'I was 11 when my life changed forever'

As I struggled to open eyes that had not seen the light in two days, I found myself lying in a bed in a glass-encased room. Nurses and doctors stood around me writing words on yellow pads. A woman pointed bright flashlights into my sensitive eyes. Suddenly, I sat up, looking for my mother. She walked in. I cried, half-screaming, "What happened?"

My mother stared into my watery eyes and told me: "Jacqueline, we were in a bad car accident, and you were thrown from the van."

I looked to my right and then to my left. That's when I noticed that a part of me was missing. I stared at the off-white gauze that so delicately covered what was once my whole left arm.

I searched for my arm, but it wasn't there, and the tears fell like heavy balls of rain. I couldn't get hold of myself. I looked at my mother and pointed and mumbled. She said, "Yeah baby, your arm is gone."

I was 11 years old when I lost my arm and my life changed forever. Once I lost it, I am certain now, society stamped me as handicapped and disabled. Though I never accepted that, there were times in the next 11 years when I thought I might give in.

People stared and whispered. Because I was young, I wasn't sure how to respond. I watched people's lips turn up and their eyes get big as I walked around department stores with my "little arm" hanging out from under my vulgar T-shirt. Instead of getting angry, I grew sad. I stopped walking in stores with confidence and instead, walked with fear. I lost a sense of myself.

That loss began, in some way, immediately after I was released from the hospital, a month after the accident. I had to go to Walgreens to fill a prescription. I walked in like nothing was missing, feeling whole, complete, confident. I happened upon a woman and her three children. Suddenly, the kids yelped and screamed, as if they were running from something. They were running -- from me.

One of the children, a little boy, looked up at his mother with tears in his eyes: "Ma, she's scaring me. She ain't got no arm."

His mother looked at him, half smiled and walked away. My mouth hung open and my eyes flooded with tears. I tried to cover my arm, but people still noticed. An elderly woman looked and pointed as she chit-chatted with an employee. I walked out.

My pride was crushed that day. I remember thinking, "If this is how people will react, how would I live the rest of my life?"

My mother and my doctor had recommended that I get a prosthesis even before I left the hospital, and now I decided that I would.

One day, I walked nervously into the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago. My palms were sweaty, and I stuck close to my mother. A specialist examined my arm, then asked me to pick a color that I thought matched my skin, although none of them did. Then he plastered my arm to get a measurement.

A few weeks later, I returned to get my new arm. When I saw it, I wasn't so sure I wanted it anymore. It was dark chocolate, mechanical, hard and heavy.

I took it home and wore it for two days, but I soon discovered that people still stared. So I made a decision: I would never wear it again.

I was depressed and filled with low self-esteem. I worried about how life would be now. It scared me. I was afraid I would be an outcast. But what scared me the most was that I might spend the rest of my life alone.

My fear of the male species had increased. I was so terrified of rejection that I tried to avoid contact with them at all cost. At the same time, I wanted boys to like me, so I tried everything to get their attention. I wore provocative clothes, acted friendlier and hung around them more. They didn't seem to know I existed.

I had a big crush on a boy in my eighth-grade class named Richard. I had known him for two years. We were friends. He was sweet and kind to me even after the accident, and I developed a major crush on him. But I was afraid he would reject me because of my arm, so I never told him.

I simply didn't think I was normal, so I tried to hide it. I found that the only two places I could be myself were at home and at school.

I didn't need to hide when I was in school. My friends were supportive and so were my teachers. I didn't have to worry about being insulted and harassed. I walked around with confidence.

My friends and my family also were a blessing. They stood behind me, even if they weren't always there when I was insulted or stared at. And thanks to the strength they gave me, I began to build myself up again.

I didn't know where to start, but I knew I couldn't stay in hiding. And having decided not to wear the mechanical arm, I knew I couldn't go on feeling sorry for myself -- I would be walking around with my stump forever.

As I grew older, living without my arm got easier, and being without it has in some ways made me a better person. When I walk into stores, I no longer pay attention to peoples' ignorance -- the stares and insults.

Once, I walked into the Illinois Department of Motor Vehicles on the West Side with my sister and my mother, who had to get a new ID. We all sat down in the cracked blue chairs that lined the wall. We didn't notice the handicap sign. Soon, a woman came over and pointed a long plastic-nail-covered finger at my sister.

"You can't sit there," she said.

My sister and I got up, but before I could walk away, the lady said, "You don't have to move. You can sit there."

I didn't say a word. She didn't know better.

With growing confidence, I began to see that some people, especially kids, were sincerely interested in what had happened to my arm.

I was walking through the River Oaks Mall one day when a young, brown-skinned girl -- about 9 or 10 years old -- tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and there she stood, with an ocean of barrettes in different colors in her hair.

"Hi," she said. "What happened to your arm?"

I was puzzled by her kindness because it was always the little kids who were afraid to approach me.

I half smiled and said, "I was in a car accident and I lost my arm."

She smiled back and said, "OK," and swung her body in the other direction toward her mom.

Once I began to accept myself, others began to accept me for me.

I have chosen to stand -- my way of defining myself as neither handicapped nor disabled.

Jacqueline Sanders, who lives with her husband in the south suburbs, is a graduate student in journalism at Roosevelt University.