It was the summer of 1987. My uncle and I were seated in one of the small clinical examination rooms of Shriner’s Hospital for Crippled Children in Los Angeles, CA. It was my second trip to the US. The first was a couple of years ago — when  stayed about a year in the US — when the Shriner’s sponsored my trip for the first time. [Although my parents were with me for both trips, my uncle was designated as my official guardian while I am in the US because he was a citizen.]

A few pleasantries were exchanged and the doctor asked how I was doing since my last check-up over a year ago. He then proceeded to discuss my most recent X-ray — the one taken earlier that day. He said that the minor procedure that they performed when I last came (wherein the stopped my NF infected left leg from growing faster than my right leg) was successful. However, they noticed that the tumors are causing the bone of my left leg and my left foot to slowly disintegrate. He put up the X-ray on screen and sure enough, there was hardly any structure on my left foot. No wonder it felt so soft along the sides!

He said that they could amputate the leg — just below the knee — as soon as possible. The other option, was for me to wait until I was 18 (I was only 14 at the time) and have it amputated by then. Maybe my right leg would have caught up with my left leg in terms of growth; maybe the tumor would have stopped from eating up the bones. It was a lot of maybes.

“You don’t have to make the decision now”,  he told me.

But as my uncle and I walked out to the hallway where my parents we’re waiting for us, I had already made my decision. I couldn’t live with the pain on my left leg anymore. I just wanted to take a chance. Although the doctor never gave any assurance that the pain will go away or if the bones will stop from disintegrating, I felt that having my leg amputated will at least give me a chance.

As we all sat down in the lobby, my uncle and I related to my folks, my aunt and the other people who came with us, what had just transpired. I then looked at my parents and told them quietly that I have made my decision.

My parents nodded their heads and mouthed their okays. They were smiling but I noticed tears welling up in their eyes. They were trying their best to hold those tears back. Everyone then decided to troop down the nearest church to pray for guidance and to give thanks. Inside the church, my dad finally couldn’t contain himself and burst into tears. I just hugged him and my mom real tight, telling them that I’m sure everything will be alright. In between sobs, my dad said that he wished he could just give me his leg somehow.

It was several months before my leg was amputated. I had to go through psychological evaluations to see if I could easily cope with losing my leg.

Now, it’s been nearly 22 years since I had chosen to lose my left leg. I’ve gone through nearly half a dozen artificial legs since. It was difficult at first, but I coped. Maybe I’m still coping.  But even if I could go back in time 22 years, I would have still made the same decision.