trying to track an expression. "Hmmm," he said, and looked up at me, grinning. I smiled back, hoping this exchange was a sign that things were okay, that what we had here was good.
Schmidt cupped the bottom of the stump in his palm and pushed lightly, then harder, watching me, then harder still until he saw me wince. "Good for weight bearing," he said, and stood up. "We've got this little bone on the edge here," he said, running his thumb over my original ankle bone—it looked like a little marble embedded in the skin. "That will be tricky. Could cause problems."
"What kinds of problems?" Dad asked. He stood next to me with his arms crossed.
"We just make sure there's no pressure there—we hollow out that part of the socket. Otherwise"—he rubbed his hands together—"there's friction, then sores and pain. Can't have that." Schmidt ran his hands once more along the length of my stump and then rolled on his stool to the cabinet in the corner, leaving the odor of stale smoke in his wake. "It's a good one," he announced while rummaging through a drawer. He nodded over his shoulder at me and then at Dad, who said, "Okay!" in a bright voice. I nodded, too, relieved, although I wondered what a bad stump would look like. Was it possible to move easily from bad to good? If so, how could I make sure that my stump stayed on the good side of things?
Schmidt rolled back over with measuring tape. Dad and I watched as he wrapped the tape around the stump in five different places: at the fattest point near my hip; then in the middle, where it narrowed slightly; then at the lowest point where it tapered to the heel. As he worked his way down, he recorded each measurement on a piece of paper folded over his knee. Leaning over to get a closer look, I saw a light pencil outline of a stump with blank spaces next to it for the numbers. His touch was light and quick. After he measured the circumference of my right thigh, I hopped up on the examination table and waited. The backs of my legs stuck to the table, as the rooms were always too warm and badly ventilated—not a window or a fan in sight. I was reminded of summer cross-country trips in our station wagon with its sticky vinyl seats.
Schmidt disappeared from the room for several minutes and returned with a bucket in one hand. Rolls of white plaster of paris were wrapped around both his arms, from the wrists to the elbows. He sloshed water all over the floor as he moved to set the bucket on the plastic sheet. He shook the rolls of plaster from his arms. I stood still, awaiting instructions.
"Now we'll make the mold," he said, and dunked one roll of plaster into the bucket, where it quickly softened and expanded in the water.
Before Schmidt could make the main part of the leg—called the socket—he first needed to make a cast. After the stump was covered with a thin, soft cloth called the cast sock, it was encased in long strips of wet plaster. When the cast was complete, the prosthetist's hands would be white up to his elbows, the grainy plaster embedded beneath his fingernails.
Schmidt brought out the rolls, dripping wet. Seated on the table, I held the cast sock up in front and back. He wrapped the warm, wet strips around and around my stump, all the way down to the rounded end. After wrapping the heel a few more times, he gave it a pat, which tickled a bit. He smoothed the plaster around the small ankle bone as if he were molding clay or Silly Putty. As he worked, I sometimes felt stabs of pain, especially as the wet strips became heavier and heavier, but I said nothing. While in the hospital, I was constantly commended for being brave, for not crying. I wasn't about to upset that trend now. The prospect of this cast did not upset me; it would be removed in twenty minutes instead of six or eight weeks, and there would be no crutches, no walkers, no tank, no scooter, and no Ace bandages.
"Now hold the stump away from your body to let it dry," Schmidt said. He left the room
Schmidt cupped the bottom of the stump in his palm and pushed lightly, then harder, watching me, then harder still until he saw me wince. "Good for weight bearing," he said, and stood up. "We've got this little bone on the edge here," he said, running his thumb over my original ankle bone—it looked like a little marble embedded in the skin. "That will be tricky. Could cause problems."
"What kinds of problems?" Dad asked. He stood next to me with his arms crossed.
"We just make sure there's no pressure there—we hollow out that part of the socket. Otherwise"—he rubbed his hands together—"there's friction, then sores and pain. Can't have that." Schmidt ran his hands once more along the length of my stump and then rolled on his stool to the cabinet in the corner, leaving the odor of stale smoke in his wake. "It's a good one," he announced while rummaging through a drawer. He nodded over his shoulder at me and then at Dad, who said, "Okay!" in a bright voice. I nodded, too, relieved, although I wondered what a bad stump would look like. Was it possible to move easily from bad to good? If so, how could I make sure that my stump stayed on the good side of things?
Schmidt rolled back over with measuring tape. Dad and I watched as he wrapped the tape around the stump in five different places: at the fattest point near my hip; then in the middle, where it narrowed slightly; then at the lowest point where it tapered to the heel. As he worked his way down, he recorded each measurement on a piece of paper folded over his knee. Leaning over to get a closer look, I saw a light pencil outline of a stump with blank spaces next to it for the numbers. His touch was light and quick. After he measured the circumference of my right thigh, I hopped up on the examination table and waited. The backs of my legs stuck to the table, as the rooms were always too warm and badly ventilated—not a window or a fan in sight. I was reminded of summer cross-country trips in our station wagon with its sticky vinyl seats.
Schmidt disappeared from the room for several minutes and returned with a bucket in one hand. Rolls of white plaster of paris were wrapped around both his arms, from the wrists to the elbows. He sloshed water all over the floor as he moved to set the bucket on the plastic sheet. He shook the rolls of plaster from his arms. I stood still, awaiting instructions.
"Now we'll make the mold," he said, and dunked one roll of plaster into the bucket, where it quickly softened and expanded in the water.
Before Schmidt could make the main part of the leg—called the socket—he first needed to make a cast. After the stump was covered with a thin, soft cloth called the cast sock, it was encased in long strips of wet plaster. When the cast was complete, the prosthetist's hands would be white up to his elbows, the grainy plaster embedded beneath his fingernails.
Schmidt brought out the rolls, dripping wet. Seated on the table, I held the cast sock up in front and back. He wrapped the warm, wet strips around and around my stump, all the way down to the rounded end. After wrapping the heel a few more times, he gave it a pat, which tickled a bit. He smoothed the plaster around the small ankle bone as if he were molding clay or Silly Putty. As he worked, I sometimes felt stabs of pain, especially as the wet strips became heavier and heavier, but I said nothing. While in the hospital, I was constantly commended for being brave, for not crying. I wasn't about to upset that trend now. The prospect of this cast did not upset me; it would be removed in twenty minutes instead of six or eight weeks, and there would be no crutches, no walkers, no tank, no scooter, and no Ace bandages.
"Now hold the stump away from your body to let it dry," Schmidt said. He left the room
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