By Melissa Bean
My left arm ends two inches below my elbow in the shape of what looks like half a russet potato. It’s rounded, but bumpy. It’s chubby from the elbow until the last half inch where it tapers off unevenly. At the very tip are two tiny “nubbins” which helped make up one of my best childhood party tricks. I drew eyes on them with a nose and mouth below and made them speak like my own little ventriloquist’s dummy.
I don’t do that anymore, but a few Christmases ago, my daughter sewed a miniature gnome costume for my arm, and we had some good laughs.
My parents say they were encouraged by my pediatrician and prosthetist to give my arm its own name, so I could identify my unique body part, and we all knew how to refer to my residual limb. They called it my “army.” I’ve always liked that – my arm is small but strong, and “army” conveys both of those characteristics.
Throughout my life people have avoided naming my arm. Either they don’t speak of it at all, they only gesture toward it, or they call it “your arm,” and we all know which one they mean. I don’t call it my “army” with anyone but family, and if there is a need to name it for others, I call it my “shorter arm.”
Of course, there are the few, the bold and the weird, who call my arm the names they think of in their own heads like stump, stub and nub. And I can’t say how many have avoided using their words by making a chopping motion below their elbow to demonstrate their thoughts – even people who know I didn’t lose my arm to a chainsaw, axe or cleaver, will subconsciously make those gestures when referring to me or my arm. It’s sort of a macabre charades-like approach to describing my congenital amputation.
Still others find the words – and not always words I appreciate. I’ve been called “lefty,” which is funny given I’m missing my left forearm and hand, but that’s the joke. A middle school friend called me the “one-eyed, one-armed, flying purple people eater” (from “The Purple People Eater,” a novelty song written by Sheb Wooley in 1958). I tolerated it. But I’ve heard people call me “half-an-arm,” “that one-armed chick,” and “Captain Hook.”
I work as a part-time tutor with children of all ages. Recently, I tried out a new name for my residual limb. A high schooler asked me what I call my arm, and I told her I call it my “stinger.” She pulled back from the table slightly and her eyes went wide. It wasn’t the best test run, but I still like the name. I used to jab my brother with the bony tip of my arm, and he said it hurt worse than anything. Besides that, my name means “honeybee” in Greek, and I like to think I’m a sweet person – with a sting I use when needed. Of course, the analogy dies there because so do the bees.
The term residual limb is considered most respectful. It’s a bit sterile for me to use outside of articles for Amplitude. Medical professionals use specific terminology based on the level of the amputation and it’s been interesting to learn all the designations like transtibial, below knee, BK; transfemoral, above knee, AK; transradial, below-the-elbow, BE; transhumeral, above-the-elbow and so on. I never knew until last year that I’m an LBE, or something like that.
I had an entertaining session on Reddit checking out the names other people call their residual limbs: Mr. Stublington, Gone Leg, Nonfinger, Pirate’s Leg, the winning half of the wishbone, Thunderstump, Stubby, Mr. Stumpy, Short, Mimsi, Gloria, and Stumps & Nubbins. My favorites were Baloney and Oscar, (because “my below-knee has a first name…” the old advertising jingle for Oscar Meyer sandwich meat) and one individual who said, “I call my regular leg Hop, because I hop around on it. And I call my stump Hip, because it’s mostly just a hip. Good old Hop-Hip.”
Depending on the individual and how they have experienced limb loss, nicknames, jokes and the carving and chopping motions people make when they mention our amputations can be hard to take. So, I’m happy I have an unemotional, impersonal label to call my arm – “residual limb” is the most comfortable wording in many situations.
Having a disability, especially an amputation, can be isolating. There is a sense of “otherness.” I sometimes feel untouchable or alien because I have three limbs in a world where four is the expected, the rule, and the norm. What do they always say when a baby is born? People say “ten fingers and ten toes is all anybody hopes for.” Except we don’t all come that way (or stay that way). Having the words to talk about my amputation helps reduce the feeling that it is taboo, and I am not a separate species.
All of this has got me thinking of other ways I could refer to my shorter arm that feel right for me. I’ve been brainstorming. “Stinger” is still top of the list. “Army” still works for family. And right now, I’ve got a great feeling about “tater tot.”
