Turning the question back on kids was a neat way of deflecting it, plus their answers were always funny. In a museum one day, a boy asked whether it had fallen off in the toilet. A kid at my daughter's school asked whether a lion had eaten it. A few years back, I started to answer children by saying, "What do you think happened?" My friend's son Casper asked me whether a burglar had stolen my leg. I was hearing the same questions I used to hear when I was a kid. (The bio on our Instagram account says, "More children than working legs.") But becoming a father meant going to playgrounds again, which reminded me of how relentless children can be when they see someone who looks disabled. Since my girls have a father with one leg and a mother who uses a wheelchair, disability is completely normal for them. Taking our daughters to the playground reminded me of the questions children ask I started to question why people felt entitled to know. The contrast between our experiences made me think more consciously about the way the world responded to me. And when she was forced to explain her disability, she often wasn't believed. In a bar, no one would give up their stool for Lucy, no matter how much she needed one.
On the bus, little old ladies would jump up and offer me their spots, no matter how much I preferred to stand. Back when we met, though, Lucy looked able-bodied - she could still walk when we met - but was very limited in her mobility and stamina by constant, severe pain. And when I say "get around," I mean "go fast": I used to run (I've slowed down now, but I still play soccer on my sticks). I have an artificial leg that I use in the house, but out in public, I get around on crutches. As a through-hip, single-leg amputee, my appearance is dramatic.
While we're both disabled, our experiences of disability are very different. James and Lucy Catchpole and their two daughters.
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