I chose to have my legs amputated
God, how it hurt. I walked along at my usual slow pace. Every time either foot touched the ground it felt like needles stabbing into the bottom of my leg and traveling like inverted lightning upwards. I concentrated on keeping moving, knowing that at the end of the next block I could sit down on a stoop and wait for the trolley. It was a cool day in late September, school had let out a half hour before, and so far I had navigated only two of the three-block trek to the streetcar line. Before I reached the end of the first block, my clothes were soaking wet under my lightweight jacket. I had acquired the ability to endure the persistent pain and continue with whatever physical activity was at hand without revealing my discomfort, but I could not prevent the perspiration.