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 prosthetic 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.
Of "before"and "after."
Of better days ahead.
And, on this particular day...
Of gratitude.
The next morning I set my alarm.
I know it'll take a while to get my leg on. In 15 years, I've learned this struggle is just part of the process. I need to be patient, to give it the time it demands.
I'm hoping for a walk.
And a "good leg" day.
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 wiggle my way into it.
Stomp my foot. Check the valve. Stomp again.
I hobble over to the balcony door, stick out my head so I can 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. The air is fresh on my face.
It was like this 15 years ago too. I remember.
Finally, I walk.
It's a beautiful November 9. A Sunday this year.
The moon hangs over Arch Street.
Leaves rustle.
Colors pop.
I notice it all.
I listen to the sound of my own footsteps and send a silent message to the universe...
Thanks 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.
A lot has happened since the accident. My body has struggled and found resilience. I've felt joy and adventure and heartbreak and loss much bigger than what happened to me.
Sure, I get caught up in the details of everyday life. Traffic. To-do lists. New sockets. Obligation and frustration. Pain and inconvenience.
But after 15 years, the pure wonder of being alive hasn't faded at all.
November 9 reminds me.
Every day -- every walk -- is a gift.
Rebecca
