The man who was about to shoot me was already in the phone shop when I walked through the door. It was August 2015 and, having retired from my career as a counsellor at a Kansas school, I was due to start truancy volunteering the next day.

As I approached the desk, a young man stepped out waving a gun and said, “Everyone to the back room. This is what you think it is.” It was me, him and two clerks, both young women. I said “No!” more out of disbelief than defiance. But without a moment’s pause, he aimed his gun at my chest and shot me twice.

It felt as if red-hot pokers had been stuck in me. I fell to the ground and balled up. He ran out of the store and the clerks disappeared, too. I was left alone, imagining I’d bleed to death.

When a woman from the office next door came into the shop, the first thing I said to her was, “I don’t want to die!” That became my mantra. I repeated it to the paramedics, to hospital staff, as my lung collapsed and I was given 38 units of blood, and to my husband John when he arrived. I only stopped when I was put in an induced coma.

When I woke after seven days, I could see there was something badly wrong with my hands: they’d turned dark purple; my feet were in a similar condition. Much of my right lung had been removed and oxygen deprivation had damaged my limbs. Over the next few weeks, I watched my hands turn black and shrivel up. My family broke the news that all four of my limbs were going to have to be amputated. We were all crying, but I still had tubes in my throat and couldn’t speak.

I was in hospital for 114 days, and my will to survive remained strong throughout. My health insurance paid my medical bills and for a pair of prosthetic legs, while I was still hooked up to tubes. By the time I got home, I’d also been fitted with a pair of clasping hooks as hands that allowed me to perform simple tasks. But I couldn’t go to the bathroom on my own, hold a phone or even put on my own legs. John essentially became my carer.

We tried to adapt, but it put a strain on both of us. The following spring brought some hope, however, when my prosthetist, Steve Peeples, got me to try out a pair of state-of-the-art myoelectric hands. They had dozens of different grips, and let me regain much of my independence; but they cost $130,000 each and my insurance refused to pay for anything electric. Essentially, they viewed the hands as luxury items.

I practised with the hands while we fought that decision (I was the only quadruple amputee in Kansas: surely they could make an exception?) but they would not budge. John and I discussed remortgaging the house; the hands were worth more than our home.

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That October, I was at a banquet where I was honoured for my bravery. The guest speaker was Mark Holden, a senior lawyer, who after hearing my story, spoke to a Kansas congressman, who appealed to the insurers on my behalf. They would not be swayed. The next month, Mark attended the trial of the man who had shot me, who was later sentenced to 31 years for attempted manslaughter. Afterwards, Mark hugged me and said, “You’re going to get those hands.”

I had no idea how he planned to achieve that, but was glad for his support. In December, he called to ask if he could bring his wife Louise to meet me and I invited them to lunch. When they walked in with two boxes, I recognised the branding immediately: the hands I’d been practising with. “They’re yours,” Mark said. “Merry Christmas.”

I started crying. Everyone else choked up, too. It turned out Mark had been working with my prosthetist behind the scenes; he and Louise had bought my hands. They had nothing to gain, other than to help another person.

A year on, I’m still learning. I can’t dress myself properly, or make a meal (I’ll get there eventually), and I have some privacy again. I feel for those who don’t have that opportunity, when there’s technology available that could help them. It seems a basic human right.

• As told to Chris Broughton.

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