Being me: what it really means to be disabled

Louise Page, who has had four amputations, explains how her disability hasn't changed her essential feeling of who she is.

It wasn’t until I started having bits of me cut off, that I truly understood what it meant to be a disabled person.

I remember one day, after one of my four amputations, that I said to my Dad, “you know, they can keep cutting bits of me away, but I’ll still be me”. And he instantly started to cry. That wasn’t my intention, to make my dad cry. But I think it was then that I genuinely understood physical disability.

When you first have an amputation, you have to wait eight weeks for the wound to heal and the swelling to go down before you can be fitted with a prosthetic. And then of course, you need to learn to walk with it. And at first, you can’t wear it all the time as your body needs to adjust to weight bearing on something that wasn’t designed for bearing the weight of your full body (ie a cut off tibia or femur). So of course there are lots of times you have to go out in public with crutches and a missing leg.

And that means people staring, some people do a double-take, some people try to look very subtly by just looking sideways, some properly stare for a while, I even once had a lady tap her friend on the shoulder and point at me. My approach has always been to ignore the staring. My mum told me I should give everyone who looks a big smile, but maybe I’m not as nice as she is! I just tell myself that I would do the same thing. If we see someone who looks different in any way – excessively thin or fat, or with crazily dyed hair or bad style (one I know I have to confess to… see, I am mean!), then we can’t help staring. It’s just human nature.  So I’ve decided I can handle it, though to be honest I wish it wouldn’t happen…

The picture above is me during my second year of chemo just after first amputation, Summer 2008

Anyway, the point I was making was that I’m still the same Louise. Weirdly people treat you as a hero or as someone who is especially brave, when you have cancer and/or a disability, especially one that makes dramatic visible changes to your body. And we all seem to think cancer patients will discover the true meaning of what’s important in life. And yes, I have (though I hope I knew that beforehand already). But we also don’t stop being ourselves. I carried on with my Vogue subscription and my addiction to shoes (yes shoes! An amputee who loves shoes… how crazy is that?!) and of course… the handbags (some of you will be breathing a knowing sigh…). But I also carried on being Louise. Wanting to see friends, get dressed up to go out for dinner, read books, go to the theatre, watch trashy TV…

So my disability didn’t change me at all, apart from making walking, carrying things, getting dressed, dancing, walking on a beach, balancing on a bus, dancing, sitting (I could go on forever but I won’t) a hell of a lot harder. I’ve always been me throughout.  And I’ve always tried really hard to make sure everyone around me sees and knows that.

And of course every one of us is different and wants different things from life, so I can only speak for myself. And I think that’s why Diana (my boss at Thistle) values me – because I understand. I just hope after reading this, more people will understand this now too. I may have a disability, but I don’t consider myself disabled (the parking badge comes in very handy though!).  I’m just Louise and no matter what has happened or is yet to happen, I always will be.

This blog was first published on alancainsley.wordpress.com and is reproduced here with permission

Louise. All pictures reproduced with her permission
HEINZ BAUMANN/GALLERY STOCK
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With the BBC Food’s collection under threat, here's how to make the most of online recipes

Do a bit of digging, trust your instincts – and always read the comments.

I don’t think John Humphrys is much of a chef. Recently, as his Today co-presenter Mishal Husain was discussing the implications of the BBC’s decision to axe its Food website (since commuted to transportation to the Good Food platform, run by its commercial arm), sharp-eared listeners heard the Humph claim that fewer recipes on the web could only be a good thing. “It would make it easier!” he bellowed in the background. “We wouldn’t have to choose between so many!”

Husain also seemed puzzled as to why anyone would need more than one recipe for spaghetti bolognese – but, as any keen cook knows, you can never have too many different takes on a dish. Just as you wouldn’t want to get all your news from a single source, it would be a sad thing to eat the same bolognese for the rest of your life. Sometimes only a molto autentico version, as laid down by a fierce Italian donna, rich with tradition and chopped liver, will do – and sometimes, though you would never admit it in a national magazine, you crave the comfort of your mum’s spag bol with grated cheddar.

The world wouldn’t starve without BBC Food’s collection but, given that an online search for “spaghetti bolognese recipe” turns up about a million results, it would have been sad to have lost one of the internet’s more trustworthy sources of information. As someone who spends a large part of each week researching and testing recipes, I can assure you that genuinely reliable ones are rarer than decent chips after closing time. But although it is certainly the only place you’ll find the Most Haunted host Yvette Fielding’s kedgeree alongside Heston Blumenthal’s snail porridge, the BBC website is not the only one that is worth your time.

The good thing about newspaper, magazine and other commercial platforms is that most still have just enough budget to ensure that their recipes will have been made at least twice – once by the writer and once for the accompanying photographs – though sadly the days when everyone employed an independent recipe tester are long gone. Such sites also often have sufficient traffic to generate a useful volume of comments. I never make a recipe without scrolling down to see what other people have said about it. Get past the “Can’t wait to make this!” brigade; ignore the annoying people who swap baked beans for lentils and then complain, “This is nothing like dhal”; and there’s usually some sensible advice in there, too.

But what about when you leave the safety of the big boys and venture into the no man’s land of the personal blog? How do you separate the wheat from the chaff and find a recipe that actually works? You can often tell how much work a writer has put in by the level of detail they go into: if they have indicated how many people it serves, or where to find unusual ingredients, suggested possible tweaks and credited their original sources, they have probably made the dish more than once. The photography is another handy clue. You don’t have to be Annie Leibovitz to provide a good idea of what the finished dish ought to look like.

Do a bit of digging as part of your prep. If you like the look of the rest of the site, the author’s tastes will probably chime with your own. And always, always, wherever the recipe is from, read it all the way through, even before you order the shopping. There is nothing more annoying than getting halfway through and then realising that you need a hand blender to finish the dish, just as the first guest arrives.

Above all, trust your instincts. If the cooking time seems far too short, or the salt content ridiculously high, it probably is, so keep an eye on that oven, check that casserole, keep tasting that sauce. As someone who once published a magic mince pie recipe without any sugar, I’m living proof that, occasionally, even the very best of us make mistakes. 

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad