When Joanna tripped on the stairs, it led to years of agony. Then she made a shocking decision…
Cradling my baby boy, I climbed the stairs of my new home.
Matthew was six months old, and he giggled as I reached the top and began to show him round.
‘And this is your bedroom,’ I beamed.
Just a week earlier, I’d moved into the house and reckoned it would be the perfect home for me, Matthew, and my older boy, Nathan, seven.
The sound of a hammer came from another bedroom, and I carried Matthew into the room.
His grandad, my ex’s dad, was building a wardrobe for us.
‘That looks great,’ I said to him.
I turned and headed down the stairs, still holding Matthew.
He babbled contentedly and I smiled back at his cherubic face.
But, as I neared the bottom of the stairs, suddenly my foot missed a step.
Flailing through the air, I instinctively hung on to Matthew protectively, as I crashed to the floor.
I landed on the carpet and Matthew burst into howls.
But I’d shielded him during the fall — thankfully, it was merely the shock of the tumble which had made him cry.
Matthew’s dad — who had been downstairs — ran over and took him from my arms.
What if I’d dropped him? I fretted.
But my relief at seeing Matthew unharmed was soon replaced by a searing pain in my legs and ankles.
I’d landed awkwardly.
Slowly, I tried to manoeuvre my left leg forward, but gasped in agony as pain wrenched through my limbs.
‘I can’t move,’ I winced.
I was still in a heap when paramedics arrived.
'You could have lost your foot'
They gave me morphine and, once I reached hospital, I was sedated.
Opening my eyes, I saw casts on both my legs.
My right ankle had been put back into place after it had been dislocated.
But the worst damage had been done to my left leg.
‘The blood supply was cut off at your ankle,’ said a doctor. ‘You could have lost your foot.’
The bones in my leg, ankle and foot had been smashed into dozens of pieces.
Like a jigsaw, the surgeon threaded them back together with metal rods and screws.
Fifteen days later, I went home and lay in bed with intense pain for four months, one leg still encased in a cast and the other in a protective boot.
The boys’ dad and grandad came to look after them.
‘You’ll develop arthritis early,’ warned the doctor.
I had to learn to walk again, and had suffered muscle wastage.
The agony persisted, and I could barely put weight on my left leg without pain shooting through it.
And it failed to go away — a second operation one year later, to remove some of the screws and a plate, made no difference.
I couldn’t tolerate the pain enough to stand in the kitchen to make a cuppa.
‘I can barely walk at all,’ I told my doctor.
I was missing out on so much with my boys.
Once, in Asda, I collapsed after my leg had given way under me.
I’d been a keen runner before the accident and yearned to run again.
A third operation — this time an ankle fusion — was planned two years after my fall.
‘I’ll be able to come and feed the ducks with you,’ I said to Matthew excitedly, as I waved him off with his dad.
But the surgery made the pain even worse.
‘I can’t be a proper mother to my boys,’ I sobbed to their dad.
I had to grit my teeth and smile through the agony, as I watched Nathan play Joseph in the school nativity play.
Was I going to be in pain for the rest of my life?
Was there another solution?
'I can't be a proper mother'
Head bent over the keyboard, I began to search for people like me.
Reading their stories and listening to their words, I began to think there could be an alternative to the lifelong pain I was now facing.
Yet the alternative was extreme — there’d be no going back.
I limped into the kitchen.
How much would I like to be able to stand up, free of the agony, long enough to rustle up a mouth-watering curry from scratch?
Instead, wobbling, I propped myself against the bench and shoved a ready-meal into the microwave.
Next day, I returned to the computer, reading and mulling over what I had in mind.
I made an appointment with the GP and outlined my idea.
‘Can I have it done?’ I asked.
His reply?
A loud laugh.
My heart sank.
My suggestion had been instantly dismissed.
Back home, I refused to get demoralised.
I searched for another doctor and, this time, paid £200 for a private consultation.
Scans showed I now had severe arthritis.
After listening to me, he nodded his head.
‘I agree with you,’ he said. ‘I think it’s the best thing to do.’
He referred me to a surgeon.
At 4.30am, five years after I’d fallen down the stairs, I lay awake, nervous.
And in the hospital just hours later, I gazed at my leg for a long time.
I’m not changing my mind, I resolved.
Then I was wheeled away.
Later, I groggily peeled open my eyes.
What could I feel?
Nothing.
My heart leapt with joy.
I concentrated again, just to make sure.
Nope. Nothing.
The pain was gone!
For the first time in five years, there were no sharp bursts of pain or nagging aches.
The extreme solution had worked.
I breathed out in relief — I’d made the right choice.
That choice was to have my left leg amputated just below my knee.
I left hospital in a wheelchair, but was armed with crutches to help me get around until a prosthetic could be fitted.
My mood soared because my days were no longer soured by pain.
Two months later, I went into the kitchen with my crutches.
‘They’re ready,’ I shouted to the boys later.
On a plate lay warm brownies — the first batch I’d been able to bake for five years.
I smiled happily as the pair of them wolfed them down, grinning from ear to ear.
I’d missed this so much.
Fired up on the food front, I began to roll out home-made pies and curries.
And as my leg healed, I took up housework enthusiastically.
The freedom of being able to swish around a duster and clean up was uplifting.
However, I avoided the vacuuming because I didn’t trust my balance.
Six months after the amputation, I was fitted with a prosthetic leg.
And my confidence soared.
But best of all?
‘Come on, Matthew,’ I called. ‘Time to go.’
Half an hour later, the pair of us giggled as the ducks squawked and fought to grab the breadcrumbs we chucked in their direction.
So many times I’d been forced to sit at home, as somebody else had taken my youngest boy to the park.
Now I was no longer excluded from the fun.
I’m relishing my new life, and am raising money for a special running prosthetic.
Joining in with my boys is something I’d thought might never happen again.
I lost my leg but found a wonderful life.
Joanna Barry, 34, Widnes, Cheshire
To donate to Joanna’s fund visit: gofundme.com/f/help-joanna-get-a-prosthetic-running-leg