Pondering the question of a stranger
The woman was getting off the bike trail and I was about to get on. She was dressed like I was: bike shorts, helmet, cycling glasses.
“Nice day for a ride,” I said as I lifted my bike off my car rack.
“Perfect day,” she said.
And then this stranger asked something that I’ve come to dislike, not so much because of the question but because of what it means to hear it.
“What happened to your leg?” she asked, looking down at my left one.
My left leg: the constant source of concern, inconvenience, discomfort and, as was the case right at that moment, the burden of being self conscious.
“I have lymphedema,” I said. She didn’t appear to understand.
And so I explained. I had cancer 17 years ago and in the surgery I lost some of my lymph nodes, and then radiation damaged the rest of them. My left leg is chronically swollen because the lymph system on that side doesn’t work right.
“You may have noticed that some women who have breast cancer have this in their arms,” I said.
We talked a bit about some of the other bike trails she’s ridden, and then I pushed my bike out of the parking lot and onto the trail. As I pedaled away, I thought about why that question she asked bothers me so. It’s been years since the condition first presented itself in that leg, and I’m still embarrassed about it.
There’s a natural human curiosity, of course. Maybe the fellow cyclist asked because she thought I’d injured my leg, maybe in a fall from the bike; maybe she thought the bigger leg was so obvious that to fail to acknowledge it would seem — I don’t know, inconsiderate? I’ve always taught my children that, unless there’s something a person can do about it right then, it’s unkind to point out a flaw. (Your zipper is open: tell them. Your bangs are cut crooked: nope.)
My mismatched legs have taught me that people do tend to stare at the outliers among us, those who look different. Freshman year of college, there was a fellow student who had a facial birth defect. I never had classes with her or got to know her, but my own physical difference now has given me a perspective on what it must have been like for her to begin a new life on campus, with strangers all around. It can’t have been easy.
My left leg is not hugely wider than my right, but it’s obvious when I’m wearing anything other than wide-leg pants or a long skirt. I’ve learned how to take care of the leg, and all this cycling really helps.
Often, when people ask about my leg and I tell them about the cancer, they’ll say, “At least you’re still here.” While I understand the sentiment, I think it’s a bit patronizing, even dismissive.
Sometimes when I’m on my bike, or standing next to it, I’ll notice someone is looking. Reflexively, I will cross my right leg over my left, hoping to hide it. I’ll remind myself that if strangers are looking, it’s a fleeting thing. And maybe they aren’t staring at all.
But years of this have rendered the leg quite dominant in my mind — even larger than the limb really is. Maybe if I were had more confidence, I wouldn’t give this so much thought. There’s a supermodel who has vitiligo, the skin condition that causes bare patches in the melanin. She wears her skin proudly.
At this point I doubt I will ever be that comfortable in my skin. And while I understand why people ask, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the question.