Opt Outside

 

Mile Marker 8755: 

What would you do if you weren't afraid? 

Long before this pandemic - and even before Mile 1 -- there was a day I decided to opt outside.  

(Of my comfort zone.)  

That day, I drove to Trader Joe's.  ALONE.

Actually I wasn't entirely alone.  My new prosthetic leg came along for the ride.  And the 2 crutches I needed for balance.  They came too. 

Also, anxiety rode shotgun.

It was spring of 2011, and I was recovering at my parents' house.  They did everything for me back then, and I was grateful.  But I wanted to find my way back to who I was BEFORE.  And this first step I needed to take alone.

So I buckled my seat belt.  Backed out of their driveway.  

When I made it to the shopping center, I congratulated myself.  

Then I pushed further... 

...into the store.

 

I inched my way across the parking lot, working my new knee delicately, feeling every rut and slope in the pavement.  When I finally reached the curb, I heard prosthetist Tim's voice in my head.

Up with the good.  Down with the bad.  

I lifted my right leg, placed it onto the sidewalk, and pulled my prosthetic foot up after it.  One step down, many more to go.

It was 5 months post-accident, and I was still new at this stuff.  Nothing came naturally.  

Everything was outside my comfort zone.

I lifted my crutches into the nearest shopping cart and grasped the cart's handle.  When I found my balance, I stepped through the automatic doors into the refrigerated air.

Then I pushed further...

You get the idea.  

This is how I took my first steps toward independence -- and slowly, gradually, left fear behind. 

At Mile Marker 8,755, more than 9 years have passed, and I'm in a different car heading toward a different destination.  

There are no crutches in the car.  

Only a face mask resting on the dashboard.  

Still, anxiety rides shotgun.

I remember life BEFORE the pandemic.  How free, and certain, and able I felt.  Even with a prosthetic leg and health issues, I had mastered my own independence and experienced it every day.  

Isn't it strange -- how BEFORE is all relative?

For 5 months now, I haven't felt like that.  We've all been trapped, in a sense, but when I look down from my apartment balcony, I see some of us are less trapped than others.

At Mile 8,755, I drive into the entrance of Grounds for Sculpture.  Strap on my mask.  Approach the guard booth.  The woman inside is wearing a mask too, but her eyes are welcoming, and I sense she's smiling behind it.  She checks off my reservation and waves me into the parking lot.

I congratulate myself on accomplishing the first goal:  I've made it here.  

Then I push further.

Opt outside.

Grounds for Sculpture is a park that's also an art gallery.  As I wander the trails, each sculpture seems like a symbol.  This one reminds me what it feels like to take off my mask.

And I can, for a moment,
since no one's around!

When I stumble onto these "lovers" in the woods, they appear like old friends.

Remember hugging?

Maybe it's a sign of the times, but I find myself drawn to "people" the most. 

I tread across bridges, through arbors, and up sloping trails.

It's ironic.  

Nine years ago, a supermarket was the safest place I could think of; the handle of a shopping cart, the best place to steady my hands.

Back then, I would never have attempted outside terrain -- long grass and wood chips -- with nothing to hold onto.  Now, I'm grateful for the open space and fresh air.  No crowds.  No cart handles. 

Nothing to touch at all :)

If you think I'm excessively cautious, you're probably right.  I see your coffees, and road trips, and dinners outside.  I'll get there eventually.  

I'm just a few steps behind. 

I admit I have more anxiety than most.  Some of it is just me, but some of it is what happened to me.

After the accident, I struggled with PTSD.  I feared danger around every corner.  I doubted my own body.  I doubted the safety of the world. 

I thought I'd never be the free, certain,
 ABLE person I was before.

I had learned -- in the span of one November morning -- that life is fragile.  One moment you're good to go, and the next, you're lying on the street.  Injured and alone.  

I don't have a compromised immune system (as far as I know), but I've been around the block a few times, medically anyway.  I've learned that health is arbitrary and unpredictable, and ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING.  

So I guard it with my life.

At Mile 8,755, it's a beautiful day in the garden -- prosthetically and pandemically.  

It's overcast and not too sweaty.  The paths are peaceful and quiet and empty. 

On the drive home I think of all the things I'd do if I weren't afraid:  

Get coffee on my morning walk.  Go back to the rock gym.  Eat brunch outside.  Shop at Trader Joe's.  

Small things.  Normal things.  Things that connect me to who I was BEFORE.

Something tells me I'll need lots of practice.  But eventually I'll find a balance -- that space between smart and safe.  Maybe even sooner than I think.

I've taken baby steps before; I know they add up.

Funny, how first steps repeat themselves every time we opt outside our comfort zone.