I always thought that I would lose my memory when I got older. I could picture myself, 80-years-old, in a nursing home with too little nurses, not enough personal care. I could picture myself pulling my wasted body out of my bed, sitting in front of the TV with a blank stare in my eyes. I could see my memory slowly slipping out of my fingers like sand. I would forget about childhood memories first, then the moments of my high school years, the kisses that I wish I could have taken back, the awkward hands on my thighs. Then my wedding day would go, the way that he looked waiting for me at the altar. My children would leave me again, their faces a blur in the gray of my mind.

I used to think of losing my memory when I was a teenager. I thought that would be what I lost, like a button that perfectly matches the carpet of the floor.

I never thought I would lose my legs first.

It was the car crash that stole my legs from me. At the moment of impact, it took my breath away. There was a moment when I thought that I had died, the glass crashing in on me, shards of it in my hair. The seatbelt cut into my shoulder as I flopped forward, my head hitting the steering wheel. Bright white flashed within my brain, and then there was nothing but blackness everywhere.

I woke up from it slowly. The blackness was like water around me, sticking to all of my limbs, flooding my mouth. It tasted metallic. I woke up with a start, and the lights of the hospital room came into being around me. There was a beeping to the right of me, a sleeping figure to the left of me. I turned and saw my husband sitting in a chair, his head lolled to the side. I cleared my throat of the metallic taste, which was blood, as the fingers of my hand reported to me. Jared snapped awake, and I noticed the cuts on his face for the first time.

“What happened?” I managed to croak out.

“There was the accident,” he smiled weakly. “Everyone was safe, which was good. The other driver had their child with them. You should’ve seen them hugging...you would’ve, but you passed out.”

I nod weakly, and then motion for him to continue.

“Anyways, I just had a few cuts and bruises. Actually, a few bruised ribs. I’m fine. The driver is fine, too. I think all he had was a broken collarbone.”

I move to sit up, but I can’t feel my legs underneath the blankets. For the first time since the accident, fear floods my brain.

“And what happened to me?” I ask.

“Well uh, you passed out and I thought you were okay. There was glass everywhere. You had a broken wrist. But I thought you were okay,” he says, his voice heavy with tears. “Then the paramedics came by and they found out your legs were crushed in the wreck. They had to practically peel you out of the car.”

I pull back the covers, look at the legs laying on the sheets. There are rods everywhere. There are bruises all up and down my legs. I feel tears slip down my face, dropping into my lap. I try to move my legs but there is no response. There’s no feeling. It’s like nothing is there. It’s like I left my legs back at the crash scene.

I always thought that I would lose my memory first. I never thought that I would lost any body part. I never dreamed of getting in a crash, losing my eyesight, whatever. I just didn’t think it would happen.

But it did.

I lost my legs in a car crash seven years ago. Though I have gotten better at moving around, and although I sometimes don’t even notice my useless legs, there is not a day that I don’t think back.

There’s not a day that I don’t try to remember what it felt like. The way my toes felt in the sand, in the grass, in a soft carpet. Or the way that my legs felt when I was running, the way that my knees would lock up.

Now that I’m an old woman, I find myself worrying about what I’ll lose next. When I was fifteen, I thought I would lose my memory, but when I was 25, I lost my legs. I think I’ll probably lose a kidney.

But now that I’m an old woman, I hope I do lose my memory. That way I don’t have to remember the car rushing towards me, the glass buckling in, the steering wheel pinning my legs. That way I don’t have to remember the months of rehab, the awkward movements, the spasms of my legs.

I hope I lose my memory.

But at the same time, I don’t want to lose any more than I already have.