Yvonne Fischer dropped out of high school in ninth grade and could not read, write or do simple math. But, later in life, she not only went on to finish high school but she also earned a B.A. in public relations and an M.A. in mass communications. Now, she is completing her doctoral degree in conflict analysis and resolution. In her spare time she enjoys playing pool, dancing, racing her white Saturn Sky convertible and, most importantly, spending time with her children.
It was supposed to be a quick beer run. I was at a party with my husband, Don, and our friends on Good Friday, 1977. They were drinking and celebrating spring break. I’ve never liked the taste of alcohol, so I wasn’t drinking. I merely sat next to the stereo listening to the Eagles’ popular hit, “Hotel California.” The radio was turned up so loud that I could feel the bass pulsating in my chest.
Out of nowhere, our friend, Johnny bellowed his displeasure. His voice sounded like Beelzebub catching his prey as he roared, “Shit, the last f-ing beer!” That was all it took for everyone to mount their motorcycles and ride for a quick beer run.
I was leery about riding with them, but Don, who was drinking too, assured me that he would drive carefully. My father always told me not to hang out with people who drink.
Against my better judgment, I got on his bike. I straddled his chopped-750-purple-Yamaha and clutched his waist. We took off, following the others. The leather seat squeaked beneath me as I moved closer to him and hung on tight.
The sun was bright, with hues of red and orange erupting onto a majestic canvas, and was just beginning to illuminate the horizon. It was an otherwise quiet spring evening. It wasn’t more than 10 minutes when we lost the others. Don noticed that they turned off unexpectedly. Several blocks went by before we turned to meet up with them. I waved at my friend who was still following us. Out of nowhere I heard a scream. Did it come from me?
The next moment I opened my eyes. I looked around; above…I couldn’t make out the nondescript faces looking down at me. I opened my eyes again. I saw Don yelling at me, “Are you alright? Are you alright?”
My eyes opened for the third time. I saw something white hovering above me. It kept moving. Moments later, I grabbed something to my left. It was white, too. I pulled it to me. I heard a voice, “Yvonne, we are going to amputate your right leg. You were hit by a drunk driver. We know this is hard, but we have to amputate it while you are awake. You just ate and we do not want to further complicate the surgery.”
They numbed me from the waist down. I did not feel anything. Everything seemed surreal. I was half aware and half in shock. I questioned the day, the time, and who I was. I felt lost. My tears trickled into my ear drums. I felt afraid.
In a moment of clarity, I shook. I understood. I resisted. I couldn’t let them amputate my leg while I was awake. I had to act decisively.
Again I saw something white at my bedside, I grabbed it. It was a nurse. A voice spoke from the white object floating above me. It was my doctor. His mask moved every time he uttered a sound. I realized that my nurse held the fate of my surgery between her thumb and her first finger. I watched her hand. She kept poking me in my left thigh. I screamed every time she punctured my leg, “Quit poking me! Quit poking me!”
They had no idea that I could not feel a thing, yet, I needed to keep them believing that I did. If they had to amputate my leg, I wanted them to put me to sleep. The white object above my head moved again, “We can’t seem to numb your leg. We are going to have to put you out. We have no choice.” I had won!
Upon hearing the doctor’s decision to put me out, I finally relaxed. I saw a plastic mask coming toward my face. The doctor instructed, “Yvonne, begin counting backwards starting with 10.”
“10, 9, 8…” I opened my eyes. I looked down. I saw one foot and half of a leg. Was that mine? Is this a dream? Is this real? Where is my leg? I cried.
My motorcycle accident changed my life. I am an amputee. It took me more than 10 years to say that. I thought I was a freak. According to an author I was “emotionally stuck,” and needed a change in perspective. At that time, I did not like people staring at me. I did not like to look at my body in the mirror because I could only look at the “normal” half. It was extremely difficult to accept my disability in this world of perfect people. At least that is how the general media’s version of the world made me feel.
I have since learned that the commercials, movies and pretty people never show all sides of the picture. I have come to realize that everyone has insecurities, no matter how perfect they may appear to be. It is not perfection or imperfection that matters, it is my perspective. Perspective is negotiating with self; it is the way each one of us sees our world and ourselves. Today I see myself as Me. That is all. I compare myself to no one. I am the best me that I can be. I have turned my scars into stars.
