Always Standing Steady

Just The Beginning

11630RJUL12: July 11, 2012. 0630. District of Columbia, United States of America.

I missed shoes. Oh, god, I missed shoes. I was as happy as the next person to be jogging through Arlington in the early hours of the morning, but it simply wasn't the same as the last time I ran it with my dad. The difference this time around was that he was not there, nor were some parts of me. I could still feel the impact of the ground on the soles of my feet and the inside of my last pair of shoes rubbing against my little toe; the doctors warned me that I would experience phantom limbs. At the time, I hadn't actually believed them. If I didn't glance down, I would still feel like I did have my legs beneath me. When I did glance down, I would see that my phantom legs were just that: phantoms.

I slowed to a stop near The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The soldier who stood guard raised her arm to salute me; I got that a lot. I saluted her in return. Then I kept jogging. If I had a dollar for every time some saluted me and/or thanked me for defending their freedom, I would be able to afford a private plane to save me from traveling in public airports where I got most of that. I know that I should feel honored; I don't. All I can do is smile back and resist the urge to explain to them that it was never their righteous, self-serving freedom that I was defending. Oh, god, how cynical I have become.

My usual jogging route normally included a tour of all the monuments and memorials. It would have been much more enjoyable if I hadn't slept in before my run. Now those memorials would be full of the exact kind of people who mistook me for some tragic war vet, injured while defending their right to say racist things and watch football. For the record, it was true that I was injured. The matching prosthetic legs that began where my legs ended just below the knee oversold this fact more than I would have liked. It was true that I stepped on a bomb while throwing someone else to a safe distance. And it was true that it fucking hurt. But I was not a vet; I did not retire from the world of bombs and guns that took my calves from me. I was only taking a break. What those people did not know when they looked at me was that this life of mine--jogging route, usual breakfast, comfort in my prosthetics--began exact a week ago today. 168 hours ago. 10,080 minutes ago. A lot of seconds ago--too high a number for mental math. I woke up in a hospital bed with bleeding stubs for legs. Then I was wheeled out of that room and proceeded to give hell to the person responsible. Then I kissed my husband and ate takeout with him on the steps of the capital.

I cut the jog short and ran towards the coffee shop I had taken to eating breakfast at every morning so far.

The waitress who worked the mornings knew who I was by then. She was ready for me with a cup of black coffee, a breakfast sandwich--extra egg, no cheese--, and the day's newspaper. As usual so far, I ate and read out on the patio. The D.C. sun gradually rose, drawing people into the streets with it. My favorite game on these mornings was Spot The Tourist--second only to Spot The Republican. If I got extra bored, I played Spot The Libertarian, Spot The Meninist, and Spot The Radical Liberal. For the record, I rarely lost at any of my games.

Then I spotted a much more interesting man. He was none of the above. He wore the kind of suit that suggested that his house and car were paid for by politics; however, his sneaking glances from behind his upside down newspaper suggested that he had more of a reason to be paranoid. I threw a ten dollar bill on the table to cover my breakfast and a tip then went after him. He probably knew that I was following him. After all, I was not a very subtle person. No matter my attempts to tame my hair with a unsuccessfully executed french braid, it was still as red, curly, and everywhere as ever. Chopping it to shoulder length did not help with that. I was also still taller than most other women. And, like icing on the cake, my prosthetics made me stand out like a sore thumb. Still, I followed this guy. Maybe because I was just bored of sight seeing and sitting around, or lonely. I still followed him.