I woke up and knew what day it was. 

Maybe it was because my sister brought it up the night before. Or maybe it was because I had a dream the night before that I was in a car accident.

Or maybe it’s because it’s been six years, and I haven’t forgotten the details of Feb. 8.

I remember the conversation I had with Sarah Joy Olsen, the woman who stopped to help — she was on her way to a wedding expo.

I remember asking a nurse before I went into surgery if I could make a phone call to my family so they could hear my voice and know I was OK.

I remember waking up after surgery and recalling the events of what just happened, ending with the memory of knowing my left hand had to be amputated. Sure enough, I looked down, and it was gone.

The past five anniversaries have all been different. The first year, it was all I could think about. I was like a robot just going through the motions. Some years family or friends remember the date and call to check on me. Last year, it went by almost completely unnoticed.

Today marked year six, and it stands out from the other years. Today I drove past the exact same spot where I crashed my 1999 Chevrolet Blazer on the exact same date six years ago. I’ve driven past that site countless times, but this had a different meaning. This was like returning to the scene of the crime.

I knew for about a month that the timing would line up. My niece Sofia turned 1 in January, and Shannon scheduled her birthday party for the first weekend in February. To get back to Bloomington from Crystal Lake, Ill., I had to take Interstate 65 south, which is the highway I crashed on.

I kept pretty quiet about it, and thought it might go by unnoticed. But Nicole, who occasionally acts like my mother, told me Saturday night that I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere Sunday and that she was bubble wrapping me.

The conversation with her, Shannon and my mom, spiraled into a trip down memory lane. Sounds morbid, right? Remembering the day of my horrific crash? But it’s not and never really has been. My family and I both realize the important part of it all – I survived. Losing a hand was a small injury when you think about how much worse it could have been, which is why I don’t dwell on it, and neither does my family.

We can laugh and joke about one of the most — if not the most — emotional days of our lives. Nicole remembers sitting in the middle backseat of our dad’s truck anxiously staring at the odometer and begging him to drive faster than, what she described as a school bus driver. Shannon remembers her husband driving 90 mph, weaving in and out of traffic to get to me, even though they didn’t actually know where that would be at the time as I was transferred from one hospital to another.

They both remember not having time to pack enough clothing and improvising as time went on.

Feb. 8, 2009 changed my life — and my family’s — and it’s a date that’s hard to forget.

We might not talk about it or recognize it every year, but the memories of that day haven’t seemed to fade yet.

Mile marker 215 snuck up on me today. It seemed like I moved like a snail from Illinois into Indiana, but then all of a sudden I saw the exit sign for Rensselaer. I scanned the barely snow covered ground on each side of the highway as if there was going to be a mark left behind from my accident. There’s a metal fence on the left side now, preventing vehicles from crossing the median to the side. I wondered if it was there before.

I went around the curve to see the exit 215 sign and ramp, and I knew I passed where I crashed. I was within a mile of the exit where I told myself I was going to stop for caffeine that morning in 2009, but I didn’t make it past that curve to see how close I was.

I don’t dwell on the “what ifs.” There’s simply too many, and it’s a waste of time. I accepted a long time ago that my car accident and resulting amputation happened for a reason. Or maybe several reasons, and I have some theories.

In six years, I’ve come a long way. I’ve learned to do just about everything I ever did with two hands. I’ve maintained a positive attitude, I’ve learned to stick up for myself and other amputees and I’ve become a more understanding and accepting person. Honestly, the accident was for the best. Sure, having two hands would make some things easier, but life isn’t easy for anyone. If it wasn’t one hand, it’d be something else, and I think I’ve done a pretty good job at conquering this challenge.

I continued south past the Rensselaer exit Sunday afternoon and smiled. There have been some tough times in the past six years, but I’m proud of how I’ve confronted issues. I know after this long that I can handle whatever other problem comes my way.

In case you’re reading this and don’t know me very well, please take my word for it — I’m one of the most clumsy people around. So prone to accident, in fact, that my roommate wants to cover me in bubble wrap so I stop getting hurt.

A few months ago, I took a hard fall. I was nearing the end of a 9-mile run when I tripped on some uneven sidewalk. Before I even knew what was happening, I was face-to-face with the concrete and in pain.

My knees took most of the impact, and I managed to keep my face from hitting the ground. I immediately rolled to the left into the grass and evaluated my injuries. My left arm was fine, but my shoulder would have some bruising. My right hand had some scraps. Both my knees were bleeding. The right was worse than the left.

I’ve been clumsy my entire life, and I have the scars to prove it. There’s one on my chin from sledding, another on my arm from a bike accident. I’ve never thought much of it. Some people are just clumsy, and I’m just one of those people.

But this trait became a little problematic when I lost my left hand. When I fall, I can’t catch myself on my hands. This is only a theory, because it happened so fast it’s hard to know, but I’m betting I braced myself with my right hand and then without a left to balance on, my left shoulder took the hit on the sidewalk.

This fall certainly isn’t my first in nearly six years of being one handed, but it might be one of the worst.

I find it kind of fascinating though that in all my falls since my car accident, I don’t ever remember my left arm going out to stop the impact, as if my hand is still there. I’m grateful my body has never reacted in that way, because it would be extremely painful given that there’s not much skin protecting my bone there.

But it’s interesting because when someone has an amputation, there are phantom pains. Basically, the brain believes that limb still exists and tries sending signals to it. It might seem silly — and if I had never felt it I’d think it’s silly too — but it’s extremely painful at first. Phantom pains fade, but I’ve noticed the little tingles in my arm haven’t gone away. If someone puts their hand in front my arm, maybe as if to shake my non-existent hand, I can feel it. My arm tingles just a little bit, as if my brain still expects the hand to be there.

So I have no idea why or how my brain doesn’t think to use this “hand” when I’m falling, but for my sake, it’s fantastic that it can tell the difference because I’m sure this latest stumble won’t be my last.

Remember how I wrote awhile back about how it’s OK to assume people aren’t amputees? And that you don’t need to apologize when you realize someone is missing a limb?

This story is along the same lines.

I had just finished scarfing down a full ham dinner plus a sugar cookie, cupcake, piece of apple pie and scoop of ice cream for dessert. (It was the holidays — everyone eats like that, right?) I was sinking in to a nice food coma when my 8-year-old cousin bounced over to the couch.

“I feel bad for you,” she said.

“Why?” I responded, caught off guard.

“Because of your arm,” she said, pointing at my missing hand.

I told her that was nice of her, but she shouldn’t feel bad for me because I’m just fine. It didn’t help. She still said she felt bad.

Now, she’s still pretty young, but I’m certain there are adults that could have had the same conversation with me. Please don’t feel bad for me. I’m begging you.

Yes, I joke occasionally with my friends and family to get sympathy so I don’t have to wash dishes or help with an annoying chore. It never works with them though, because they know I’m capable of doing anything. In fact, my sister had just told my nephew that after he didn’t think I could load his toy shotgun with the foam darts. Proved him wrong.

I understand some people think feeling sorry for someone is a way of being kind. But for me, doing that automatically puts me in another category. A category that labels my life as difficult and different from the norm.

Yes, my life is a little different, but I wouldn’t call it difficult. There are roadblocks for everyone. Mine are just a little different, like not being able to open a window easily. It doesn’t mean I need, or deserve, sympathy.

As I also said before, I’m still a normal person. I get up every morning, make coffee, shower, get ready and go to work. Sounds pretty average, right?

If there’s any emotion I’d prefer to get from people, I think it’s pride. Be proud of me for managing a normal lifestyle. Be proud of me for not giving up my goal of becoming a journalist even though some people would say it’s a job that requires two hands. Be proud of me for being able to live on my own without any daily assistance.

Just, please, do not feel bad for me.

As I tried falling asleep the night before my 6 a.m. flight to Newport News, Va., my mind wandered.

I thought about how I would sleep on the first flight to Atlanta, then maybe get some coffee during my layover and stay awake on the second leg of the trip.

Then I stopped myself. I only had a carry on bag, and it was a rolling suitcase. And in case you haven’t connected the dots like I obviously didn’t when I packed, that requires the use of my one and only hand. How could I possibly carry coffee and my luggage at the same time? Or carry anything in addition to my suitcase?

I was a little upset with myself after I realized this because it should have been obvious to me. I guess it shows even I can forget sometimes.

There was no time to repack in a different bag before my flight, so I had to adjust. I thought to myself before I drifted to sleep, “Oh well, you just won’t get coffee.”

But when I landed in Atlanta the next morning, I really wanted coffee. I compromised with myself — I’ll scope out my gate first and see how far away a coffee place is from there. If it’s really close, then I’ll do it. If it’s far, then I’m out of luck. I really didn’t feel like having coffee spilled on my clothes.

This might all seem a little melodramatic, but it’s situations like this that I deal with on a regular basis. How do I adapt to accomplish something with one hand that would be a relatively easy task for someone with two hands?

After a quick ride on the “plane train” I found my next gate, and a little coffee shop was nearby. Perfect, I thought. I ordered my hazelnut mocha and very, very carefully secured the cup in my left arm and proceeded to walk slowly.

I let out a sigh of relief when I reached the seating area without spilling a drop, but then almost immediately, I found out that the airport changed the gate during my 15 minute absence.

My mind immediately assumed the worst. What if I had to trek across the airport to another terminal? I would end up with coffee all over myself. Do I just drink it quickly?

Luckily, my worries were all for naught. It had been moved about two gates away — not two terminals as I had feared — and it was actually even closer to the coffee shop. Go figure.

The moral of this story is, when I traveled about a month later to Seattle, I took a duffle bag that I could throw on my shoulder. Navigating airports is much easier with my hand free.

I’ll admit it — there are some things I’ve conceded that I can’t do with one hand.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve at least given it thought and/or tried it at least once, but there are some activities that simply aren’t worth the hassle or pain, like bench pressing or playing softball.

The problem is, with all of these things I know what it’s like to be able to do it. I bench pressed while training for sports in high school and recreationally played softball in the past. It’s like giving candy to kid, allowing the kid to taste the sweet treat and then taking it away forever because the kid is allergic. Meanwhile, that child has to go through life watching everyone else eat that candy.

I shouldn’t be bitter about it, because if I cared enough I’m sure I could be creative and find a way to do some of few things I’ve resigned to the “I can’t do” list. There’s just been one in particular lately that I really miss — volleyball.

I watched my older sister play when I was younger, joined the team in middle school and played for a couple years in high school.

With my “I can do anything” stubborn attitude, I tried playing beach volleyball with some friends after the accident. This was years ago, so I don’t remember all of the details but I know I was in pain. My left arm is just long enough that I tried to bump the ball as usual, assuming volleyball would still be a pretty easy sport for me to play.

Unfortunately, the impact of the ball on my arm is too much pressure for it since the amputation. My nerves are too sensitive. Without a way to bump or set the ball — two of the three main steps in a volleyball play — I’ve kept myself on the sidelines ever since.

I bring this up now because I’ve recently watched my boyfriend and his law school friends play beach volleyball, and it really tempts me to try again. I constantly keep myself in the mindset of figuring out how to adjust to doing regular activities with one hand and being confident that I can do it. Reversing and stopping that thought process isn’t easy.

I sat in the grass watching the ball fly back and forth over the net and zoomed my attention in on the players’ motions. I thought to myself, “Maybe if I only played in the front row? How would I serve? Just toss the ball up really high? Maybe I could bump with just my right arm? Would I be able to get the ball in the right spot if I did that?”

I don’t ever want to stop thinking I can do anything, but sometimes it’d be nice if I could turn it off, just for a little bit. It’s like that kid with the candy. Even though he’s allergic and knows he can’t eat it, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t think, “Well, maybe just one bite. Would it be that bad?”

On this blog, I write a lot about little things that one-handed people have to adjust to doing, like pulling my hair up into a pony tail or typing on a computer.

Recently, a few new everyday things have come to my attention as being easy for two-handed individuals but an unnecessary struggle for someone like me.

A funny one that I’m guessing many people don’t realize is putting toothpaste on a toothbrush. For most people, this is a no brainer. You hold the toothbrush in place, squeeze some toothpaste over the top. Simple.

Well, without the hand to steady the toothbrush, I occasionally knock it over, getting toothpaste smeared on my bathroom counter. It doesn’t really bother me. I just wipe it off and resume brushing my teeth. But it can get frustrating, especially if the toothbrush falls onto the floor. It’s not as easy to clean up toothpaste off a rug.

Another issue I recently ran into though was a much bigger annoyance and potentially could be a big problem for hand or arm amputees. The windows in my boyfriend’s downtown Indianapolis apartment were designed without amputees in mind. If you don’t have two hands, good luck opening one.

There are three locks on one window — two on the bottom that need to be lifted up before the glass will budge and one on the top that needs to be pushed over to get the window above a certain level.

On Friday, the windows and I battled. Luckily, I won (after several tries).

In my first few attempts, I struggled to slide my left arm underneath the bottom locks. It’s also too weak to keep the top lock pushed to the side. I walked away at one point, thinking I was doomed to be in a stuffy apartment until my boyfriend with two hands returned. I texted my frustration to him. Who would make windows like this?!

I stared down the window and convinced myself I wasn’t going to lose this fight. It was hot in the room, and I wanted the fresh air. I wiggled my arm under the bottom lock and pushed it up, hoping it would slide over the ledge and allow my shoulder to inch the glass higher.

Fortunately, I conquered the first step and pushing the top latch to the right with my right hand and continuing to nudge the glass with my shoulder was successful. Fresh air at last.

Obviously, I was thrilled I managed to do it, but it’s upsetting that I had to work that hard at it. I thought about what would happen if I moved into one of these apartments — would I be stuck having to fight with my windows every time I wanted one open or relying on a two-handed friend to come help me? How many other apartments have windows like this? Does anyone realize the problem with these for amputees?

I’m a little worried about what the answers to those questions are. While I can’t change the type of window installed in every rental unit, I can be more cautious when apartment hunting. I never thought I needed to view a potential home through the eye of a one-handed person, but I realize it’s in my best interest to pay attention to these things. I’m pretty sure no one wants to be responsible for opening and closing my windows, and anyone who knows me knows that I wouldn’t want that either.

Do you want to hold my bouquet or fix my dress?

That’s the question my sister asked me leading up to her wedding day. I tried to picture myself doing both. Knowing how clumsy I am, I could see myself fall over, knocking her down, messing up the dress, etc. But I also saw myself juggling two bouquets with one hand, and that wasn’t pretty either.

I didn’t want to make her dress look bad. I felt like fluffing it out was a more important job, because if you do it wrong then the pictures won’t be as nice. Pressure is on.

But holding two bouquets? I knew I could do it by putting one in the crease of my left arm and hanging onto the other one with my right hand, but I’d probably look awkward.

For those of you who were at the wedding, you saw that we decided it made the most sense for me to fix her dress. I was nervous about it, but I didn’t fall or make her trip or ruin the dress. I consider myself successful.

And I was actually happy about the decision once I was holding my bouquet. That was difficult as enough. I couldn’t switch hands with it or properly hold it with two hands, and it kind of got in my way every time I knelt down to fluff the gown.

I wouldn’t have enjoyed managing two bouquets. Plus, hers was heavier than the bridesmaid bouquets, which would have added to the difficultly.

It was my first time being a bridesmaid since the accident, so I had never thought about holding a bride’s bouquet or fixing her dress with one hand. I also didn’t consider how I was going to hook my right arm with a groomsman’s arm to walk down the aisle and hold the bouquet. The easy thing is to switch the bouquet to the left hand, but that obviously wasn’t an option for me.

I realized this during rehearsal the night before and gave it some thought before the wedding. I decided to keep it in my right hand, which made the linking and unlinking of arms a little awkward, but it was better than having it in my left arm and possibly dropping it.

I’m proud to say I survived the wedding without any clumsy, embarrassing one-handed moments, and everything (minus the rain) went great for my sister’s big day.

Yes, the title is true. I went (at least) five years without a manicure.

But this changed earlier this month when the bridal party for my sister’s wedding went to a nail salon for manicures and pedicures.

So why did I somewhat purposefully avoid manicures? I have a hand; I have nails. It may sound silly, but I didn’t want to get charged full price when the technician would only be doing half the work. I also didn’t want to awkwardly ask for a discount.

My motivation was my sister’s wedding. I knew I’d be in pictures and holding a bouquet. I was already getting my toes done, so I figured why not. If they charge me full price, at least I knew I’d be getting a discount by combining a pedicure and manicure. (For those unfamiliar with pedicures and manicures, it’s cheaper to get them together than separately.)

I give a lot of credit to the woman who did my nails. She did my toes first, then we moved to a table do my manicure. She set down the container of warm soapy water and said, “You can put your hand in.”

It’s her recognizing not to say “hands” that I was impressed with. Even I catch myself saying, “I need to wash my hands” or “My hands are cold.” It’s what we’re used to saying, and I understand that.

And when it came time to pay, I did get a discount. I’m not sure if it evened out to being half the price of a normal manicure or not, but taking anything off the price was enough for me. It showed me they recognized I shouldn’t pay the full amount.

Will this prompt me to get more manicures now? Probably not. But it’s not because I have one hand. It’s because I chip all the nail polish off too quickly. It’s less than two weeks later, and all evidence of a manicure is gone.

But for anyone in Bay City, Mich., I highly recommend going to Five Star nail salon.

It’s the simple things in life that mean the most.

But when you’re doing those so-called “simple things” with one hand, it’s not always so easy.

I’ll go out on a limb — pun intended — and say most women know how to generally braid hair. It might not look the best, but they can do it. Even though I grew up riding four-wheelers and playing sports, it’s still something I learned.

After my car accident, I lost all my hair. Doctors had haphazardly shaved it off while repairing my torn scalp. Since then, I’ve only allowed my hair to be trimmed to keep it healthy looking. I had no idea how important having hair was to me until I no longer had it.

As it grew out, I had to re-learn some “simple things” like putting it in a pony tail, blow drying it and curling it. Five and a half years later, I don’t struggle to do any of that, with the occasional exception of curling the hair on the back of my head. But what two-handed woman can easily do that?

One hair style I’ve strayed away from is braids, which started being frustrating as having a braid or two in your hair became the “in” trend.

I’m not exactly sure what prompted me to suddenly brainstorm a game plan, but as I was falling asleep one night last week, I convinced myself I could do it. I put my hair in side pony tails regularly now that it’s long enough, so it couldn’t be too difficult to braid that.

Initially, my strategy was to wrap my hair over to the right side in a pony tail. Then divide the strands into three sections and individually put hair ties around those so they stayed separated. I’d slide the three hair ties down the length of my hair as needed. At the end, I’d pull the other ties off and wrap one at the end.

That method was almost perfect. The hair tie at the top actually didn’t work well because it ended up pushing my braid down pretty far, which made it pretty short and odd looking. But I used the three ties at the bottom of the strands and weaved them in and out from each other, using my hand, arm and mouth to keep each one where it needed to be.

My second try was close, but I struggled to get the three small bands off and put one at the end of the braid. But by the third time, I was successful.

A task I once assumed I’d never be able to do, I had just accomplished. Naturally, I doused it in hair spray to ensure it wouldn’t fall out and so I could show it off.

Is it something I’ll do everyday? Definitely not. But is it something I’m pretty proud of? Of course.

 

We apologize for things that aren’t our fault all the time. Some interns at the Indianapolis Star pointed that out in recent column where they tracked how many times they said “sorry” in one day.

After reading that article, I started noticing how often this happens, and probably the most common occurrence for me happened Tuesday. People tend to apologize to me when they notice I only have one hand. Why is that? It’s not their fault I only have one hand. They just met me. Are they sorry for noticing? I don’t exactly hide it.

It was during my work’s annual health screening that employees can participate in to receive a wellness credit and save money on their health insurance. I sat down next to the table waiting for the woman to prick my finger to test my blood for my cholesterol and glucose levels.

“Stick out your left hand,” she says.

Well, that’s pretty difficult for me. I stuck out both hands, probably looking confused and silly but mostly hoping it didn’t really matter if my right hand was used because that’s really my only option.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says and grabs my right hand.

She was being polite, which is nice. But here’s the thing that I think a lot of people don’t realize — It’s OK to assume people have two hands. A majority of the population does have both hands.

I recently mentioned in a post that there are millions of amputees, but when there’s an estimated 316 million people living in this country according to the U.S. Census Bureau, it makes sense that you don’t see people with one hand or arm that often.

And here’s another possibly earth-shattering statement — We’re all guilty of this assumption. We assume everyone has two hands, two feet, two arms, two legs, 10 fingers, 10 toes, two ears, two eyes and one nose because most people do. It’s OK.

But here’s where the line is drawn: It is not OK to say it’s not normal to have any of those body parts missing. I didn’t suddenly change from being a normal 18-year-old to an abnormal one just because I was in a car accident and had my left hand amputated. I’m still the same person. It’s just not that common, but common and normal are not the same words.

When you do notice someone is an amputee, don’t pretend like you haven’t noticed. That’s also when you’re crossing the line. Take this woman who took my blood for an example. She adjusted and took my right hand instead of staring blankly not knowing what to do.

So the next time you see an amputee, please don’t apologize. I’m certainly not bothered by the assumption that I have two hands, and I’m guilty of making the same assumption just like everyone else.