The Dead Leg turns 5

Five years ago, I sat at a table in Bar Roma with family and friends. We were ostensibly celebrating my 40th birthday. They were waiting impatiently for the pizzas to arrive. I was wondering what the hell was going on with my leg, which felt like a block of ice under the table. I couldn't do anything to warm it. I could barely stand to put socks on. I would have worn nothing if I could have gotten away with it, and I am NOT an exhibitionist, AND it was January. I knew then that I was disabled, that something had gone horribly wrong, that broken bones in foot shouldn't be causing all of the other weird things (shiny skin, diminishing leg hair, waking up in the night with my leg on fire up to the knee). 3 weeks post-fracture, I knew something that no doctor or anyone else would feel comfortable telling me for another two and a half years: my tree-climbing days were over. No more cartwheels. No more walking silently and swiftly through woods. I didn't tell anyone; I didn't want to be told that I was negative, that everything would be fine. The Dead Leg knew, though, without me saying anything, and our uneasy relationship began. Everyone enjoyed the pizza.