Relativity

Mile Marker 521:

It feels like lunch in Italy.

Diane sits across from me over a table of balsamic-drizzled figs, fresh mozzarella, ripe avocado, and frilly arugula.  

 

You’d never guess that we’re down the street from Prosthetic Innovations.

You’d also never guess that we’re both in PAIN.

I met Diane just a year ago, yet we buzz away like old pals.  I’m a "left above-knee."  Diane’s a "right."  In a three-legged race, we'd make a wicked good team!  (Or a dangerously bad one!)

The conversation flows from travel, to family, to wearing a prosthesis.  On every topic, we find ourselves nodding and agreeing.

But especially on this one:  COMFORT IS RELATIVE.

It’s taken me more than a week to get this blog post up.  I've rewritten it from so many angles it's making me batty.  And I’ve avoided finishing it -- not because of writer’s block -- but because I'm afraid that if I focus on the pain, I'll never get anywhere.

Yet it's a part of every mile.

So I'll start with a question:  How far could you travel with a stone in your shoe?

Now imagine that the stone is actually a rock.  No, a slab of granite.  And it’s not actually in your shoe, but inside your LEG.  Pressing against the back of your knee, to be exact.

Well, not exactly.  See, you don’t have a knee.

Sound confusing?  Painful?  Frustrating, perhaps?   Multiply that by 521.

Rewind to a few days before lunch with Diane.  It’s early evening, and I’m heating up some leftovers to take upstairs.  On these – the most PAINFUL days -- I deliver “room service” to myself.   In my bedroom, I remove my prosthesis and massage my leg.  I eat dinner out of a plastic container, cross-legged (well, sort of) on the bed.

Once my prosthesis is off, some of the pain subsides.  The physical part, anyway.  Emotionally, it goes on and on.

I turn on the TV to drown out the rush of feelings.  There's ANGER about all that's happened.  SADNESS that that my life's come down to this.  FEAR that it might not get any better.  

The next morning I wake up with renewed hope.  Unfortunately, the pain rises early too.  It throws off my balance, so I topple over while watering the garden plants.  One minute I’m standing; the next, I’m lying awkwardly on the red gravel.  After that, I tread more carefully, putting weight on my right side instead.

The 520’s are FULL of moments like this.  The miles crawl by in a fit of stops and starts.  

I plod through the best I can.  But it's like inching forward when you're locked in a long, snaking line of traffic.  When all you can see are more cars up ahead.

To avoid discomfort, I shift my weight to the right.  But it's not a solution.  An ache spreads across my back and shoulders.  My right knee and ankle swell from overuse.

It feels like I'm driving a car with a flat tire.  And worse, I worry about damaging my intact, sound side.

But why?  you ask.  Why is there pain now, at this point in the journey?

It's a good question.  And the answer is, it's not just now.  Like most amputees, the shape of my leg changes.  The socket fit changes.  The nerve sensations change.  There is bone pain, and skin pain, and muscle pain, and phantom pain.  Some days are better.  Some are worse.  Some are just UNBEARABLE.

No day is perfect.  But this week was tougher than most.

After lunch, Diane and I head to our home away from home – Prosthetic Innovations.  It’s my third visit this week.  Diane’s second.

Tim acts like he’s happy to see us. 

With never-ending patience, he adjusts my prosthetic angle, alignment, and length -- yet again.  This time, he adds a pylon that offsets the position of my knee.  Then he puts me on the treadmill and sizes up my gait.

He encourages me to take step after step.  He tells me there will be BETTER days ahead. 

Mile Marker 524:

He's right, but it takes a while.

In the meantime, I go through the motions.  Chat with friends at the rehab gym.  Lift weights to strengthen my arms and right leg.  Spend a few hours at work.  

I don’t venture far.  

And I don't WALK anywhere.

When I need to get out of the house, I drive 5 blocks to Philly Java and stash my car in the dry cleaner’s parking lot across the street.  An iced chai always lifts my mood.

Plus, it helps me avoid something else I don't like to think -- or write -- about.  Pain is ISOLATING.

I'm a traveler and an athlete.  When I move, my mind unfolds with freedom.

I’ve hiked through vineyards. 

And snowshoed through the woods of Vermont.

I’ve skated over the cobblestone streets of Bordeaux -- and Philly. 

And canoed on the bluest water you've ever seen.

  

With movement, the road stretches ahead of me, wide open and completely clear.

But when I'm in pain, I see the world through a perpetually foggy windshield.  All that's clear is what's BEHIND me.

As Mile 524 draws to a close, Susan and Rocco come to the rescue.  With their help, my leg rallies enough to navigate the hilly sidewalks of Fairmount.

We make it to our friend Alayne's 4th of July party.

I catch up with the girls over a bowl of kettle corn.

Outside, sparks fly as the guys launch fireworks on the narrow city street.

 I don’t dash out to see them as I used to.  But I hear the snaps and booms.  They're energizing!

It's FREEDOM, Philly-style -- if only for an hour or two!

Mile Marker 530: 

“1, 2, 3, 4 -- no, wait!”

Landon bounces around the kitchen pointing to each person as he counts.  He’s figuring out how many of us need water ice.

He starts over again.  “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7… Yeah, 7!”  That's his final answer.

Then he starts in on the cups, “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7…”

Landon is 4 ½ years old.  34 pounds.  40 inches tall.  And boy can he count!

Susan scoops out the icy treat – pale pink watermelon and bright orange mango.   Proudly, Landon hands a cup to each of us.

It's Saturday night, and we're gathered around my parents’ butcher block kitchen table.  Robert, Susan, Rocco, Jen, Chris, and me.  Landon is perched on Chris’s lap.  

It's hot and humid outside.  The sky threatens to storm.

Before they arrived, I was flat on my parents’ couch, icing down my right leg to control the swelling.

Now, I’m smiling and laughing.

Mile Marker 530 breezes in like an 80-degree day at the end of a heat wave.  It's as refreshing as water ice.

Through no feat of my own, the pain has mysteriously lifted.  I am suddenly and inexplicably MORE COMFORTABLE.   

It is not a perfect place by far.  But it's better.

That blurry windshield defogs.  I picture smoother and easier days ahead.  The idea is so enticing that I consider sleeping in my prosthesis.  

You see, comfort is relative.  But it's also FLEETING.  One good day does not predict another.  I don't want to start over again tomorrow.

But for now, I'm busy.  Through dinner and dessert, Landon entertains me with crayons and stickers.  We get up from the table several times to fetch markers, tape, and Ziploc baggies to hold his drawings. 

The conversation keeps rolling.

I tell Landon my robot leg has superpowers.
He challenges me to a game of Freeze Tag.
Touché!

It's not Italy or France.  It's not skating, or snowshoeing, or canoeing.  But it's better than where I was a mile ago.

And it's good to be moving again...