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.

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.

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. 

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. 

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.

Love you, Dad.
Miss you, Dad.

xo,
Rebecca