Read No Second Chances for Free Online Page A

was resigned to the fact that, like most of my life, I would be doing this on my own.
    I drove to the hospital and, after giving my name to the desk, took a seat in the waiting area. Glancing around at the couple of other people in the waiting room—an older man in his fifties, who was an amputee from the upper thigh and was in a wheelchair, and a younger man in his early twenties with no obvious disability—I offered them a smile. They both smiled and nodded back in recognition.
    “Gabriella Weston?”
    I turned at my name. An attractive man in his mid-forties stood in the doorway of one of the rooms which led onto the waiting room. He was a different professional than the one I’d seen previously.
    “Hi, I’m Doctor Merryweather. Would you like to come through?”
    I nodded and did my usual ungainly attempt at standing. I’d never realized before just how much having a calf muscle helped to be able to stand from sitting. The result was me looking like an old lady trying to get to her feet. The doctor made no attempt to help me, knowing this was something I needed to practice on my own. This was my life now. I couldn’t have people helping me all the time.
    “So how have you been getting on, Ms. Weston?”
    “It’s Gabi, please,” I said. “And I’ve been getting on okay.”
    He glanced at his notes. “You still have the support of your father? You’re staying with him?”
    I nodded. “That’s right.”
    “Good. It’s important you have a good support system right now.”
    I just forced a smile. What more could I do?
    “And how about dealing with the emotional side of everything you’ve been through. Have you been talking to anyone about what happened in Iraq?”
    “I had a counselor for the post traumatic stress disorder. It did help.”
    “And now?”
    I gave what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’m better now.” I glanced at my leg. “Well, mentally, anyway. Obviously, this is never going to grow back. I’m not part salamander.”
    “No, of course not.”
    My cheeks heated and I wondered when I’d learn how to control myself in public. Apparently flashing my leg and cracking jokes was the way I dealt with my disability.
    “Well, I have your new leg here to try on. We’ll assess it for size, and then make any adjustments, and you should be able to come back in a week for a final fitting.”
    I resisted the urge to clap with excitement. I was desperate to get rid of the hideous rubber which went right up to my groin and held my current limb in place. In this heat, it was so uncomfortable, there were moments when I’d considered going back in the wheelchair rather than dealing with the sweaty, horrible material. The new sleeve didn’t come anywhere near as high up my thigh, and had a type of screw attached to a disc at the end. When I pushed it into the prosthesis, it would just click into place. Being able to take my leg on and off would get a whole heap easier.
    I removed my prosthesis, and tried not to stare at my stump. It looked very different than when I’d first woken up from the explosion and discovered I’d lost my limb. Back then it had a much blunter ending, and the wound sticking my skin together had been raw. Now the stump was more pointed in shape, and the scar had faded to a red line. I still found it difficult to look at, but not as badly as I had in the early days. Back then just acknowledging what had happened sent me into a full-blown panic attack. I’d not wanted to come to terms with the fact the hideous sight was now a part of me. Plus my mind played tricks on me—and still did—making it so I could still feel my limb, especially when I was about to fall asleep, or just upon waking, so I’d have to bring myself back to reality every time I opened my eyes.
    Doctor Merryweather smiled as he examined my stump. “This is looking great,” he told me. “Some people wouldn’t be ready for this type of prosthetic for another six months, but you’ve healed