Progress Isn't Pass/Fail

Hello from Mile Marker 14,432...

It's been a while, I know.  So how to restart??

One, two, three, GO!

That's how I get out the door these days.

You have to start somewhere.  And otherwise, I'll sit there for hours, trying to get my socket "just right."  

Lately, there is no "just right."  There's only better and worse.  (At least prosthetically-speaking.)

Picture a balance scale -- the kind from science class.  Remember?

Always teetering.  Never quite still.  

This weighs on that.  Every adjustment causes another adjustment.

Maybe it's my body.   Maybe it's my prosthetic. 

 

Maybe it's my age, my activity level, my expectations.  Maybe it's just the weather or the moon's pull on the tide.

Who knows?

Whatever it is, it's a constant work in progress.

Lucky for me, my prosthetic team does not give up!

At my first appointment this week, Prosthetist Tim has just returned from a few days in Pittsburgh.  

"I've skated in Pittsburgh!" I say.  "It's a great city.  Hilly though!"

And just like that, I slip back into to my life BEFORE, like an old pair of skates I used to love.

I tell him about the miles I did -- 19, sometimes 20 at a stretch!  I tell him all the cities I covered, perfectly balanced on 8 inline wheels.

I scroll through the photos on my phone, letting those memories breathe again after all these years. 

I even find some from Bordeaux, France.  I almost forgot I'd skated there!

I was traveling on my own, but I'd heard there was a city skate on the last Sunday of each month.  

So I rented a pair of skates, and tossed them into the basket of a borrowed bicycle, and rode to the starting line.

That night, I learned to yell "cobblestones!" and "tracks!" and "turn left!" en francais.  I coasted through the stone streets with a hundred other skaters.  

I made new friends -- easily, effortlessly -- in a foreign language, on the fly.

That was ME!

It was 4 months before my accident.  

For some reason, in this challenging season, it feels important to share.  

Recently, a close friend of mine had a health scare.  

And while she struggled to get hold of it, we shared a few heart-to-hearts about what it's like to live this way -- between abled and disabled -- long term.

I told her a bit of what I've learned about the "New Normal" over the years.

About leaning into the direction of the day.

Canceling.  Rescheduling.

Adjusting my activities like the tipsy sides of a balance scale.

About doing mental somersaults to manage it all.

And celebrating the tiniest successes along the way.

Later, I am back at Prosthetic Innovations for a second appointment.

Another casting, another test socket.

This time, Intern Emma
has a go at it too!

The fit will be slightly different, the suspension finely-tuned.  Hopefully more dialed into my needs.

We're not exactly starting over.  We're just trying to make progress.

Progress and hope aren't that far apart.  

Hope can tip the scale too.

When I began this journey during my recovery, I measured myself against the skater I used to be. 

She was fast and agile, energetic and productive.  

She thought her life was challenging -- and I guess it was, in its own way.

In those early blogposts, you can see it clear as day. 

Especially at Mile 60.

My goal was to get back there.  

To BE her again.  

Anything less would be.... Well, it wouldn't be enough.

There's nothing wrong with that lofty goal.  I admire it, really! 

But in 14,432 miles, I've realized something:

Progress isn't pass/fail.  

(If it were, I'd never get anywhere!)  

Progress is small steps.  Improvement by degrees.  It's pushing onward, no matter what. 

And on a challenging day, it's whatever gets you out the door.

One, two, three, GO!

Congratulations!

That's progress.

Walk on,
Rebecca

Fifteen Years

Overheard at Mile 14,140...

 "Fifteen years, and I still can't get my leg on." 

Mark laughs.  My brother is standing by his car, parked in the temporary spot outside my building.  

It's 8 PM on November 8.  

I was joking, but it's true.  My prosthesis is not quite on.

I shift from leg to leg.  I'm wearing shorts, not because it's warm outside, but because I've adjusted my prosthetic socket a thousand times today, and it's simpler to do it without dropping my pants.  

Mark hands me a reusable shopping bag from my mom.  She's asked him to deliver it  -- on this, the eve of my "Alive Day."

I peer inside.  

Sunflowers smile back at me, lighting up the night.

It's become a tradition between the two of us over the years.  

Our symbol of hope, comfort, and courage.  Before and after.  Better days ahead.

And on this particular day...

Gratitude.

This morning I set my alarm. 

With this new prosthetic socket, I know it'll take a while to get my leg on. 

In 15 years, I've learned this struggle is part of the process.  I've learned to (mostly) be patient and give it the time it demands.  Still, it stresses me out.

I'm hoping for a morning walk -- and a "good leg" day ahead.

At 7 AM, the phone tings with a text from Mom.  

Happy Alive Day, she says, with love and lots of emojis. :)

My leg isn't totally fastened yet, but I keep wiggling my way into it.  

Stomp my foot.  Check the valve.  Stomp again.

I hobble over to the balcony door -- leg not quite on -- and lean out to see the sky.  

Fifteen years ago, at this exact moment, I was struck by a truck that changed my life.  

It's supposed to rain today, but right now, the sky is pale and clear.  Clouds trail above building tops.  Fresh air tickles my face.  

It was like this on that morning 15 years ago too.  

I will always remember.

Finally, my leg is on well enough to walk.

It's a beautiful morning. 

The moon still hangs over Arch Street.  

Leaves rustle. 

Colors pop.

I notice it all.

To the tune of my own footsteps, I send a message to the universe...

For this day.  For this mile.  For these 15 years.

For the love and care of ALL the people who've "'walked" with me along the way.

Thank you.

A lot has happened in the last 15 years.  

My body has struggled and found resilience.  I've felt joy and adventure and heartbreak and loss -- so big that my own journey sometimes felt small in comparison.

Sure, I've gotten caught up in the slow-downs of everyday life.  Traffic.  To-do lists.  New sockets.  Obligation.  Frustration.  Inconvenience.  Pain.

But in 15 years, the pure wonder of being ALIVE hasn't faded at all.

November 9 reminds me.

Every day -- and every walk -- is a gift.

Happy Alive Day!

Walk on,
Rebecca

Memento Vivere

 A haunted hello from Mile 14,078...

...where a good-leg day meets a pain in the neck!

(That's a vampire joke!)

Remember Rainbow?

Well, she's 16 now, and while she's darkened her outerwear, she's still as colorful as ever on the inside.  

She's also old enough to do her own "googling," so she's been obsessed with visiting Vampa, the Vampire and Paranormal Museum in Doylestown, PA, about an hour north of Philly.

I'd been dragging my feet -- prosthetic and real -- because of the hassle of getting there. 

But at Mile 14,078, we finally make the coveted trip, just in time for Halloween.  

And it does not disappoint!

Stakes and crosses and Ouija boards -- Oh, my!

Not to mention a collection of (probably) haunted dolls.

News to me:  Vampire hunting was all the rage in 19th century France.  (Who knew?)

News to Rainbow:  Even Michael Jackson owned a vampire hunting kit.  (Maybe not that surprising!)

But it's the hourglass exhibit that appeals to me most.

My grandparents used to have one, and I'd completely forgotten about it until now.

I can picture myself, maybe 9 years old -- two feet in socks -- standing on the flat carpeting of their home, gripping the hourglass in my hand.

Turning it.
Watching the sand rain down.
Turning it again.

Was it real?  An antique?  Or just a toy?

My grandfather pretended to be Béla Lugosi.  Love at First Bite was in theaters, although he was a fan of the original.

A sign at the museum draws me back, bridges the gap between then and now:

Just like the hourglass, we have the power to turn our hardships around.

This time of year, my emotions run thick as witches' brew.  Everything stirs them.

For a taste, revisit Mile 143 or 2,127, or 6,825.

November is coming, and with it, the anniversary of my accident.  It's been 15 years, but it still makes me pause.

Next to a heavy-curtained window, another sign catches my eye.  

Memento Mori.

Remember that you have to die.

Memento Vivere.

Remember to live.

Here, at Mile 14,078, that last part resonates most.  

Memento Vivere.

It sparkles like a vampire in the sun.

(Or is that only in Twilight?)

Happy haunting,
Rebecca

The Undercover Lives of My Favorite Baristas

Hello from --

-- I'm not sure what mile it is!

Life has been busy lately -- bursting at its seams.  I haven't had time to total my mileage.

But I learned, way back at Mile 30, that when feelings get too big, it's best to think small.  (And a little bacon goes a long way, but that's another story!)

Bacon aside, I'm grateful for my morning walk.  

If you're new here, a morning walk is nothing heroic.  

I just grab my coffee cup off the dish drainer,
tuck my phone into my purse, 
and close the door behind me.

It's just a walk around the block.  

Even if my prosthesis is a bit crooked, it's OK.  I'll be back soon enough.

Still, a morning walk works magic.

When I close the door and step outside, even tentatively -- or uncomfortably -- it's a step toward possibility. 

A short trip around the block can be a travel adventure.

I've been experimenting with a new (to me) writing platform called Substack.  Let's call it a side trip. 

It's good to venture out once in a while.

I wrote the article below about a morning walk that started small and became something bigger. 

Read it here:  The Undercover Lives of my Favorite Baristas

It features a few of my favorite 
morning walk buddies!

Thanks, as always, for joining me on the journey!

Walk on,
Rebecca

Bright Umbrellas in the Rain

A rainy wave from Mile Marker 13,898...

I get home from work exhausted, just as the rain begins.

I drop my lunchbag in the kitchen, my backpack on the dining room chair.  

I limp into the bedroom.  Contemplate lowering the shades.  The sky is dark already.  Can the neighbors see in?  But I'm too tired even to make that decision.

Instead, I leave the overhead lights off.  
Strip off my work clothes.  
Slide on an Old Navy tee-shirt.  

Then I sit on the edge of my bed and -- Ahhhh! -- finally pop the vacuum seal on my prosthesis and peel off the sweat-soaked liner.  Sweet relief.

I am glad it is raining.
I needed an early sunset.

These long days of summer wear me down.

Summer feels noisy, with its trash-strewn sidewalks, weird smells, and steamy steps through endless construction zones.  

It makes my body noisy too: sweaty skin, slipping prosthetic liner, slashes of nerve pain.

Each day, I start out fresh -- and end up exhausted.

But sleeping is a reset.  
And I feel better the next morning.

Today, when I turn on my laptop, this pic fills the screen.

It's me.  In the rain.  In Paris!

I remember that week in 2023, when a lunchtime downpour caught me and others at an outdoor café covered only by tiki umbrellas.  

I laughed with the Australians at the next table as water poured off our makeshift rooftops.  If it weren't for the cobblestones and croque-madames, we could have been on a waterfall hike together, instead of a Parisian sidewalk.

I stare at the photo now, at my bright umbrella, electric in the rain.

It was a gift from my mom just before the trip, and I loved it immediately.  

It reminded me of Paris -- and hope -- the maillot jaune of my own Tour de France.

Every day that week, it rained on and off, torrential and soaking, with small breaks of sunshine.  I ran out of dry shoes and sloshed around in my wet ones.

But my umbrella wasn't the only bright spot.  For a city of muted colors, Paris was flooded with bright umbrellas.

Rain makes Paris shimmer.

I'm smiling in that photo, but I remember, too, that it wasn't the best "leg day."  

I had just descended a narrow, twisty flight of stairs to refit my prosthesis in a humid restaurant bathroom.  It was already slipping off again, and I still had a long walk back to the Métro.  

But I'd also just finished the Paris Writing Workshop!  

I had learned to navigate the city and -- through that struggle -- felt like I was part of it.

I'm smiling because, at that moment, I wished for nothing better than a Paris rainstorm.

Here, at Mile 13,898, the rain outside my window reminds me of that feeling.

I stand in my dim bedroom, taking one breath.  

And then another.

My leg is dry again, refitted (for the moment) well enough to stand and make dinner. 

I've written about the rain before -- at Mile 255, and 610, and 733, and probably others.  Each time, it has meant something different to my journey.

But tonight, I accept it for exactly what it is.

A chance to wear pajamas.

Read my friend Wendy's writing.  
Call my mom.  
Wash the dishes.  
Get ready for bed.

A chance to wipe the day clean.

Walk on,
Rebecca

Expect the Unexpected

Hello from Mile 13,890 at Jefferson University!

After sharing my story with these wonderful first-year medical students, the unexpected happened.

I almost fell.

Almost -- because a quick-thinking young woman in a brand-new white coat stepped in and caught me.

I stumbled backwards onto my prosthetic leg, and for some reason it buckled.  With a microprocessor knee like mine, that doesn't usually happen.  I stumble sometimes, but I expect it to catch me.

This time, something went wrong. 

I didn't expect the unexpected. I lost my balance and couldn't regain it.  

I was in free fall.  

It felt dramatic.  
And long.

Then that student grabbed my arm.  

And what we all thought was about to happen... didn't.

It must have looked like some kind of "trust" game.  I wobbled -- nearly toppled -- and she caught me, and we laughed it off.  

We went on talking.  The class ended.  The students filed out.   

Only now, hours later, my mind dwells on what could have happened.

I could have hit my head on the nearby desk.
I could have landed on my newly rehabbed shoulder.
I could have damaged my right leg.
I could have sustained a serious injury like when I fell in 2023.
I could have ended up in the hospital.

Day to day, I am a confident walker.  I focus on footwork, but more times than not, I forget how vulnerable I am -- how one false move, one slip of balance, one lapse in concentration could lead to months of immobility.

A PT friend once told me, "walking is a series of controlled falls."  

Not just for amputees, he meant, but for all humans.  It's what happens when we walk upright.  If our bodies work correctly, we take biomechanics for granted.

After today, I've got a new spin on this idea.

I think LIFE is a series of controlled falls.

Most of the time, it goes as planned.  How often do we drive to work?  Cross a street?  Arrive home safely?  

But in the unexpected moments, everything can change.  (That's pretty much the gist of my journey.)

So... Did you stay off the ground today?

Yes?  Consider it a win. :)

Heartfelt thanks to this wonderful group -- and especially to the student who hopped into action. Your future patients will appreciate your instinct and quick reflexes.  

I know I do!

Welcome to Jefferson, Class of 2029!  You're already making a difference.

Walk on,
Rebecca

Capturing A Moment in Time

The desire to capture a moment in time has always been part of my nature...

So began my college essay, typed on a typewriter, back when there was no such thing as a Universal App, only blanks to fill in on dozens of pages, carefully unstapled and imperfectly aligned under the paper bail.  

(I looked it up -- that's the name of that silver roller bar!)

My dad photocopied the applications at his office so I could do rough drafts.  Because once you started typing, the pressure was on.  There was no going back.

Greetings from 1987, where everything was analog.  

Except maybe the VCR.

Ten years before that -- on my 8th birthday -- I got an instamatic camera with 4 flashcubes and a roll of film scrolled up like a tiny Torah.  

Cue the Fotomat envelopes -- every 12 or 24 snaps -- stuffed and sealed and mailed at my dad's office.  

Like magic, my photos "came back."

They were trendy, really --
Squared edges and faded hues,
decades before Instagram!

By the end of 8th grade, I'd earned enough babysitting money to buy myself a real camera.  

35 millimeter.  $199.  Ordered from New York City through the mail!

For 2 decades, that Nikon FG dangled around my neck.

It was almost as big as I was!

Fast forward many more years and miles.

Now, like most people, I carry a do-it-all iPhone, but my desire to capture a moment in time is still firmly grounded.  

In analog.

I'm a collector of moments.  The kind you can hold in your hands.

Just ask my travel buddies, who roll their eyes at the growing pile of sugar packets, candy wrappers, napkins, ticket stubs, brochures, and receipts on every trip we take.  

I can't help it.  

To me, "found souvenirs" capture the journey better than any keychain or magnet!

But what do you do with all that stuff once you get home?

At Mile 13,853, I try making a zine.

What's a zine?
A handmade magazine of storytelling + collage,
two of my favorite things!

I learned about zine-making at a workshop at Elfreth's Alley, in my neighborhood.  

But my memory of zines stretches back much farther.

In college, my friend Chip created one.  He wrote the content, patched it together with scissors and glue, and Xeroxed copies the old-school way at Kinko's.

Zines are still self-published and old-school, but it seems they're making a comeback.

Some bookstores have shelves for them.  There's even a Zine Library in Philly.  (Haven't been there yet, but it's on my list!)

I'm a beginner though, so this one's just for me.

I gather up scraps from my April weekend in London, print a few pics, and pull some key words from my journal.  I uncap a glue stick.

In an hour or two, I wrangle them into a pocket-sized reader.  

Have a look!

Cheerio!

Notting Hill landmarks

Yogurt and buses and tea, oh my!

Mushy peas?  Yay or nay?
(I say YAY!)

Chatting up one of the
King's bodyguards...

...and yes, the Crown Jewels gave me a migraine.  
(Seriously!)

Zines are small but mighty.  

A single page can recount the lifetime journey of a Romanian leather-maker named Yanos, a clever rhyme we learned about the Thames*, and a chance meeting with friend-of-a-friend flight attendant Stacey!

Small world!

*The end of the rhyme.
It's a joke -- get it? :)

Sure, we need digital to keep up with today's breakneck pace.

But scissors, scraps, and gluesticky fingers bring me back to my old self.

1980's style!

How do you capture the moments?

Walk on,
Rebecca

Jar of Stones

Greetings from the Schuylkill Expressway.  

At Mile 13,810, I've never been happier to be speeding toward that Philadelphia skyline.

It's been a tough travel weekend.

I could show you the highlight reel...

The Chelsea Flea Market
with the best sister ever!

A wild game of UNO with my favorite threesome.

A one-pound baby goat named Onyx.

And an evening stroll
through sleepy Montpelier.

Those were good moments -- fresh air, farm life, family fun -- and I wouldn't trade them for not going at all. 

My mom and I have done this roadtrip dozens of times.  We've learned to love its rhythm and pick the best rest stops along the way.

But this time felt different.  I was preoccupied; my body, more demanding.  

A lowlight reel unspooled, like static, beneath it all.

Was it the weather?  The food?  The terrain?  Too much time in the car?

It's challenging to manage my health at home and harder away from home.  Always.  

I know this already -- I've learned to expect it -- but this trip was sort of a tipping point.

There were no emergencies, no hospital visits (thank goodness!).  It was just my body being my body.  Disability stuff.  Health stuff.   A bit louder than usual.

You know that analogy of stones in a jar?

It goes like this:

If life is a jar, we should fill it with big stones first -- the most important, most necessary things -- and let the smaller pebbles and grains of sand -- the less important things -- fall in between.

In theory, I like it.  It's about priortizing what's most important. 

It's the reason I drive 8 hours to see my nieces and nephew (even if my body doesn't love the plan).

And there lies my issue.  Or more precisely, my jar...

The biggest stones are difficult to fit.  Some lurk down at the bottom -- taking up space and clogging things up -- and sometimes they grow larger without warning.  

Everything else, no matter how much I love it, gets piled on top.  

And sometimes the jar overflows.

I yearn to move freely -- to be 100% in the moment wherever I am -- to float to the top and leave the distractions of my body behind.  

That's not always easy.

When the Philly skyline comes into view, I am flooded with relief.  It bubbles up and runs down the sides of my jar.  

I let it.

I am just minutes from home -- a place where I can revel in routine, regenerate my body, and (hopefully) recalculate an easier route for the next journey.

Because yes, of course, I'll take it.

What's in your jar?

Walk on,
Rebecca

P.S. While writing this postcard, I heard the latest episode of Kate Bowler's podcast, 'Everything Happens.'  It spoke to me.  If your jar is feeling a bit too full this summer, perhaps it'll speak to you too.  Listen here.