sitio en español
	Dreading the A-Word, Amputation by Joe Olvera, El Paso, TX That old diabetes, and its partner in crime – gangrene – are conspiring to kill me. This time they almost succeeded. The column you're about to read is a tough one to write. It's a tough one to read, too, especially if the reader gets queasy reading about amputations and other health problems suffered by diabetics. But, I think it needs to be said. Maybe by me writing about my life and death crisis, it will lead others to take better care of themselves – especially if they have diabetes. Let me start at the beginning. I underwent my first life/death struggle in 1998, when diabetes complications caused an infection on the little toe of my right foot. At that time, however, I had no idea that I'd contracted diabetes. I was very skinny, and I constantly had to use the bathroom, but I ignored comments about my health – even those from my family. I knew something was wrong, however. I felt dizzy, ill, and tormented. I suffered from near-blackouts. Yet, I continued on my merry way, ignoring the health issue that was slowly killing me. But, there was a rhyme and a reason for my ignoring my dilemma. Quite frankly, I was afraid to go to the doctor. I thought I had AIDS, cancer, or some other potentially terminal illness. Still in denial, I tried to ignore the fact that there was something horribly wrong with my little toe. It was turning black. Like an idiot, I tried to take care of the infection. "It'll go away, I lied to myself. Just douse it with a little alcohol. It will soon be okay," I convinced myself. But, it wasn't okay because gas gangrene had invaded my foot. Finally, an orthopedic surgeon told me that the foot was going to have to be removed. But, I was adamant against that. I didn't want to go through the dreaded procedure - amputation, even though that was the only thing that was sure to save my life, the only way to completely kill the infection. But, it couldn't be avoided. You see, the five toes had to be amputated. There's that dreaded A-word again. Yet, there's no way of getting around it. That was six years ago. My decision to not allow my foot to be amputated at that time gave me six more years use of a fully functional limb, albeit it was only half of what had once been my foot. That was great. But, did I take care of it the way I should have? Not me. Well, actually, I did take care of it to the best of my ability. There's the key element – to the best of my ability, and not to the best of a doctor's ability. As I was saying, six years later, in January 2004, I realized that I was feeling very ill. My head felt about two sizes too big, and I couldn't keep anything in my stomach. Not food, not water, not medication. I was upchucking everything that landed in my stomach. But, I was in denial, still. I rather suspected that it could be my foot again, but I refused to acknowledge that possibility. You know why, of course. I feared amputation. No, make that I FEARED AMPUTATION. Against all my intelligence, against all my instincts, I continued to believe that I had the stomach flu, or some sort of stomach virus. But, deep down inside my very soul, I knew that the only thing that could be causing me such distress had to be my foot. Although I feared the worst, I accepted the inevitable. I finally asked my beautiful wife, Julieta, to drive me to emergency, and there I faced the horrible specter. The doctor told me that my foot had become infected, and that he didn't think he could save it. My nightmare was about to come true. I begged for the doctor to not amputate. I begged him to save my foot – such as it was. He said no. After careful deliberation, my wife and I decided that amputation was the only thing that could save my life. I underwent that dreaded A-word operation, whereby my right foot was completely removed. Well, actually, the doctor took more than my foot. He amputated about four inches below the knee. Strangely enough, as soon as he had amputated, I felt like new again. I no longer had my right foot, but the gangrene had been completely obliterated. All of a sudden, I had an appetite again, and I started to eat my way back to good health. As I write this, I am happy to say that I am on the verge of being fitted for my new prosthesis. I am currently wearing a "shrink sock" which is meant to prepare my stump for the prosthesis. I look at what remains of my leg, and I am simply amazed. I never thought I could survive something as traumatic as losing my leg, but I was wrong. I guess I'm stronger than I thought, because now I see it as merely a challenge. One more challenge, one more bump on the road through life. As of right now, I'm really looking forward to my new leg. After all, a man needs a leg to stand on. I joke about it now, but it's really not funny. But, what can I do about it. I have to accept it, and keep going forward. There's no other way, is there?