In Search of Lost Limb

“This isn’t my leg” I repeated emphatically. We were standing in my chiropractor’s office, looking down at my leg. Erin-the-chiro glanced at me quizzically to check for humor, but this was a serious matter. I continued, “I don’t remember when it happened, it’s been many years. One day I was putting on my running sneakers and the right one didn’t fit well. And my knee feels uncertain when I squat, and my hip is always hurting…”

She offered, “Why don’t you lay down and we’ll see what we can do. Sometimes one leg can be shorter than the other. That would explain your symptoms and discomfort.” I was momentarily excited by this notion: finally the mystery of the foreign limb would be solved! Positioning myself on the massage bed I recalled Oliver Sacks’ story about a man with a psychogenic leg paralysis who denied that one of his legs was his, insistently throwing it out of bed only to find himself on the floor. I hoped mine wasn’t a neurological case. Before I could wander too deeply into depersonalization and the phantom leg syndrome, Erin announced that my legs were, in fact, the same length.

Well, shoot.

She was earnestly concerned as I went on to describe my sensations. “It’s always giving me trouble. The left leg is perfect: it walks, runs, bounces, bends, sits, sleeps…and I don’t even think about it. It’s quiet and humble. It does its job and makes no demands. This right one though is a drama queen: you can’t please it! The pants are itchy, there is tingling when I sit, it always wants to curl outward a little, I can’t sleep on it, and most importantly, the shoes. No matter how many months I’ve been wearing a pair of sneakers, every time I put them on, it complains. The shoe doesn’t fit. It’s like someone else has been wearing it and molded it all wrong…” Erin kept listening while thinking of next steps. “Isn’t there some leg depot?!” I wailed in exasperation. “I just want to exchange it. Someone probably picked mine up by mistake and I want it back, and I’ll gladly return this one.” She giggled and set to work, aligning and stretching, doing her miracle work that always returned me limber and hopeful.

Next morning while jogging, I mulled over the familiar problem. It wasn’t always this way. When did the switcharoo happen? What was I missing (beside my old leg)? Wasn’t there som…And then it hit me.

I remembered.

The blazing, wild sun. The whipping frisk wind and blinding snow and a scarf wrapped around my neck and that indomitable flavor of vigor. I am riding a lift up Mammoth Mountain. I am a freshman in college, here in the Californian Sierras with the Korean Christian Ministry – a group of people who can become my friends that I just met in college. It’s fall break and we’re on an adventure! This is the second time I’m skiing in my life but it’s already afternoon, so I’ve had a few bunny slope successes and am feeling more confident. I lumber off the ski lift and turn to where I believe is the familiar route I’ve been taking. The wind picks up and there’s a flurry of flakes and people and ski poles and helmeted snowboarders. I lose my bearings for a second but then I spy the descending slope and make my way down. Ten feet into the descent there’s an unfamiliar sign with a black rhombus on it. Something of a threat flickers in the back of my mind…I’ve only been seeing green…but I refocus quickly as this route appears more challenging.

Next thing I know, I’m going too fast to turn.

Next thing: I’m in the air.

Next: poles, skis, impact; an uncomfortable squelch in my right knee.

I make it down the slope high on adrenaline and low on O2, but am not up for any more skiing, and as my leg proceeds to swell tightly against my pant leg towards evening, I have to admit that there might be a problem. While everyone is celebrating the day in a Christian, wholesome way in the cabins, two of the KCM leaders take me to the village urgent care: a single-room office in ski-town. After some X-rays and palpations, the doctor comes out with a verdict. He asks me how old I am. What am I doing there and what my plans are. Eventually he gets to it. I have torn a ligament in my knee. A soft cast and several months on crutches will help it grow together.

But, he says, “your leg will never be the same again.”

Oh, buddy. You can say that again.

Space Movie

Several years ago, I learned that Roscosmos had put out a casting call for an actress who would fly to the ISS to star in the first full-length drama made in space. The plot loosely revolved around a surgeon having to fly to the station because of an emergency that caused one of the cosmonauts to need heart surgery. Rumor had it that the agency wanted to outrace NASA, who purportedly was planning to send Tom Cruise to the station to do the same. The call was broadly advertised, and any woman was welcome to audition. She didn’t have to be a professional actress; she just had to be really really good. She also had to run fast and fit stringent height and weight criteria and be younger than a certain age. There would be an intensive screening process for intelligence and health parameters, but before all of that, the candidate would have to submit a recording of herself reading “Tatiana’s letter” from Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin.

Naturally, I had to do it. I discussed it briefly with my husband, “So…there’s this thing…I have to submit an audition…and I might fly to space.” He pondered it for a few minutes and said, “Sure, sounds right up your alley.”

I carved out the time and buckled down to memorizing the text. For girls growing up in Russia, Tatiana’s four-minute monologue is the equivalent of Juliet’s Romeo, Romeo…ubiquitous and memorized on multiple occasions through junior and senior high school. For me, however, it was four pages of the hardest verse. I enlisted the help of my ex-mother-in-law – a lifelong and nationally recognized actress in Russia. Over Zoom, she coached me in Theatrics 101 and Stanislavski’s method, explaining by turns meanings of phrases, intention, diction, and posture. The deadline was imminent; I had to record today. But “today” my phone kept falling off the complex contraption I fashioned to have it stationary at eye-level, cats insistently scratched at the door forcing me to re-start the recording, fighting broke out in the kitchen, there were several grocery errands I had to run…And of course, I kept forgetting my lines.

But just when I despaired of ever getting past stanza 25, the house fell silent, the stars aligned, and I got through it. When she said her pliant farewell, an undertone of triumph could be heard in Tatiana’s voice. Later that week I filled out the application, tucking into the corner of my mind a reassurance that by the time they call me back for the interview, I will be able to run that fast and jump that high. I glanced over it one last time and hit send. “Your application has been received. You will be notified if you progress to the next level of screening.”

The waiting was magical. For a memorable few week, the probability of me going to space was non-zero. There was a chance! True, it was one in a million, one in ten million. True, nobody was probably even looking at those amateur actress auditions and the agency had already selected an actual actress for the job. True, it was probably a well-orchestrated publicity stunt. But still, it felt like there was something, a glimmer, a hope to hold on to. Suddenly, everything about my job became saturated with meaning. I listened to teleconferences about leak isolation and water usage on the station with intense attention. In our classes where I translated for cosmonauts, I caught myself asking questions, a definite taboo for interpreters. Even when the cosmonauts were content with an explanation, I probed deeper for my own understanding…as if…for my own future wellbeing! The familiar hatchways and pressure equalization valves in the mockup station glowed with a meaningful shimmer, the windows winked at me with their shutters, and I paid extra attention to the foods I liked when participating in an astronaut/cosmonaut food tasting activity. I wondered about suit pressure integrity and seat liners with deep engagement, and flight mechanics never seemed so vitally significant…

Eventually the thrill of it began to wear off as I came to terms with the reality that I wasn’t going to the International Space Station. Even before I learned that a professional Russian actress was selected for the job, I calmed into the resignation that, well, let’s be realistic here. Dreaming off a micro-chance of going was as close as I was going to get to the launchpad, and while there are miracles, this wasn’t going to be one of them.

In 2023 the movie hit the big screen and fizzled out. Friends on the station and on the ground recalled to me in vivid detail the training, filming, and post-production process, and through their stories I lived it too, vicariously. There was a sense of calm about it because I had done everything that I could. I had even reached the running goals…mostly.

The plot twist came later that year when, by the sheer fact of being underhand and willing to go with the flow, I was invited to…act in a space movie. In a strange parody of art imitating life and fate getting my message a bit garbled, this movie also revolved around an emergency on the international space station. But, unlike the Challenge (the name of the Russian film), this emergency was a depressurization. The crew training office was making educational videos to teach astronauts to react to emergency situations on board, and they needed someone to play the Russian cosmonaut. We spent the day in the mockup, simulating emergencies and working through procedures. I had the humble role of closing hatches and disconnecting air ducts while others took the speaking roles. Following post-production, the training was released to much acclaim from the limited audience base consisting of active astronauts getting ready for flight.

I had forgotten about the whole thing until a few days ago when I was CCed in an email sent by one of the crew training officers (CTO) to my manager at work requesting my presence for the shooting of the next series of educational videos. “We were impressed by Anya’s superior acting ability and natural skill…” the email went on, and could I be released for another day of filming? I chuckled at the CTO’s sense of humor: “Superior acting ability” indeed! But also, I was happy. This was really the best way to act in a cosmic drama: the thrill of space exploration and still home for dinner.

Two Stories for Gratitude

We lie in bed, my husband getting ready to sleep and me silently stewing on a slight caused by a family member. Thanksgiving season is almost upon us and a certain someone is sitting on an open invitation to spend this holiday with us. He is weighing his options. I am hurt and displeased. My husband must notice the bad aura emitting out of the little big spoon because, muffled in near-sleep, he asks, “What’s the matter? Why are you so upset?” I exhale and mumble, “I just…can’t even.” He sighs in relief that the conversation is probably over, but I pick up. “You remember that parable about the big party that the king threw?” He responds with a despondent, “No…” and I start in, energized. “Well. Let me tell you a story.”

…One day the King decided to throw a party. He sent the servants out to invite his friends. When the servants returned, the King asked expectantly, “Well, are they coming?” The servants looked at the floor in embarrassment and responded, one by one, that the friends and family of the King send their regrets but are unable to come. One has a dental appointment. Another is re-lacing his shoes. A third doesn’t feel like driving. A fourth was finally going to get to his model airplane… The King stormed out angrily without hearing the rest of the excuses.

But shortly he returned. “Listen,” he told the servants. “Call my neighbors. Call the new people that moved in down the street. Whoever you find as you’re walking through town, catch them and tell them the KING is inviting you for a feast!” He paused, “I want a full house. It’s going to be bumpin.'”

Later, the servants came back more discouraged than before. “Well?!” exclaimed the King. “We invited them, but doubtful they’ll come. One said that she’s swamped with work. Another said that he already agreed to go to the butcher’s house. A couple did agree to come, reluctantly, so that’s a start.”

The King was livid. “Fine, then. Go out into the streets. Find the beggars and the homeless and those with leprosy. Find those under the bridges and the strangers and foreigners. I want EVERYONE. And tell them that the King is inviting them to a feast. I want my house to be full, and they are welcome…”

I stop to see if my husband is still listening. He stirs and muses, “I think I’ve heard this one before…”

“And what do you make of it?” I question.

“Well, it sounds like the King was quite stubborn: he wanted his party.”

“Ha!” I cackle. “I think there’s something more to it…I mean, how crazy is it to turn down the invitation of a King?! If someone asked me to a party I’d be like, “Heck yeah! Especially if the ruler of the land is inviting. It’s going to be a huge feast…I wouldn’t miss it…”

“And yet, all of those people did.”
“Yeah,” I drift off, “such a mystery…”

Later that week the kids and I are driving home from church. I made the kids stay late and stuff gift boxes for seafarers traveling over the holidays. They are visibly displeased that their Sunday rest was cut short. I am displeased at their displeasure. I tell them a story.

I have this friend. He lives in an apartment because he cannot afford a house. He works hard but barely scrapes by. Sometimes he turns off his phone service to be able to cover his electricity bill. Sometimes, if something happens to his car, he has to turn off the electricity as well. When I’m finally able to get hold of him after his service is back on, I ask him what he’s been eating, and he responds that it’s been mostly bread and frozen chicken nuggets.

I pause.

“Why do you think I’m telling this story, children?”

“Because it’s people like this that will be getting those presents we packed,” my son responds in sing-song, equal part contrite and annoyed for the lecture. “We shouldn’t complain about packing the kits and should help others out…” he trails off.

“Incorrect. Let me tell you more. Two months ago an acquaintance of his came to his door and asked if he could spend the night. It turned out that this buddy was living on the streets for many weeks, panhandling and trying to get by however he could. My friend let him stay. Not only that night, but all the nights since. He’s taken him in and now he’s living in my friend’s apartment. He feeds him and washes his clothes in a laundromat down the street while the buddy sleeps. And he sleeps most of the time. My friend cleared out one of his rooms and now the buddy lives there. Are you hearing me? This friend, on the brink of poverty, took in a homeless person who now lives with him at no cost! And you guys are complaining about staying at church an extra hour to stuff gift boxes?!”

The car is silent. Nobody says anything as I navigate the lethargic Sunday traffic.

“Why do you think I told you this story?” I add softer and glance in the rear-view mirror. My son is awkwardly picking at something on his knee and my daughter stares into the window. They say nothing.

I don’t know why these two stories come to mind now, during the Thanksgiving season. There is some non-linear overlap, some hidden interplay between them. I let them waft through my mind as I ponder gratitude and the kingdom of heaven. And I perceive deep in my mind an admonition, “He who has an ear, let him hear…”

Sleeping Over

When I was thirteen years old, a girl I knew invited me to a sleepover. We had recently moved to St.Louis, I had trouble fitting in and was struggling through 8th grade stifled with social anxiety and a desperate need for friendship. I wanted this girl to be my friend, wanted to be wanted. It was my second sleepover ever and it was going to be a lot of fun.

Everything went smoothly until it was time to sleep. She had her room in a cozy, upstairs area with slanted ceilings and creaky wooden floors. I expected that I would get a bed but instead I got a mattress on the floor next to her bed, which was just a few inches taller. The lights went off eventually, we chatted and soon said goodnight. She promptly turned towards the wall and, like any normal person her age, probably sailed smoothly into oblivion. I, on the other hand, lay immobile, fearing that my stirring would bother her. I lay on the side for five, ten minutes, wide awake and frozen in a mock pose of comfort. Then I realized that a sizable pool of saliva had accumulated in my cheek and was threatening to spill over the side of my mouth. I swallowed.

I hoped she didn’t hear my gulp and tried to induce sleep. Sleep did not come but more saliva did. I swallowed again. I was certain she had heard me that time, after all, you always hear when people swallow in the dark, especially if their heads are just a few feet away from yours. I wasn’t even done with that thought when I had more saliva that needed urgent swallowing. I gulped as I realized that me thinking about it was making it come out. I tried to stop. I thought of fields of flowers, I thought of school and homework, I thought of relacing my shoes, I thought of yesterday’s dinner. I gulped again and turned swiftly on my back, hoping that a change in position would save me from what was quickly becoming a catastrophic situation. My friend stirred and I knew she hated me. She must think I’m such a weirdo, lying here swallowing. She wants to leave but is too polite to get up. She regrets ever talking to me. I swallowed in exasperation. Within a few minutes the situation escalated to an intolerable state. There was only one thing to do: I had to go to another room so that my friend could sleep.

But how? Where? The whole house was snoring, other siblings and parents in other bedrooms across the first and second floor. Me getting up and futzing with my bedding would wake the siblings up, and if I walked anywhere the parents would wake because the entire second floor creaked. I would have to crawl.

At this point I was laying on my belly. I pivoted and sloughed off the edge of the mattress, dragging with me whatever bits of sheet and blanket I could compress between myself and the parquet. I began to edge towards the door but just as I was beginning to feel optimistic about my escape plan, I pushed over a trigger board and CREAK! pierced the dust-mitey night air of the sleeping house. I froze. My leg was still partially over the mattress. The rest of me was on the ground, facing backwards, towards the door. I waited fearfully, trying futilely to come up with a story to explain this should someone chance upon me. Nobody came though. I swallowed and started edging towards the door.

Twenty hundred minutes and seventy-nine creaks later, I crested over the door frame and, still completely flat against the floor, began shuffling towards what I hoped was an empty room with door slightly ajar. By this point I was sweaty, bits of hair and cobwebs clung to my face, I had inhaled three cupfuls of dust mixed with a liter of my own saliva. When I finally slithered into the room, I was convinced that everyone in the house had woken up, thought I was a freak, and unanimously decided never to invite me again. Only their Christian love prevented them from exposing me. I pushed forward, swearing off sleepovers, mattresses, and friendship, and thunked my head into something straight and metal. With the last bits of inner resolve I pulled my legs into the laundry room, pushed the door closed behind me (CREAAAAK!), and feel into forgetfulness.

The next morning, I woke up before anyone else and walked into my friend’s room just as she was stirring. Nobody mentioned anything over breakfast – too polite, as I suspected – and I was even invited to come again. For some reason, I never did.

The Turtle Heist

In her final years, Grandma Lena developed an attentive interest towards the three turtles that lived in a pond in front of her retirement home. In fact, there were two artificial ponds that flanked the entrance to the Cathedral Arms Apartments, and two smallish turtles reliably lived in one pond and a third lived in the second. When the weather was nice, and that was most days in San Diego, Grandma would sit on the bench between the ponds and observe the turtles sunbathing or swimming around. She would even discuss them with her co-inhabitants, who also took to studying their behaviors and whims. I have a vivid picture of Grandma Lena sitting on that bench, one leg draped over the other, leaned back and squinting in the sun in her purple, squarish sunglasses and turquoise hat.

Knowing that she was watching the turtles, I started asking her about them whenever we came to visit. After all, I have a keen interest in turtles too, although what interested me more was discovering this affinity in my grandmother and through it, in discovering a naturalist in her personality. We discussed their eating habits and preferences for this or that seaweed; we pondered about whether they get fed by the custodians of the building and whether they had any natural predators in the center of town.

We discussed this latter point in some detail when, on one of our visits, I counted only two turtles in the ponds: one on each side. I was hesitant to ask Grandma Lena about it but shortly after we entered her apartment, she took me aside and told me privately that one of the turtles was gone. I asked if she had any ideas of what might have happened and she responded that they discussed it together with “the other old fogeys” and that they’re at a loss. The only predator they had ever seen was the plastic white heron that loitered in the palm fronds and did not pose a real threat. Being in the heart of the city, there were not many other animals around. “What if one of the other turtles attacked and ate this one?” I proposed. No, she responded, that’s not reasonable. They don’t prey on each other and besides, it looks like the larger one disappeared and then one of the smaller ones moved into the vacated pond. “Do you think maybe a person stole it?” I asked. Grandma thought that this was the most likely scenario.

This was a big deal. We discussed it during subsequent visits and it was clear that the topic was of great concern for the other bench ladies. Many hypotheses had been proposed and thrown out for lack of credible evidence. Pondering the excitement that the disappearance generated, one day I got an idea: what if someone smuggled a new turtle into the pond? The idea grew exponentially: you’d have to do it at night. You’d have to go to the pet store the previous day, pick out a turtle that looked similar in size and coloration to the two that lived in the ponds. Then you’d have to sneak over to the Cathedral in the wee hours of the morning, move the one turtle to the other turtle’s pond first so that it wouldn’t pick on the newcomer, and then place the new one into the empty pond.

I spent many happy days dreaming about the deposition of the turtle: the furor that this mysterious appearance would cause, the gossip on the bench, the serious discussions among the Cathedral Arms management, the speculations. Most of all I relished the conversations with Grandma. I fancied how she would be out sitting on that bench and observing the turtles and how she would notice two in one pond. Well, that in itself was exciting enough but then, probably by accident, she would glace over and notice the other turtle in the second pond. How could it be?! Where did it come from? Was it the old turtle, returned from a long pilgrimage? Was it a new baby turtle that got missed and grew to adulthood, to be seen only now? Had the other ladies known? I imagined us coming for another visit, or maybe I would call out of the blue, just to say hi, a few days after planting the turtle. Would Grandma tell me about it right away or would I have to ask?

For several months I wondered about Grandma’s reaction, about how her inner life would be colored by the new friend. I thought about the logistics of smuggling such a creature without being seen, schemed about how I would ask the Cathedral Arms guard to be my accomplice since I wouldn’t be able to do it myself, living so far away…but the following month Grandma had a fall and, after two weeks in the hospital, moved into the parents’ home so that Mom could care for her. The next time we were at Grandma’s apartment was without her there, moving out her things and cleaning up. She passed away a year later.

Looking back, I don’t regret that I didn’t do it. Dreaming about staging that turtle heist added real joy to my life and deepened my relationship with my grandmother. It was as if we had had those talks; as if I had seen her face light up with a childlike delight at spotting a new inhabitant in the pond. The whole scenario was so vivid in my mind, and it has remained intact. And in that sense her being gone is not so damaging. The imaginary story continues. I see her now as ever, from the back: a light teal jacket, an elegant scarf and a matching hat, sitting leg over leg and gazing into the water. Suddenly: a soft tilt of the head as she spies something green moving in the corner of the pond. An incredulous expression of wonder, a spark in her eye as she stands up to go investigate…and later that day, a phone call: “So, Grandma. How are your turtles doing…?”