains to skim my back as I get to my feet. The crows caw again, and I sense they want to talk to me. I turn back and look out the window. I make a pretty good attempt at calling back. They stop and stare at me, cock their heads. I count eight of them, just like my family. We have the perfect family, I think to myself. Three girls, three boys, and a mom, and a dad. I know I can’t predetermine gender when I have children, but if I could have my way, I’d have the exact same family I have now: not too big, like some of the other families in our parish, and not too small. My best friend, Patty, has four kids in her family, and her house is just too quiet. I don’t want quiet. I want lots of vibrant, happy energy.

  I go downstairs and set the table, weaving between my sisters and Mom as they finish dinner preparations. When everyone’s seated, we fold our hands in prayer and say our before-dinner blessing.

  “God bless Grandma and Grandpa Pesch, Grandma and Grandpa Haggerty, all my cousins, aunts and uncles, all the priests and the sisters, the sick and the dying, and all those for whom we have promised to pray.”

  “For,” Matthew says, trying not to snicker.

  “Matthew, we never end a sentence with a preposition,” says Dad. “It’s, ‘and all those for whom we have promised to pray.’”

  Dad says this practically every night, because without fail, someone always ends that sentence with the word for. Often we do it just to bug him, and then we all laugh when he gives the speech again. If you ask me, I think he does it to play along, even though he keeps a straight face.

  It’s traditional, this dinner. Bowls of green beans and mashed potatoes spin around on the lazy Susan in the middle of our oval table. A plate of pot roast, a full gravy boat, and a pitcher of milk fill it out. Sometimes I get dizzy watching the food spin around as everyone takes their turn, and I have to force myself to look at my plate instead.

  “Hey, Dad,” says Kevin, who’s eleven. “Daniel Riley said I’m on tomorrow’s altar boy list. Is it okay if we go to 10:45 m
ass?”

  “Sure, Kev.”

  Church is as much a part of our lives as breathing and is just as vital to our existence. God is our father in heaven, and I love him, believe in him, and want to spend my life pleasing him.

  “Oh, Sharon … oh, this is good,” Mom says to herself as she scoops up a forkful of gravy-laden mashed potatoes. Mom often compliments herself when she enjoys the dinner she’s made, and it always makes me laugh inside. Whenever we have food like tonight’s meal, she always says it reminds her of “home,” meaning back in Minnesota where she grew up. I don’t understand her nostalgia yet, but as I look around the table at everyone talking at once, I sense that this is what will be nostalgic for me: a table full of people teasing, laughing, bickering, and eating—a table full of family love.

  After dinner, when the dishes are done, we all run outside for a spontaneous water fight, boys against girls, each side wielding its own hose. It’s the end of a warm summer day, and we’re ready to cool off. We screech with delight. I grab a bucket full of water, run around behind my dad, dump it over his head, and then run like crazy so he can’t retaliate. Inside is off-limits, and our yard is big enough to accommodate the eight of us as we sneak up on one another to pounce and douse. We call it quits after everyone’s drenched, and we change out of our soggy clothes in the garage. Mom scurries inside on her tiptoes to avoid leaving puddles. She’s too modest to change out of her clothes in front of us. I’m not modest. I strip down along with everyone else and shiver. Our lips are turning blue as we wait for Mom to bring a tower of bath towels so we can dry off.

  When it’s time for bed, I go to my room. I’m the only child with her own room, and I revel in the sudden silence. I decide to leave my window open. The soft way my lace curtains move in the evening summer breeze lulls me. I snuggle against my pillow, cozy, reflecting on my perfectly normal day surrounded by my perfectly normal family. This is what I want when I’m a mom. This is what I will make happen: six kids, a perfect husband, and happy days.

  1

  THE IMPACT

  “I love this song,” my sister Mary Beth said wistfully, as she navigated the snowy drive through the Chuckanut mountains to Bellingham, Washington. It was 1978, and the hit love song, “Sometimes When We Touch,” played through the speakers of our yellow Ford station wagon. Christmas break was over, and my thirteen-year-old brother, David, and I were accompanying Mary Beth back to college, then making the two-hour drive back home to Bellevue without her. I was seventeen, and the prospect of my driving such a long stretch back thrilled me but scared me, too. Though there was still plenty of daylight left, it had begun snowing shortly after we left home almost two hours prior, and the roads up in the foothills were covered in an inch of snow.

  “Yeah—I like this song, too,” I said. We all started singing along, crunched together in the front seat, David sandwiched between Mary Beth and me. “I want to hold you till I die, till we both break down and cry. I want to hold you till the fear in me subsides,” we bellowed at the top of our lungs.

  We were creeping along at about thirty-five miles an hour with the rest of the cars, forming a serpentine as we wove through the hills.

  “Oh no!” Mary Beth suddenly shouted. A white semitruck was in the left lane, and its right turn signal flicked on. It began to merge into our lane. The giant smiling face of a child eating a piece of buttered bread leered at me from the side of the semi, getting larger by the second. Mary Beth tapped gently on the brakes, but our car started to fishtail, like when I slam on my bike brakes on a bed of gravel. I threw my arm across David’s stomach, like my mother would do. As the car started spinning out of control, I had this crazy memory of the teacup ride at Disneyland. My stomach dropped, and I flattened my feet against the floorboard. Though I was scared, I was also aware of how pretty the snowflakes were as they swished past the windshield. I felt like I was inside a snow globe. Then we slammed into the guardrail so hard my teeth vibrated. Our station wagon came to a stop on the left shoulder of the freeway, facing traffic. Not one of us spoke. The windshield wipers continued their lazy swiping, the radio droned on, and everything fell quiet.

  The cars in the right lane kept streaming by. We sat there for what felt like ten minutes, but was probably just a minute. We all felt shaken as we watched the snow and the traffic. Obviously we needed to do something, but what?

  “I’ll get out and check the damage,” I finally said, my voice sounding calmer than I felt. I slipped out the door and took a few steps to the front of the car, my legs trembling and my breathing shallow, to see if the tire and bumper were damaged. I felt light, like I could float away, but also relieved to get a fresh breath of cold air. Unconquerable. We’re okay! I thought. And so was the car. I scurried back inside and made my report. We needed someone to stop traffic so we could make a U-turn. Why isn’t anyone helping? I thought. Perhaps it was because the road conditions were dangerous enough that others didn’t want to risk getting stuck. Then I wondered, What would Kevin do? My older brother, Kevin, was the problem-solver in the family, and since Dad’s death four years ago, I always looked to him for answers. As if channeling my brother, I suddenly knew what to do. “I’ll get out and flag down some help,” I said. The idea made me feel proactive and smart.

  I got out of the car again and walked carefully around the side and up to Mary Beth’s window. She unrolled it and handed me her gloves. “Be careful,” she said. David opened the passenger-side door and started to get out. “David!” she yelled. “Stay in the car!” David quickly slipped his legs back in the car and shut the door.

  As soon as I was on the shoulder of the freeway, I felt foolish instead of in control. How do I get someone to stop and help us? I waved my arms feebly, knowing I looked stupid. Shouldn’t a seventeen-year-old girl standing next to a spun-out car be an obvious call for help? What am I, invisible?

  Just as I was about to try making eye contact with someone in a slow-moving car, I noticed a green Pacer in the left lane coming right at me. He was driving faster than the rest of the cars, too fast for how slippery I knew the road was. You jerk, I thought. You’re gonna spin out!

  I blinked and saw the Pacer start to skid.

  There are moments in our lives that we don’t—no, we shouldn’t—remember. This was one of those moments. My world turned mercifully black. No memory was formed, at least in my conscious mind, of this one moment when the green Pacer hit my body.

  Just seconds before, I was watching the car speed toward me. Then I found myself lying on the ground, my body feeling like a slab of concrete.

  Mary Beth erupted out of the car. I heard her screaming. Her words were shrill and incoherent, except for, “Her leg … her leg … her leg!”

  What? What about my leg? I thought. Why is she pointing away from me? I turned my head toward where Mary Beth was pointing, which required so much effort it surprised me, like when you’re trying to run in dreams. And then I saw it. My leg. I was confused. But yes, it was my leg—far away from me, lying upside down near my waist, which didn’t make sense. It was still clad in jeans and a sock. I wondered where my clog was. I looked around, but couldn’t see it. Where’s my clog? I loved my clogs. I wanted my clog. My body started shaking uncontrollably. Okay, I thought, we need an ambulance. I took a deep breath.

  Mary Beth ran by me. Why isn’t she checking on me? I thought. I wanted to get her attention, but it felt impossible to talk. Instead, I heard her yelling at the man who was driving the green Pacer. His car was a few hundred yards beyond ours, and he was standing dumbly beside it. It, too, had crashed against the guardrail. “You took off her leg! Her leg came off! Look what you did!” she screeched hysterically. She kept screaming, but her words became fuzzy, as though I was hearing them from underwater. I heard another man gently coaxing her farther away from me in low mumbles, like when people talk in church. I heard David crying, and the man was taking David away, too. He was keeping them away from me, and I didn’t know why. I wanted to scream at somebody
to call an ambulance, but I didn’t have the strength.

  My right leg ached with a sharp intensity. It lay at a funny angle, so I tried to reposition it, but it didn’t seem to obey my brain’s signals, and it felt creepy to move a part of myself that felt as detached from my body as my left leg. The new position felt much worse, so I shifted it back to where it was, with effort. I was exhausted. Where is the ambulance?

  I became distracted by my freezing crotch; it felt as though my pants were ripped open. As much as I didn’t want to see the damage to my legs, I was more concerned about my crotch being exposed to the world. I summoned the courage and energy to look down, allowing my gaze to fall only as far as my crotch and no farther. I was completely covered. Thank God.

  A young man ran up to me. His hand grasped my shoulder, firm and sure. He looked me in the eyes and said, “I’m Byron. An ambulance is on its way.” I looked up into his deep-brown eyes, noticed his shock of wavy brown hair, and figured he was no older than twenty-five. My pain and fear notwithstanding, I was still a seventeen-year-old girl, and I felt a flutter of excitement being this close to such a cute guy. I later learned he was an off-duty paramedic. He started asking questions, just like they did in the TV show Emergency.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Colleen.”

  “Colleen, how old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Who is the president of the United States?”

  “Ford.”

  I made the decision to stay conscious so I could continue answering his questions. I knew from Emergency that a conscious person makes everything easier. What I didn’t know was that staying conscious would mean I’d forever remember every moment of this day and would spend decades assimilating what had happened to me.

  Byron tied a tourniquet on what was left of my left leg. I moaned as it burned like a wildfire. The bottom half of my body felt inflated, huge, bloated, tight.