Prosthetic.

I once had a grandma who loved me more than she loved herself.

You know how I know she loved me more than she loved herself?

She had a prosthetic leg.

The fact that she had a prosthetic leg is not what proves that she loved me more than she loved herself.

It’s what she did in spite of that prosthetic leg.

Because she had a prosthetic, you would automatically assume that she had an amputation. You would be correct in that assumption. My grandma had her right leg amputated up to just below the knee, when she was roughly 70 years old.

She laughed in the face of the prosthesis. She cackled at its complexity and decided that she could get along just as well without it. And she did.

I played softball for a bit of my tweenage years. I was a first basemen due to my lankiness. I had a reach. I had an extensive reach, and I was good. I could hit. I could run. And I could catch. Pretty much all you need for a good game of softball.

Grandma never missed a game.

When mom was nowhere to be found, Grandma could always be counted on for a smile and an affirming shout of congratulations.

Even after the prosthetic.

Conjure up a mental image of this and then maybe you’ll understand why I know that my grandma loved me more than she loved herself.

She would drive with one leg to my softball field. She would hop on one leg around the car to the trunk. She would balance on one leg while she pulled the wheelchair out of the trunk.

Then she would wheel herself the sometimes a hundred feet, sometime a quarter mile, to my softball field, depending on the location.

More than one foul ball has ricocheted off the frame of that wheelchair, but she never missed a game.

I once had a grandma who loved me more than she loved herself.