Days Like This

Mile Marker  6500:

After all these miles, there are still days when I cry in my car.  Or curse.  (It's true. Sorry mom.)

Today is one of those days. This blog post was supposed to be a detailed review of the Plié 3 microprocessor knee, which I've been happily test-driving this week.  I might still write that post, but not today.  Because today I need to say this:

MY LEG IS KILLING ME.

There, I said it.

I know.  I know.  It's not really killing me.  Leg stuff is leg stuff.  It's nothing serious.  I avoid complaining about it because I know all too well it could be worse... and it has been.  To set the record straight, I'd gladly choose leg pain over abdominal pain -- anytime, anywhere.  (Hear that, universe?  I'm OK with leg stuff!)

Still, there are days -- or moments -- when being an amputee just feels like too much.

Days like this happen no matter what kind of prosthesis you have.  If your skin is irritated, or your socket doesn't fit right, you can wear the most advanced bionics in the world, and you still won't walk comfortably.  In other words, it's not a prosthetic problem, it's a leg problem.

On days like this, the tiniest annoyances spiral into major frustrations.  No matter how many times I adjust my leg, I can't get it on right.  I try every lotion in the drawer, but my skin is still on fire.  I want to stay home and hide away, but I head out because, well, I've got places to be.

To make matters worse, the Vice President is coming to town.  Half the streets in Center City are barricaded.  Parking spaces are blocked off.  Police are redirecting traffic around detour after detour.  I hear there are protesters, but I'm not even close enough to see them.  (Too bad. I'm in the mood for a protest!)  I wriggle in the driver's seat searching for a bearable position.  Stay calm.  Turn on a podcast.  Settle into the idea of being late.

I've gotten used to accepting things I can't change.  But underneath that peaceful resignation simmers a chaotic discord of feelings.

SADNESS.  I used to zoom around these obstacles on my bike.

LOSS.  I used to walk everywhere. 

ANGER.  I hate being dependent on my car!!!

Most days, I keep those feelings under wraps.  I don't write about them -- or acknowledge them much -- because I don't like them.  To my ears, they sound like an out-of-tune orchestra.  In my heart, they feel like pollution.  But omitting them is not telling the truth.

Days like this happen more than you know.

Still, that's not the hardest part.  The hardest part is the UNCERTAINTY. 

In 7 years of being an amputee, I've learned to walk, skate, bike, and rock climb.  I've rediscovered independence, traveled to Europe, returned to work, and become a foster mom.   I visit and support new amputees every week, handing out tricks and strategies like business cards.  There are days when I think I'm an expert at this life.  Yay me.

And then there are days like this.

The hardest part is that I still can't predict which kind of day it'll be.  There's no skill, or proficiency, or level of mastery that'll give me control.

The past few miles have brought a string of "good leg days," and maybe that's why today seems so discouraging.  When I went to bed last night, I had so many things to look forward to -- a calendar booked with projects, plans, and responsibilities.  Good leg days bolster my confidence; they make me sure about tomorrow.

And then I wake up to a day like this. 

I'm home now, with my leg off, so I can take the long view and see this not-so-good day for what it is:  minor yet frustrating, chronic yet changeable.

Or as my surgeons would probably say, a bump in the road.

Days like this are part of the journey.  They happen to the best of us.

We all have our own struggles.  We all sit in traffic when the Vice President comes to town.  There's not much else we can do.

Just keep pushing forward, no matter how slowly.  Cry (or curse) when necessary.  Believe that things will get better.

And hope the streets -- and pain -- clear by tomorrow.