I once saw a woman in her fifties or sixties. Whatever. She was at that age where women wear scarves and “interesting” jewellery except it isn’t interesting, just bulky. She looked business-like in a viscos jacket, none crease, none iron. Her hair blew in the wind. She had no legs. None at all, usually people are left with something, a thigh, a stub? Literally no legs at all, like a broken doll, just a head and torso. Of course she had arms. That was how she drove her electric wheel chair along the pavement at speed. As I say very business-like. Later, much later, this woman became, through a terrible sequence of events, my shrink.
She listened well. I soon forgot the lack of legs and began to feel less self-conscious about my trauma story. Though she clearly had a story to tell it was my turn and she made me feel it was worth the telling, re telling, endless telling.
One day she surprised me with a story of her own. Of course I had been speculating (though not deliberately) about how she lost all her legs. Being organised I made a list:
Was it a botched suicide attempt: a dark night, greasy rails, a freight train?
A bridge jump to the motor way below?
No she was far too business-like for a failed attempt. That was me…”failed” but learning not to beat myself up about that.
Could it have been tropical worms picked up on the holiday of a life time?
A slap-dash G.P, diabetes ignored?
A rusty nail? No it would need to be two rusty nails, what are the odds of that? Maybe a rusty carpet tread in her daughter’s new flat?
So I was all ears as they say when she finally told me her story. However it was far stranger than I imagined possible. The Shrink loved dancing, since she lost her legs, she had become almost addicted. Here she laughed in a small self-mocking way as if to say shrinks have issues too. She watched ballet and ballroom and flamenco and contemporary on television. She dragged her husband to the theatre. Her IPod was rammed with Glen Miller and (she let me know she wasn’t proud) the latest Zumba tracks.
All because in her dreams she discovered she could dance. In fact the shrink and her husband had taken to staying in large hotels (off season of course) and even country houses where possible so in her dreams she could dance down the long corridors and around empty ballrooms. She didn’t say but I assumed she had legs in the dreams as did her husband who sometimes joined her.
She had learned so much and enjoyed herself she had become very active in dance projects and charities. This had led to an award from the queen for her community service. When she went to receive her award a ballet mad duchess had allowed her to stay in her rooms in a wing of-here the shrink paused –Buckingham Palace. “Shush…we aren’t meant to tell” she giggled.
Anyway she dreamed she was dancing along a long corridor with giant paintings in gold frames on one side and windows on the other with net curtain. She awoke the next morning with a sore cheek, face down on a red nylon carpet. “Nylon what was the Queen thinking? Well the palace security were very discreet but we probably won’t be invited back” she laughed and added “that’s happened to me before”. Here she turned to me. “So you see I have ghost legs” I smiled, a reflex, I didn’t want to appear judgemental she’s the shrink after all.
“You want to know what happened to me, don’t you.”
I nodded. She sighed. “Same as you…a white van, a black cab, amber light and a bloody mess”
That night I had a dream I actually remembered. I dreamt of a ghost baby swimming, laughing, blowing bubbles from his chubby mouth. My late baby.
