I tromp along clumsily on the uninnervated flesh I have remaining of my legs. I feel their weight as they slog along beneath me. It’s unsteady—like trying to open a camera tripod with one hand. I haven’t felt much there for years. Vague sensations. There are still phantom pains, but they fly around indistinctly like blurs of color on a wall.
What surprises me is that I don’t really have memories of feeling, either. It’s as though I should only remember them as a difference between what I had then and what I have now. There’s nothing to compare. I don’t remember what the ground felt like when I was young. I have a vague recollection my shoes hurt my feet when I stood on them, but no feeling of the land below.
My whole life I’ve had a fear of going deaf. I have nightmares about it. I’ve always been a keen lover of music. Now it terrifies me all the more—this idea that going deaf would mean not only a loss of sound, but completely losing the memory of what sound was.
Have you ever thought about what it feels like to have a tail? It’s difficult—maybe meaningless—to imagine the sensation, the touch, the proprioception of having a tail because, in all probability, you’ve never had one.
Tails aren’t encouraged in our society.
—Journal entry, circa April 2009
Postscript, January 2011:
Continuing improvement. I can feel the ground beneath me again, though it’s still unfocused. It’s surprising to go back and see the difference.
I walked three miles yesterday.
Posted by Ross 
