See part one for the backstory on my leg lymphedema.
“Did you just do that today?”
A woman passed me last week as I was getting ready to exit the University of Michigan hospital where I am currently in the middle of three weeks of lymphedema therapy. She was staring at my leg, which was wrapped in layers of foam and bandages, toes sticking out of an ugly black boot.
“Uh, no,” was all I could manage to utter. I didn’t want to go into the details of being born with a swollen right foot. When I posted a picture of my wrapped leg to facebook, friends came up with some wicked stories for me:
- “While I was holding a run-a-way car back with my foot to keep it from running over an infant, it shattered in several places.” (Jill, the heroine angle)
- “Tackled David (my husband) like an ezer-ninja!” (Jocelyn, the theology, “ezer”/strong power angle, see Genesis 2:18)
- “You were leaping over a tall building in a single bound but didn’t stick the landing.” (Kelly)
- “It’s a limb transplant. All they had available was Andre the Giant’s calf.” (Tim)