— I wish, not for the first time, that my leg felt the same every day, like I was attaching skis and sliding out into the powder. There is no way to hurry this routine. Every morning, it’s the same tedious chore. Rubbing ointment on my skin, so I don’t chafe. Pulling on the liner that covers the stump. The sock that covers the liner. Snapping the leg in place. Wandering down the hallway carpet, adjusting it, shaking things out. Air pressure, heat, cold, blisters, whether it’s morning or night, the way my brain is processing pain and emotion—all of these things and more decide whether I’ll have
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