Part 2: The Quiet Shift

I was actually pretty fearful of wearing the prosthetic in public.

Which is strange to say, because I had spent months working toward it.

Appointments. Insurance. Time off work. Conversations. Waiting.

I wanted it.

I was excited to finally have it.

And then I got it.

And almost immediately, that excitement turned into something else.

Because the thought hit me all at once.

Now I have to wear this out in the world.

Not in a controlled setting. Not around people I know.

Out there.

In a grocery store. In a line. Walking past strangers who don’t know anything about me.

And suddenly it wasn’t just a device.

It was something people would see.

Something they might notice. Or question. Or stare at.

And I didn’t know what that was going to feel like.

Would this make me feel different all over again?
Or was this just going to be the same experience… in a different form?
The same looks. The same reactions. The same quiet moments that didn’t feel neutral at all.

Would it be embarrassing?

I had spent so much time trying to get it.

I hadn’t really thought about what it would mean to live with it.

And I have to be honest.

None of that really happened.

Even the first time I went out, just a simple trip to Publix, I remember walking in and feeling it immediately.

Not from anyone else.

From myself.

That awareness.

Wondering where people’s eyes were going.
Wondering if anyone had noticed yet.
Wondering if I should keep moving, or slow down, or pretend everything was normal.

I remember grabbing a cart just to have something to do with my hands.

Moving a little faster than I needed to.

Trying not to look around too much, while also being aware of everything.

And then… nothing happened.

No looks that I caught. No reactions.

And I’ve spent years being very aware of where people’s eyes go.

It was much quieter than I expected.

Most people didn’t react at all.

And the few who did surprised me.

I’ve told parts of this story before, but I don’t think I fully understood it the way I do now.

One of the first times I wore it out, I stopped at a Barnes & Noble that was having a closing sale. I was looking at the Legos, and a man walked up next to me doing the same.

After a few minutes, he said, “That’s a really cool hand.”

I remember not knowing whether to explain it, laugh it off, or just nod and move on.

I thanked him, not quite knowing what to say.

Then he asked me to put my hand on his upper chest. It caught me a little off guard, but what he was showing me was that he had a defibrillator.

And in that moment, it didn’t feel awkward.

It felt like recognition.

Like two people acknowledging something about themselves, and then just continuing on, standing there looking at Legos.

Another time, I was in a long line at Walmart with my mom.

A young girl turned around, looked at my arm, and said, “I love your arm.”

She started talking about a character from a show that it reminded her of, and how that’s who she wanted to be.

She wasn’t uncomfortable.

She was excited.

And for a moment, I felt that too.

I’ve had a few moments like that. Not many.

Most of the time, nothing happens at all.

And maybe that’s the biggest shift.

I spent so much time preparing for reactions that, in most cases, never came.

Even now, I still catch myself bracing for it.

Walking into a store and scanning the room before I even realize I’m doing it.

Standing in line and becoming aware of where my arm is, how it looks, who might be behind me.

Passing someone and wondering, just for a second, if they noticed.

It happens quickly.

Almost automatically.

That instinct is still there.

But it doesn’t stop me the way it used to.