My road came to an unexpected halt on November 9, 2010.

That morning, I was bicycling to work when a garbage truck turned across a city bike lane. I was in that bike lane.

A team of trauma surgeons saved my life, but they had to amputate my left leg. My body and life were forever changed.

The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.

As I learned to walk again, I measured my recovery in steps and then miles. Over time that journey grew into something more -- a way of being in the world, wherever I go.

I am a person of ability and disability. I travel in the space between. These are my postcards.

Thursday, December 7, 2023

Hope Walks In

 "We've got to get you walking again," Tim says.

And just like that, hope walks in.

My prosthetic leg standing in front of a shoe rack, leaning on a dresser, plugged into my bedroom wall.
Oh, how I've missed it!

After 2 months on crutches, I tried to get my prosthesis on.

The socket didn't fit.  At all.

Socket fit is finicky, I know.  I'd been struggling with it since my earliest miles as an amputee.   

Still, I'd been anticipating this moment -- easing my little leg gently into the prosthesis, standing on my own "two feet" again.  

Even if it wasn't quite perfect -- I knew it wouldn't be -- it would still be the first step to feeling like my old self.  (Well, my old "new" self anyway.)

When it didn't fit at all, I sat on the edge of my bed and cried.


Six days later -- somewhere around Mile 12,145 -- I arrive at Prosthetic Innovations

I crutch through the parking lot heavily, weighed down by all that has changed.

But Prosthetist Tim isn't deterred.  In fact, he seems happy to see me.  

I tell him about the fall, and how bruised my leg was afterward. 

"It probably looked like your shirt," he says.

I glance down at my tie-dye t-shirt, splotches of blue and purple and gold and green.  

Yep.  I laugh. 

It's good to be back.

Tim gets out his measuring tape and loops it around my leg.  

It's still swollen from the fall.  Or maybe its shape has just changed from the injury.  Whatever the cause, it measures 3 1/2 cm larger than it used to.  No wonder my prosthesis doesn't fit.

Tim brings out a pull-bag, a surefire method to get into an extra tight socket.  I slide it over my liner.  

We try again -- together -- to get my prosthesis on.

For a split second, I think it'll work.  (Things usually work here, even when they don't at home!)

But... Nope.

I feel the shadow of discouragement.

"We've got to get you walking again," Tim says.

And with those words, my insides light up. 

He has a plan.  

He'll make me a new socket.  Maybe temporary.  Maybe not.  One that will fit my leg now, not as it used to be.

The SOONER the BETTER, he says.

I am 100% in.

We go into the casting room.  
Wrap my leg in plastic.  
Don the funny shorts.  

Me, in the casting room, wearing a pair of off-white knitted casting shorts.
Flashback to Mile 2,015.
They're always in style!

The drill is familiar -- and filled with hope.

The cast will become a mold for a test-socket, which'll be modified as many times as necessary until it captures the new shape of my residual limb.

I loved my old socket, with its soft magenta interior and butterfly on the side.  It had carried me through a lot.

But maybe letting it go -- at least for now -- is the ticket to move forward.


Socket fit is a multi-step, patience-draining, fine-tuning process.  

In my earliest miles with a prosthesis, my dad drove me back and forth to Prosthetic Innovations for fittings and adjustments.  

I always felt down beforehand.  
And up afterward.

It became a joke between us --

I didn't just get a leg adjustment
I got an attitude adjustment too.

Me, standing in parallel bars, with my first prosthetic leg in February 2011.
Lucky for us,
they were buy one, get one free!

This time around I know what to expect.  

The journey back to "two feet" is not going to be simple.  It will likely be uncomfortable, maybe even painful at first.  I'll have to rebuild my strength and tolerance.  

It will require perseverance, flexibility, and adjustment -- in both leg and attitude. :)

A selfie of me, in tie-dye shirt, in front of a Christmas tree, a mannequin with a prosthetic arm and leg, and a banner than says "Welcome to the Next Level" at Prosthetic Innovations.
Casting is just the first step.

But I know about first steps too.

And this one feels like a HOPEFUL start.

Walk on,
Rebecca


Wednesday, November 22, 2023

Keep Rising

Greetings from Mile 12,142 --

My kitchen is a mess, and I'm the happiest I've been in months.

A pile of pumpkin-cranberry muffins with a little figurine on top -- it's a cat baker holding a baguette on top of a "bakery" sandwich sign.

I'd almost forgotten the power -- and joy -- of baking!

Remember Angry Cookies?  
And Cookie Apocalypse?
And not knowing what to do, but wanting to do something?

Whenever I faced a tough patch, baking always helped get me through. 

I've been off-balance lately -- physically and emotionally -- hobbling around in a "boot" and on crutches.  

Everything is a multistep process these days:  getting ready for work, collecting the mail, traveling from Point A to Point B.  I've become better at planning, more practiced at problem-solving.  Steadier with a backpack.  

But still, it's exhausting.  And laced with loss.

I'm grateful to my body for rising to the challenge -- for doing what's required -- but that's usually all I can manage.

I had written off baking completely.  

It just wasn't worth the energy.


Two weeks after my dad's funeral, my mom and I travel to Vermont.  

I plan the trip and do the driving.
Mom is the Sherpa, lugging everything except my backpack.  
(She's small but mighty!) 

We're going to visit my sister Sam and her family, a trip we've made dozens of times over the years, usually with Dad in the driver's seat.

In Danbury, we pass his favorite stop, the Blue Colony Diner.  We start to text him a photo, and then realize we can't.  When we reach Springfield, we want to tell him we've arrived.  The car feels empty without him.  

This trip is different.  Everything is different.

Maybe for that reason, we divert from our usual path.

Instead of connecting to I-89 at White River Junction, we drive 20 more miles up I-91 to a place I've never been but have always aspired to go...

The King Arthur Baking Company sign with a blue, cloud-filled sky behind, and the greenery of mountains.
King Arthur Baking Company --
the headquarters!

To our surprise (and my delight) it's fully accessible. 

The parking spaces are close. 
The doors are automatic.  
The restrooms are roomy.  
The floors are smooth.

That's as close to effortless as it gets on crutches!

Me, on crutches and one leg, in front of the King Arthur doors, which bear the sign "WELCOME" above.
I feel absolutely welcome!!

The staff is friendly, helpful, and smiling. The café barista wears a sweatshirt emblazoned with the words...

KEEP RISING.

It's a fun diversion -- and exactly the message we "knead." :)  

We treat ourselves to true Vermont fare:  fig and brie on a homemade baguette, a fall salad with maple dressing, steaming cups of cider with biodegradable lids.  

The wood-trimmed cafe counter, with blackboards hanging behind, and various pastries in the cases.

Then we poke around the factory store.  It's full retail therapy wrapped in the aroma of baking bread.  

My little mom in front of the King Arthur logo on a gray wall, pushing a shopping cart with 3 bags inside.
Mom does all the carting and carrying!

I'm on my feet (well, foot) for quite a while.  We both are.  But it's not exhausting.  

It's renewing.

Two hours later, we meet up with our favorite Vermonters.  

A selfie of me, my 2 nieces, my nephew, and my sister.
They don't even notice the delay!


Back at home, I start counting miles again, picking up where I left off almost 2 months ago.

At Mile 12,142, I decide it's time to get back to baking.

I scoot around the kitchen on my wheelie stool.
Pivot on one foot to pull out the ingredients.  
Stand when I need more leverage.

I thought I couldn't bake without my prosthesis on, but it turns out I can...

It's just different. 

I plan out each step.  Try to be organized.  Stand up.  Sit down.  Stand up again.

It's a multistep process, but it's not exhausting.  

It's an exhilarating diversion -- one I want to do, not have to do.

The counter swirls with its messiest storm in months: canned pumpkin, bright red cranberries, granulated sugar, sifted flour, shakers of cinnamon, ginger, and cloves.   

I reunite with my bowls and cups and wooden spoons like old friends.

My kitchen counter covered with bowls, measuring spoons, and many ingredients.
The kitchen fills with the warmth of fall.

I measure and stir and crack a few eggs.  
Drip oil down my sleeve.  
Drop wrappers on the floor.
Crush crumbs with the wheels of my stool.

My hands are busy.  My mind is focused.
Disorder becomes order.  

And that mess on the kitchen counter?  

It rises into something new, and nourishing, and beautiful.

A baked, golden pumpkin-cranberry bread on a metal cooling rack.
A pumpkin-cranberry bread
to share, gratefully, with friends.

Making time for who and what we love is always worth the trip.

Me, with crutches, standing next to a sign at King Arthur Baking Company that says, "We are Bakers."
KEEP RISING. 

Wishing you a happy and healthy Thanksgiving!

Bake on,
Rebecca

P.S.  Recipe here:  Pumpkin-Cranberry Bread


Saturday, November 11, 2023

The Hardest Miles of All

I've lost track of the miles.

I haven't worn my prosthetic leg in a month.

But today I roll the liner on.  

Hey, it's a start.  One step closer to moving again. 

Confidence bolstered, I tuck a travel mug into my crutch bag.  Balance on one leg and lock the door behind me.  Take the elevator down.  

I open the first door to the lobby.  I've mastered a maneuver I call the "one-handed hop-thru."  A crutch dangles from my forearm.  

Then -- before I can change my mind -- I push through the second door too, and hop out onto the sidewalk.  Quick.  Like pulling off a band-aid. 

Here I go!

Crutch, step.  Crutch, step. 

One city block down Arch Street.  On my own.

With a ridiculous amount of courage, I make it to Starbucks.

A selfie of me and my friend Richard in Starbucks. Richard is waving.
Richard treats me to my first coffee in a long time.
And I am ridiculously proud of myself.

This is it, I think.  I'm moving again!

-----

Mile 12,141 was my last noticeable mileage. 

It happened toward the end of September.  Back then -- maybe you remember -- I was limping around on a stress-fractured right foot.  

I relied on my car to get around.  I wore a boot on my right leg and a prosthetic on my left.  My longest walk was in and out of the hospital, where my dad was a patient.

I ignored my own discomfort, minor in comparison.

----

On October 9, my dad passed away.  

And I haven't counted miles since.

My dad was my very first walking partner -- both before and after my accident.

A very young dad, in black rimmed glasses, holding me as an infant.

This blog is filled with our walks...

He's pushing me, a sleepless infant, in a baby carriage,
Or around the block, post-surgery, in a wheelchair.

He's with me on my earliest miles with a prosthesis

and behind the scenes
at Flyers games.
He guided me through easy days and hard ones.

He accompanied me on adventures...

to find prosthetics in the least likely places!

He taught me to drive, took me on road trips, and helped me buy cars

A selfie of Dad and me in the front seat of the car.
He drove me to
many (many!) appointments.

All along, he let me pave my own path -- and then he ran defense, removing every obstacle in my way. 

My dad standing over me, with my mom sitting next to me, as I lay in a bed in the ICU.
No matter what challenges our family faced,
my dad knew what steps to take.

And always -- even through his own long illness -- he held onto HOPE.

So did we.

----

The day he died, I lost my balance.

I was at my parents' house with the whole family.  At sunset, I went out to move my car into the driveway. 

It was the new car we'd picked out together
from his hospital room.

We stayed up all night by his bedside.  I took off my prosthesis at midnight.  

We lost him two hours later.

As the sun rose, I went downstairs on crutches to email my job and let them know I wouldn't be in.  I sat down at the laptop and typed:

My dad passed away early this morning.  

The words came out on autopilot, like when you walk without realizing how lucky you are. 

I hit send.  

Then, as I stood up and reached for my crutches, I lost my balance.

And fell.

I landed directly on my residual limb -- my little leg -- hitting it so hard the ceiling turned to stars.

I haven't been able to wear my prosthesis since.

I miss my dad.
I miss my leg.  
I miss walking.

I know these things aren't equal, but in the brokenness, they've become intertwined.  

----

I make it home safely with my coffee.  

Set the travel mug on the kitchen counter.
Crutch into the bedroom.

Gently, I roll off my prosthetic liner.  Phew!

I just can't tolerate it yet.  My little leg aches from the pressure and rubbing.  My femur is still so sore.  

I spray some alcohol on the liner to clean it.  And that's when it occurs to me:

The last time I did this was exactly one month ago -- at midnight.  

My dad was in the next room.  

Still alive.

I feel his fingers in mine.  
See his smile.
Hear his voice.  
Smell his aftershave.

The thoughts are both fragile and flooding.

This whole month, I've been struggling to keep moving, with or without my leg.  I've been pushing forward -- full speed ahead -- determined to get back to the way things were before. 

But in this moment, I realize that's not what I need.

I need to pause.  Where I am.  

To think about him. 
Remember him.
Write about him.

I need to take time to feel my dad's absence -- and miss him -- with all my body and heart.

It's been a long journey, but these are the hardest miles of all.

----

November 9 was my "Alive Day."  

It marked 13 years since the accident -- and one month without my dad.

In the days ahead, I'll think about our walks together, keep the memories close, and wish he were here.

I'll make time for what's important.  And give myself space to breathe.

I'll take small steps, slowly and slightly off-balance.  Mostly for coffee.  

And as I navigate the sidewalk, I will remember how lucky I am to be out.  Walking.  On one leg or two.

I don't know what this next year will bring. 

But I will hold onto HOPE.  Always.  

Just like he did.

My dad and I outside a football stadium.  He's wearing Penn State gear and I'm wearing Northwestern.
Love you, Dad.
Miss you, Dad.
xo,
Rebecca

Monday, September 4, 2023

Happy(er)

Beep beep! from Mile Marker 12,111...

On our first ride together, I can't find the odometer.  

Then I see this two-digit number at the bottom of the dash.

40 mi.

40 miles?  For this trip?  

Nope.  Just 40 miles. 

Total. 

That's the odometer -- haha!

It's the first smile we share. :)

Me standing in front of a red Hyundai Venue, a small SUV with a silver roof rack.
Happy new car!

Screech!  Reverse...

I did not want to get a new car.   

Or a new microwave.  Or a new toilet.  

I did not want my apartment's HVAC to clink and clank like there's a ping pong ball in the pipes. 

I did not want to send my prosthesis in for maintenance the week before I left for Paris.  And I definitely did not want to brew a stress fracture in my right foot (a.k.a. real foot) the week I returned.

I haven't walked in more than a month, aside from what's absolutely necessary.  Do I sound irritable?  I'm irritable.

Morning miles were a way to shape my day.  
Without them, I've lost some momentum.

In the world of illness and injury, these are all small things. 

I know.  I get it.

But they happen in the context of bigger things. 


A few weeks ago, I heard this line on a StoryCorps podcast:

Always look where you want to go, not where you want to avoid.

It was advice from a dad to his son, who was learning to drive.  

It made me realize how much I've been focusing on what I want to avoid these days -- pain, struggle, frustration, anger, fatigue -- all those sensations we feel when things (big or small) break down and pile up.  Some days, all I can think about is what's broken.

But dads are wise.  

Especially when it comes to cars.


At Mile 12,111, I wake up early, with fresh perspective and new energy.

It's Labor Day.  
September.  
(Old teaching habits live on.)

And I have this thought:

Not everything is happy, but could I make things a little... happier?

Instead of a sluggish start at home, I rush through my routine, get my leg on, and go out.

Walk (or limp) into the parking garage. 
Get in the car. 
Drive to CVS.

It's a mere 2 blocks from the apartment -- somewhere I used to walk -- but hey, who's counting?  

I hobble in for a quick errand.  And then, the magic happens.

My new car and I conjure up the tiniest little adventure. 

My car's dashboard, with the 100 mi. on the odometer circled in a heart.
'Cause we've gotta celebrate Mile 100! 

We drive to the Italian Market, where Gleaner's CafĂ© has just opened.  

It's my old favorite coffee spot -- one I can only reach on 4 wheels.

I pull out my coffee card and realize I've earned a free cup.  Better yet, I snag one of the last Hershey's Kisses in Gleaner's history!

A small coffee in a paper cup with a Hershey's Kiss next to it on the counter at Gleaner's Café
Woo-hoo!

It's a small happy thing -- which makes me think of other happy things, big and small.

Through all the obstacles this summer, I'm grateful for family and friends who've come to my rescue and supported me along the way.  

I picked up my new car on September 1.  

I chose her carefully with love and guidance from -- you guessed it -- my dad.

And maybe it sounds silly, but...

A selfie of me holding a coffee with a Hershey's Kiss on top in front of my new red car.
I think she's HAPPY to be mine!

Drive safe. Be happy(er).
Rebecca


Sunday, August 13, 2023

Where Would You Walk?

Mile Marker 12,072:

I'm grounded at home this weekend.

I was supposed to be visiting my favorite Vermonters. I'd bought an airline ticket and everything!

Then, out of nowhere, my right foot starts aching.  

My feet in Tevo sandals - one prosthetic, one real - toenails painted pink.
(Yes... the real one.)

Technically, it isn't out of nowhere.  

I often get right foot pain, especially at the end of the day.  Sometimes my knee swells, or my ankle, or both.  Like most unilateral amputees, I depend on my "sound side" for balance and performance.  A solid step with my right leg makes my prosthetic knee bend more fluently -- and my gait more natural.  Plus, you can't wear a prosthesis 24/7.  When I take my leg off, my sound side does 100% of the work. 

It's called "overuse."

At first, it's just a pang when I step down on the ball of my foot.  I ignore it and keep walking. 

But a few days later, I can barely bear weight.

Cue the alarms.  

I NEED TO PROTECT MY RIGHT FOOT.  
IT'S THE ONLY ONE I HAVE.

(This has happened before, but I don't want to think about it.  If you want, you can read about it here.) 

And so... 

Twenty-four hours before departure, I make the best -- and only -- decision for my body.  

I cancel the whole trip.  

At that very moment, an article lands in my inbox: 

The Most Walkable City on Each Continent.

Cruel joke?  Maybe.

I click on it anyway.

While I'm on hold with the airline, I open up Kayak and plug in the recommended cities.

  • Boston
  • Madrid
  • Marrakech
  • Buenos Aires
  • Wellington
  • Hoi An

Just for kicks, I set my travel dates for September.  (It's my fantasy, so why not celebrate my birthday in Spain?)

I imagine an epic, multi-city, around-the-world trip for the sole purpose (pun intended) of doing the one thing I cannot do at this very moment.

WALK.

A screenshot of a flight itinerary from Kayak - with the price $2,772.
Hey, it's cheaper than you'd think!

Dreaming of travel has always been a coping mechanism for me. 

Years ago, I'd spend lunchtimes at work scrolling through "E-saver" flights and "Travelzoo" discounts.  (Remember those?)

In the months after the accident, when I sat teary-eyed in my therapist's office -- certain I'd "never go anywhere ever again" -- she encouraged me to hop on over to Amazon and find books that would take me places.

A hardcover cookbook - Around my French Table, by Dorie Greenspan
I ordered this one first --
And it was too heavy to lift on my crutches!

Later, 400 miles into this journey -- recovering from yet another surgery -- I wrote my own Walking Wish List.  

All the places I'd walk IF or WHEN I could...

Click here to see it.

Me, in a wheelchair, after revision surgery on my leg, holding up Mile signs "416" and "417"
Now, I'm amazed at how many
of those boxes I've checked off!!

Eventually the American Airlines rep takes me off hold.  

She adjusts my flight plans without a penalty.  My Airbnb host is equally understanding.  It reminds me of the kindness I encounter whenever I travel.

Today, there will be no morning miles.  I'll conserve my limited "foot time" for basic activities at home.

I hobble around the kitchen like a robot crossed with a baby deer.  

I brew a pot of coffee my friend Priti brought back from India.

A bag of "Tulum" coffee from India.

I open up biscuits and jam from our neighborhood in Paris.

Two tiny containers of jam next to a box of biscuits that says "Bio" (organic), from Paris.

I spoon out granola from my favorite local coffee shop.

A brown bag of granola from Old City Coffee.

Then I gather up everything and limp out to the balcony,

A view of my feet resting on a balcony chair - the left prosthetic, the right in a sock with a sneaker sitting next to it.
where I gingerly remove my right shoe.

Less than 70 miles ago, I was exploring Paris on foot -- not quite easily, but filled with joie de vivre!  

And now... I'm HERE.

It's hard to reconcile these two truths.  

I have a disability that's both permanent and variable.  It's who I am as a traveler.  

Slow or fast.
Near or far.

Walking, like health, is the most fragile of privileges.

Of all the places to be grounded at Mile 12,072,

A view of the sky over Old City Philly from my balcony.  It is reflected in the windows of my building.
I am extra grateful for this
corner of the sky.

Fingers (and 5 toes) crossed, there'll be many miles ahead. 

I'm open to ideas.

Where would you walk?
Rebecca

Tuesday, August 8, 2023

Perhaps... Paris

Bonjour from Mile 12,062!

A café table in Philly - with my red journal, plastic containers of tomato soup and a sandwich, and a silver water bottle.
Perhaps I'm in Paris...

Sure, I'm eating out of plastic containers, but I'm using real silverware!

Plus, the pesto is homemade, and I'm pretty sure the gazpacho is purĂ©ed with local tomatoes. 

Normally I'd just grab takeout.  But I'm determined to keep up the Paris vibe, which includes taking time out -- to eat, breathe, and write.

I open my pocket journal, which I found in a bin at CĂ©st Deux Euros, the Parisian equivalent of a dollar store.

In the spirit of Paris, I start "perhapsing." 

Perhapsing is a technique I learned in my travel memoir class --  a method of filling in sketchy details and unknowns with our own speculations.  It's entirely "legal," as long as I tell you I'm perhapsing.  

So, I am. :)

It was one of my favorite exercises of the week.

Picture this:  One afternoon in the Jardin du Palais Royal, a blur of pink catches my eye.

A young girl in a pink sweat jacket, jumping off a pillar in the Jardin du Palais Royale.
At first, she's just a dramatic photo from afar!

But then I move in.  Park myself on a pillar nearby.

(Far enough to be discreet, close enough to be within earshot.)

She and her parents are positioned in the shape of a scalene triangle.  

Mom is closer to her, more engaged.  
Dad sits farther back, on his phone.

They're speaking in Spanish (I think), so perhapsing is my only option.  I observe -- and put the clues together.

"Mommy, watch!"

"One!" Cartwheel.  
"Two!" Cartwheel.  
"Three!" Cartwheel.

She cascades across the courtyard.  Mom laughs.

Dad looks up.  Smiles.  Goes back to his phone.

She scrambles onto a pillar, pink sweatshirt flapping behind.  

Mom poises her camera.

The girl shoots a peace sign.
Puts her hands on her hips.
Strikes a disco move -- Travolta-like -- pointing to the sky.

Mom snaps, and snaps, and snaps.

Dad looks up.  Smiles.  Goes back to his phone.

Mother and daughter huddle together -- a curtain of long hair -- as Mom flips through the photos.

Then the girl skips to her father.  Pokes her head between his face and his phone.

"Daddy, did you take a photo?"

He looks up.  Smiles.  Pecks her on the cheek.

I scribble in my journal so I won't forget this moment and this place, this perhapsed dialogue, and all the details I've perhapsed about this family.

It's just an exercise, but it's opened up a world to me.

A building and metal bubble-like sculpture in the Jardin du Palais Royale.
Au revoir, Palais Royal!

At Mile 12,062, I'm back in Philly -- and a world away.

The couple next to me is discussing Scandinavian cake, with a plastic bag of peanuts sitting between them on the table.  

It's odd on both counts.  

We're at Talula's Daily, which serves neither Scandinavian cake nor peanuts.

I listen in -- and start perhapsing.  (Perhaps the man's name is Herb...)

"I'm thinking of a simple dessert, like a Scandinavian cake," his wife says.

Herb nods, nudging the bag of peanuts with his finger.  

"Well, what do you think of that?"

He pauses.  "I just don't think you have to try so hard."

"She's young.  She's having health problems."

"So?"

"So a Scandinavian cake isn't hard.  You can just serve it with some light cream or lemon.  She used to work at the hospital, you know."

Herb touches the knot on the bag.  He wants to open it, but now that she's shifted from cake to health problems, he isn't sure.  

"You mind?" he says.

She sighs.  "Whatever you want.  I'm very agreeable today."

Perhaps they're going to visit their daughter's friend, the one with health problems.  Perhaps their own daughter is traveling (perhaps in Paris!), and perhaps they feel guilty about that.  Perhaps Herb is missing the Phillies game, and the peanuts are as close as he can get. 

For perhaps a half hour, I am transported from this table in Philly to a graceful café in the center of Paris.

My lovely lunch at the Royal Opera Café - a salad with roasted potatoes, tomatoes, and walnuts, topped with goat cheese crepes.  Behind my plate is a red wine bottle filled with water and a glass of apricot juice.  Two bicycles are parked by the street beyond the table.
It's a good place to be.

I look up from my journal.

It's unseasonably cool for Philly, with a mask of clouds and a breeze that feels like rain.  

Perhaps I've brought this weather back from Paris.  

I get up to leave.  

Then, in a unwelcome burst of reality, my leg bumps the chair -- metal on metal -- and my elbow knocks the fork handle, the one that's balanced on the edge of the plastic container.  

And the whole thing -- sandwich and all -- nearly catapults to the ground.  

By some miracle, I catch it.

I'm not graceful, and this isn't Paris...

I'm standing on a concrete pillar in the Jardin du Palais Royale in a black dress and red jacket, with a palatial buiding and the French flag behind me.

Perhaps... I'm still me. :)

Walk on,
Rebecca

Thursday, August 3, 2023

Thank You Jefferson First-Years!

Mile Marker 12,050:

New students.
White coats.

I'm standing in the center of an auditorium full of medical students in white coats.
So much hope and promise in one room!

At Jefferson University, Medical School begins with listening to patient stories.  

It's hard to express how much this means to me.  

There's nothing quite like a doctor who listens.  (I learned this from my own medical team!)

It eases pain and anxiety.  
It builds relationships and trust.
It makes all the difference.

I've been a "patient speaker" in this class for several years, yet it always has an impact on me.

I admire the journey of these "first-year" students.  I'm amazed by the questions they ask.  I'm awed by their insight, not as doctors (just yet!), but as fellow humans with their own life experience that inspired them to take this path. 

It's a full auditorium today.  

Me being interviewed at a table by a doctor with a white coat.
Dr. McNett interviews me.

As I look out across that sea of white coats, I imagine my story landing gently -- like a small stone -- and rippling outward, as if the care I received from my own doctors could touch future patients and families.

It's an honor to share my story with these students.

Especially because they're listening

Thank you for the warm welcome, Class of 2027!  

I know you'll make a difference in the lives of your patients.

You've already made a difference in mine.

Walk on,
Rebecca

Tuesday, August 1, 2023

A Toast to Paris - and My Peloton!

Mile Marker 12,030:

When my plane lands, my iPhone automatically resets itself to Philadelphia time. 

The next morning, in a haze of jetlag and dreams, I manually reset my Swatch.  An hour later, I realize I've moved the clock's hands but accidentally set them on Paris time, again. 

It feels good to be home...

A selfie of me (in the foreground) and my parents and brother, with an American flag in the background.
...especially when my family surprises me
in the arrival hall of the airport!

But I'm not quite ready to let go of Paris.

In the next few postcards, I'll be sharing some work from my Travel Memoir class, as I learned to capture Paris on the page.

On our last day of class, we were assigned to write an ode, eulogy, or toast about our Paris experience, to be shared at a farewell party that evening.

A group of us at a long restaurant table, glasses raised in a toast.
Thanks to classmate Joe for this photo!

I chose to do a toast.  

Here it is (lightly edited)...

Bonsoir everyone!

On my first morning in Paris, I got lost for 3 hours -- just 5 minutes from the door of my apartment.  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get oriented or find my way home.

On my second day in Paris -- which was Day 1 of our class -- I stopped to admire a single red rose petal, which someone had dropped on the top step of the Metro.

It had been a long, full day with more walking than I'm used to, and I was exhausted.  

While commuters rushed past me up the stairs, one after the other, I paused on every step to rest my legs. 

I felt like that rose petal, left behind in a city that moved too fast. 

Would I be able to keep up with the pace of Paris -- and my "able-bodied" classmates?  

I knew it wouldn't be easy for me.  I'd been preparing for this trip all year.

This included walking 16 blocks to and from work, which, I predicted, would be the distance from my Paris apartment to our classroom building.  It was the first time I'd walked to work since my amputation 12 years ago.

My friends joked that I was training for the Tour de France.  

(And they weren't far off!)

On Days 2 and 3, Paris picked up the pace. 

I nearly got trapped in a turn style at the Pyramides Metro.  I wrote about a Spanish family in the Jardin du Palais Royal.  I gave up my seat at a sidewalk cafĂ© for a family of 11 from Boston -- and ended up next to a family of Japanese Youtubers, dramatically unboxing a cheesecake.

Along the way, I settled into our classroom space, aptly called a "Cocoon."

There, I was swept up by the momentum of all of YOU -- my classmates -- travelers, writers, and now friends.  Turns out, I didn't have to keep pace on my own.

You became my peloton.

By Day 4, I finally had the energy to join everyone for an evening out.  

As [new friend] Kim and I walked through the Parisian drizzle to the Metro together, I spied -- not just one petal -- but a whole bouquet of roses, scattered along the wet pavement.

A smattering of rose petals and stems on the wet sidewalk of Paris.
This time, I wasn't the only one
who stopped to admire it!

Tonight, on our last night together, this is a toast to MOVING ON.

Not toward a finish line or to writing "the end" -- but to new beginnings, new travels, and new friends.

To moving forward in whatever directions we choose, with creativity and companionship...

A photo of our writing class, standing shoulder to shoulder, arms around each other, in a bright classroom space with large windows.
...TOGETHER.

Ă€ bientĂ´t, Paris.

Je t'aime!
Rebecca

P.S.  Merci beaucoup to our leaders Rolf, Diane, & Kiki -- and my peloton -- for a Tour de France I'll never forget!