Happy 14th Walking Day!

Stepping into Mile 13,354...

Today marks 14 years since I took my first steps on a prosthetic leg!

You might not remember your first steps, but when you take them a second time around, you remember everything.

I can still hear prosthetist Tim telling me, "Small with the left.  Big with the right."  (Above-knee amputees tend to take an exaggerated step with their prosthetic side.)

I can still hear him say, "Great.  That was great."   (Those words filled me with hope and joy!)

On the night of February 11, 2011, my family and I crowded around the kitchen table to watch that grainy video a thousand times on my laptop!

I knew back then I would never take walking for granted.

It's still true. 

I walk around the block every morning.  
I walk the hospital corridors at work. 
I walk around the kitchen while I'm making dinner.  
I walk in the grocery store.  
I walk on sidewalks, and across streets, and (carefully) over cobblestones.  

The gift of walking never wears off.

But 13,354 miles -- and 14 years -- is a long way from that starting line.  By the time I realize today is "Walking Day," it's mid-afternoon and snow is on the way.

Ugh.  I don't walk in snow, even after 14 years.

So I head to the gym and hop on my favorite treadmill, which offers virtual "walks" in several countries.

No problem.  I'll walk in Singapore!

It's a beautiful walking day there.  Sun reflects off the buildings.  The trees are tropical green.  The path is paved and clean.  

In my earbuds, I turn on an episode of Deviate with Rolf Potts.  He's interviewing Rick Steves about his newest book, On the Hippie Trail, a journal of his 1970's trip from Istanbul to Kathmandu as a 23-year-old.

I'm walking with my two favorite travel writers!  What better way to celebrate the day?

Walking through Singapore reminds me of my friend and fellow writer Sameer, who lives there with his family.  I met Sameer at Rolf Potts's Paris Writing Workshop in 2023.  

And thinking about that trip to Paris reminds me how far I've come.

(That's Sameer on my right!)

When I took my first steps back in 2011, I thought I'd never travel again -- at least not like I did before the accident.

In a sense, that was true. 

I travel differently now, adapting in ways I couldn't yet imagine.

The path in Singapore curves through a shady area.   I walk past signposts, trash cans, spotlights, and call boxes while Rick Steves talks about depending on fellow travelers for directions and information.

 

Wayfinding. 

I don't know why that particular word comes to mind, but it seems especially meaningful today.

I think about my doctors, nurses, and rehab therapists.  Prosthetist Tim and his amazing team.

The friends, old and new, who've helped me march on.  My family who's there for me -- always.

They are my Wayfinders.  I'd be lost without them.

It's not the best "leg day," but it's not the worst either.  I wait to feel the familiar slip of my prosthetic socket, its rub on my skin, or the tiny leak of air that tells me my steps have expired.

I keep walking, longer than I usually do.  

Farther than I think I can. 

(Not that far.  But far for me!)

Finally, my right foot starts aching.  I want to keep going, but I have to stop.  I've learned, in 14 years, to listen to my body and respect its needs.

The path opens up to a harbor filled with bobbing, gleaming yachts.  I focus on that watery horizon.  

And press STOP.

Outside the gym, the first snowflakes swirl beneath the streetlights.  In my earbuds, Rick Steves reaches Kathmandu.  On the screen, Singapore disappears.

I stand there on the treadmill, catching my breath.  Grateful for all these steps.

I could go anywhere, I think.  Anywhere at all.

Happy Walking Day,

Rebecca

 

P.S.  You can read about past "Walking Days" at Mile 335, Mile 930, Mile 2,525  Mile 3,660 and here too!

OPEN

It's 2025.

When I open my eyes in the morning, this is what I see.

It's just a photo, framed on my bedroom wall, but I've planned it this way.  It's purposefully placed, a kind of "photo-therapy."

This one image is everything I need to get out of bed:

Morning light.
Street sounds.

A gentle breeze.

Hope, piled high, for the day ahead.

It's the view from my Paris Airbnb, which I admit was a nice place to be first thing in the morning.  

I can still feel that duvet on the toes of my bare foot, smell the owner's leather jacket hanging in the closet, hear the bell ting on the city bus below.

But there's more.

This photo captures a moment I always savor -- even at home -- that delicate space between asleep and awake.  

In this moment, I haven't yet put my leg on,

or seen my crutches stacked up,
or tried to digest food, 
or juggled "too big" ideas,
or tackled the "to-do" list on which I'm already behind.

I'm not yet zapped of energy -- or frustrated by discomfort -- as I trek the distance others go without much effort at all.  

In this one moment, there is just me and that open window.  My body is not fractured, and the day is still whole, pointed with possibility like sun through a magnifying glass.

It's all the motivation I need.

On New Year's Eve in Scotland, at the stroke of midnight, people open the doors of their homes -- front and back -- to let the old year escape and the new year rush in.

My friend Jen will tell you we did it this year.

"Quick!  Go!" 

In my small apartment, she rushes to open the "front" hallway door while I yank open the "back" door to the balcony.

It's raining outside.  The air blows cold with moisture, car horns, and the boom of fireworks we hear but can't see.

(By time I remember this tradition, it's 12:15 AM, but we get it done!)

The new year is OPEN for business, and I open my whole self to it.

Open door.

Open window.
Open mind.

Open to ideas and experiences, no matter how small.

Open intestines (DIGEST!) and lungs (BREATHE!).
Open eyes -- and senses.

Open book(s) -- and inkflow.

Not every day will feel this way, I know.  Some days, I won't be able to leave the apartment because of leg issues or abdominal pain.

Other days, I'll carve a slow path around the block.  

On the best days, I'll explore locally.  Or, if I'm lucky, farther.

Wherever I go, I'll write.  

I've got other projects too.  Ideas are plentiful this time of year.  The journey may change shape along the way, but isn't that what adaptive travel is all about?

I'm "open" to it.   (Want to come?)

Get up.  Get dressed. 

Let's see what's beyond that window.

Happy and healthy new year!
Rebecca

Mile Marker 13,255

Hope Walks In

 "We've got to get you walking again," Tim says.

And just like that, hope walks in.

Oh, how I've missed it!

After 2 months on crutches, I tried to get my prosthesis on.

The socket didn't fit.  At all.

Socket fit is finicky, I know.  I'd been struggling with it since my earliest miles as an amputee.   

Still, I'd been anticipating this moment -- easing my little leg gently into the prosthesis, standing on my own "two feet" again.  

Even if it wasn't quite perfect -- I knew it wouldn't be -- it would still be the first step to feeling like my old self.  (Well, my old "new" self anyway.)

When it didn't fit at all, I sat on the edge of my bed and cried.

Six days later -- somewhere around Mile 12,145 -- I arrive at Prosthetic Innovations. 

I crutch through the parking lot heavily, weighed down by all that has changed.

But Prosthetist Tim isn't deterred.  In fact, he seems happy to see me.  

I tell him about the fall, and how bruised my leg was afterward. 

"It probably looked like your shirt," he says.

I glance down at my tie-dye t-shirt, splotches of blue and purple and gold and green.  

Yep.  I laugh. 

It's good to be back.

Tim gets out his measuring tape and loops it around my leg.  

It's still swollen from the fall.  Or maybe its shape has just changed from the injury.  Whatever the cause, it measures 3 1/2 cm larger than it used to.  No wonder my prosthesis doesn't fit.

Tim brings out a pull-bag, a surefire method to get into an extra tight socket.  I slide it over my liner.  

We try again -- together -- to get my prosthesis on.

For a split second, I think it'll work.  (Things usually work here, even when they don't at home!)

But... Nope.

I feel the shadow of discouragement.

"We've got to get you walking again," Tim says.

And with those words, my insides light up. 

He has a plan.  

He'll make me a new socket.  Maybe temporary.  Maybe not.  One that will fit my leg now, not as it used to be.

The SOONER the BETTER, he says.

I am 100% in.

We go into the casting room.  

Wrap my leg in plastic.  

Don the funny shorts.  

Flashback to Mile 2,015.
They're always in style!

The drill is familiar -- and filled with hope.

The cast will become a mold for a test-socket, which'll be modified as many times as necessary until it captures the new shape of my residual limb.

I loved my old socket, with its soft magenta interior and butterfly on the side.  It had carried me through a lot.

But maybe letting it go -- at least for now -- is the ticket to move forward.

Socket fit is a multi-step, patience-draining, fine-tuning process.  

In my earliest miles with a prosthesis, my dad drove me back and forth to Prosthetic Innovations for fittings and adjustments.  

I always felt down beforehand.  

And up afterward.

It became a joke between us --

I didn't just get a leg adjustment. 

I got an attitude adjustment too.

Lucky for us,
they were buy one, get one free!

This time around I know what to expect.  

The journey back to "two feet" is not going to be simple.  It will likely be uncomfortable, maybe even painful at first.  I'll have to rebuild my strength and tolerance.  

It will require perseverance, flexibility, and adjustment -- in both leg and attitude. :)

Casting is just the first step.

But I know about first steps too.

And this one feels like a HOPEFUL start.

Walk on,

Rebecca

Thank You Jefferson First-Years!

Mile Marker 12,050:

New students.
White coats.

So much hope and promise in one room!

At Jefferson University, Medical School begins with listening to patient stories.  

It's hard to express how much this means to me.  

There's nothing quite like a doctor who listens.  (I learned this from my own medical team!)

It eases pain and anxiety.  

It builds relationships and trust.

It makes all the difference.

I've been a "patient speaker" in this class for several years, yet it always has an impact on me.

I admire the journey of these "first-year" students.  I'm amazed by the questions they ask.  I'm awed by their insight, not as doctors (just yet!), but as fellow humans with their own life experience that inspired them to take this path. 

It's a full auditorium today.  

Dr. McNett interviews me.

As I look out across that sea of white coats, I imagine my story landing gently -- like a small stone -- and rippling outward, as if the care I received from my own doctors could touch future patients and families.

It's an honor to share my story with these students.

Especially because they're listening. 

Thank you for the warm welcome, Class of 2027!  

I know you'll make a difference in the lives of your patients.

You've already made a difference in mine.

Walk on,
Rebecca

Allez!

Twelve years ago this week, I wrote a little post called Go!

July 9, 2011

See that look on my face?  

That cautious smile of joy and relief.  After 8 long months of recovery and rebuilding, I had finally reached the start of a new journey.

I thought those first steps would propel me full speed ahead.  I thought I already had the hang of it.

Little did I know, we don't face the starting line just once.  

We step up to it day after day after day... (x 12 years and counting!)

Now, as I pass Go for the dozenth time, I'm preparing for yet another change in direction. 

My friends joke that I'm in training for the Tour de France.  

And they're not far off.

Soon, I'll be embarking on a travel writing course -- in PARIS!

(Remember author Rolf Potts who inspired Mile 9,393?  He's teaching it!)  

It's true.  I have been training for this.  

Walking longer and farther.    

Adjusting my prosthetic socket.

Doing PT exercises to aid my digestion.

Sweat-testing my leg.

This whole year, I've been working to get my body (and hardware) in shape to keep up with "able-bodied" classmates while trekking around Paris in the summer heat.

Of course, as I near the finish line, plans unravel.

My body reacts terribly to a new medication.  My prosthesis clicks and beeps in all the wrong places.  Even my household appliances are on the fritz...

Help!  I need a sign.  (Or maybe fewer signs!)

Enter the Tour de France.

(The real one!)

I'm just a spectator, but I take its lessons to heart.

These riders are the best of the best.  They've dreamed and trained and, in many cases, crawled their way back from life-threatening injuries to qualify for this epic race -- 21 stages in 23 days -- the most challenging event in professional cycling.  

I see their steepest climbs and sharpest descents.  I cringe when they crash.  I watch with wonder as they get back on their bikes.

There are 22 teams.  

Which means 22+ strategies.  

Which means their plans unravel too,  

Often as they near the finish line. 

They just pedal harder.

Each stage ends in utter exhaustion.   

And then -- in the blazing sun of the next day -- the riders take their places at another starting line ALL OVER AGAIN.

They know nothing of me -- with my little Peacock subscription and my even smaller TV screen.  I'm just another fan watching from afar, a former biker, shouting Allez! from my couch in Philly.

And yet, I feel connected.  

It's their RESILIENCE that resonates most.

I'm amazed how they step up to that start line and embrace a new "stage" -- day after day after day.

It's been 12 years, and I'm approaching 12,000 MILES on a prosthetic leg. 

Journey willing, that start line will be Paris!

And if I'm lucky, I'll watch those riders from the sidelines -- as they sprint toward the finish of their final stage -- and I'll be shouting Allez! in person.

I'll send you a postcard. 

Allez!

Rebecca

P.S.  I found a sign :)

Pink

This day needs a reboot, and it's only 6 AM.

I work harder to get into my prosthesis.

I stamp the foot, pressing down as hard as I can.  Shift my weight onto the right side.  Then back again to the left.  I do this over and over (and over and over and over) again.  

10 times...
12 times...
24 times...

Today, even more times....

It's a workout.

You'd laugh if you watched.  It's like a clumsy Irish dance.  Or an elephant stamping out a herd of ants.

"My downstairs neighbors love it," I sometimes joke. "Especially early in the morning."  

But today I don't feel like laughing.  Today it's just exhausting.

My abdomen isn't great either.  Digestive issues woke me throughout the night, and now it feels like there's a rock ricocheting around my belly as I jump up and down.  

And then... my phone tings on the nightstand.  A text.

Come on.  This early??

It feels like the whole world has its act together, and I've already fallen behind.

From my very first miles as an amputee, I learned it was better to step out than to stay in.  So I grab my jacket and coffee cup, and close the door behind me.

It's a small victory.

Halfway down the street, I run into Donna.  (Actually she's the runner, so she runs into me.)  

I greet her with a litany of complaints about the day so far. 

But by the time we round the next corner, the conversation changes course.

The sun throws shadows down Market Street, and Donna tells me about a new pizza place she and Mike tried.  They got pepperoni.  With a coupon.  Win-win.

Our chat jumps around as much as I jumped around to get my leg on.

We steer clear of sidewalk hazards.  Stop for coffee.  

And eventually, we end up here...

...in the pink!

As we pause with wonder underneath, something inside me shifts ever so slightly.

Maybe it's that color pink -- a mix of pale and hot -- which I always envisioned as my "power color" when I climbed.

Or maybe it's the parallel between my body and nature.  (Nothing's permanent... this too shall pass!)

Or maybe it's the vibe that comes from running into a friend on a morning when you need one.

Yes, yes, it's definitely that :)

Or maybe it's just getting out of the house -- and out of my head!

I don't understand it anymore than I understand why my leg and my abdomen picked this particular morning to act up at the same time.  Oh well.

Whatever it is -- like other signs from other morning walks -- those blossoms shout out a message to me.

When life gives you a reboot, run with it.  

Or in my case...

walk with it!

Happy 13th Riley!

If you want to measure time and distance, just watch a child grow up.

In November 2010, when my sister Sam got the call that I'd been critically injured in an accident, she plopped my then 8-month-old niece, Riley, into a car seat and embarked on an unplanned 400-mile road trip from Vermont to Philly.  

In the months that followed, they retraced that trip together many times.  

Riley became quite the seasoned traveler.  She even sneaked into the hospital to keep my spirits up.

Back then, she was nowhere near the minimum visitor age of 13.  

What a rebel!

As I made progress, we wondered who'd walk first -- me or Riley.

At Mile 15, it was too close to call.

Riley grew up with me as an amputee.  

She was perceptive.  No one had to tell her.  She just figured it out on her own.

In preschool, her class learned about the human body.  You know how that lesson goes...

Everyone has two eyes,
two ears,
two arms,
two hands...

But when the teacher got to the part about "two legs," Riley piped up.

"Not everyone has two legs," she announced.  "My aunt only has one."

The teacher was a bit embarrassed.  

I was thrilled. :)

Today is Riley's birthday.  She's 13!

She is smart and sarcastic and all the things a brand new teenager should be.

She plays basketball.  Wears makeup.  Loves hanging out with her friends.  

Shopping is her favorite pastime.  (She gets that part from me!)

At 13, Riley is way cooler than I ever was.

And I'm just fine with that!

We've crossed a lot of time and distance together. 

I don't think about it everyday.  Usually I'm just her aunt.  And she's my niece.  But once in a while -- on milestone days like today -- I stop and take a look around.

Watching Riley grow up has been like a measuring stick for my own journey.

It's amazing to look back at where we've been.  

But it's even more fun to look ahead -- and imagine where we might go.

Walking Day 2023

My leg feels heavy this morning.

It happens sometimes. We had a winter warm-up these last few days, so I switched from boots to lighter shoes.  This morning, the temp dips back to 39.

And I'm in boots again.

They're heavy!

For an amputee, a little thing like changing shoes can make or break your day.  

It's simple physics:  when you lift a long prosthesis with a short lever (a.k.a. 10-inch residual limb), any additional weight can be challenging.

I'm an "experienced walker" now, so I try to roll with it.

Today marks 12 years since I took my first steps on a prosthesis.  Woo-hoo!

Here's the video of those steps back in February 2011.  

I called it Walking Day.

I used to take baby steps.  But it's been 12 years, so I guess now I walk like a "tween."  (This would explain my leg's moodiness!)

Some days I walk easily, almost like my old self.  
Other days, I can't walk at all.  
Most days fall somewhere in between.

For all the advances in medicine and technology, walking is an inexact science that depends on a thousand factors... 

muscle strength and skin,

efficiency and energy,
comfort and pain,

prosthetic fit,

priceless "leg time."

Still, it's good to get out there.

Movement, no matter how slow, usually empowers me.  Fresh air, no matter how cold, usually resets my mind.  

I don't have to go far or fast.

To notice small changes along the path.

A glimpse of sky,
no matter how small,
helps put problems in perspective.

Walking (or not) has helped me process life as an amputee.  It gives me a frame on which to hang "good leg days" and not-so-good ones.  

Over time, I've tried to get comfortable in both spaces.

This morning I heard a quote by Chinese leader Deng Xiaoping.  He said it more than 40 years ago to describe the phenomenon of China's gradual growth and expansion:

Crossing the river by feeling the stones.

Today, these words capture my journey. 

You'd think by now I could cross that river in leaps and bounds, my eyes steadily fixed on the other side.

But really, I still feel each stone.

I lean into the walk -- each walk -- with all its weight and varied terrain.

Even now, after 12 years, learning as I go.  

Happy Walking Day 2023!

Small Walk. Big View.

It's one of my best kept secrets...

Morning Miles are just a slow stroll around the block.

My closest friends know this.  So does my family.  But outside that circle, it might appear different.  Now you know too. 

Small walk. Big view.
(And if I'm lucky -- coffee!)

That's how I roll.

Today a ribbon of pink arches across the OC sky.  I watch it from all angles as I circle the same sidewalk as yesterday.

Sure, I dream of venturing farther.

Reaching different neighborhoods,

trying new cafés,
really getting a morning workout...

But that's not how it usually happens.  

Here's the real story:

Each morning -- body permitting -- I wake up, get ready, and get my leg on.  (Some days, this is a bigger project than others.)

Then I head out.

I don't have to go far.  There are no expectations.  Still, there's something special about traveling the same path each day, no matter how small.  

Sometimes it's the friends I meet.  

Sometimes it's the coffee. 
Sometimes it's the sky.

Before I know it, I'm back home for breakfast.  

Fueled by the views along the way.

Rise and Meet the Day

WOO-HOO from Mile Marker 10,000!

Guess who just walked 10,000 miles on a prosthetic leg??

This kid!

I'm gonna keep this postcard short, but I didn't want it to get lost in the mail.

Long story short, I almost missed 10,000...

What's in a New Socket?

Greetings from Mile Marker 9,559!

What's in a new socket? 

Me.

After a record 3 years (and 3,000 miles) in my old one, it's time.

Wait, you say, you got a new leg?

Nope, not quite...

Be There

Hello from Mile 9,422...

... on Kelly Drive! 

It's the most crowded place I've been in a year.  But with Rocco and Susan, I feel safe.  

That's why we call them my Secret Service :)

Long before the accident, we skated and biked together -- many times on this exact path.  We always watched out for each other.  Made sure none of us got hurt or left behind.

After my accident, they watched out for me even more...

Plant an Idea

Greetings from Mile 9400 --

Where ideas take root in Washington Square!

Mônica and I always walk the same route.  

Fewer decisions about streets and sidewalks leaves space for other things - like talking about her children's books or my November novel, or even this next step on the blog...

I'm Starting Again... Again! (How about you?)

Mile 9385:  

How do we move forward in uncertain times?

Yep, it's time to venture out again.

Mask?  Check.
Hand sanitizer?  Check.
Walking buddy?  Check.

At least, some things haven't changed... 

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.)  

Note to Self

Mile Marker 6975:

Everything will be all right in the end.  
If it's not all right, it is not yet the end.

--Simit Patel, Hotel Manager,

 The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

I'd like to write a letter to that girl in the wheelchair.  

Brick by Brick

Mile Marker 5,655:

When the going gets tough, the tough get small.

At least I do anyway.

On my morning walks -- which have been a struggle lately -- I focus on bricks.

Why bricks?

How to Climb Anything

Mile Marker 5373:

I stand on the floor, fingers curled around the start holds.  Carabiners locked.  Leg locked.  

"Climbing!" I call.

And whoever's belaying me -- Sarah, or Sara, or Marian, or Jacki, or Peet, or Julia, or Carly, or Alyson, or Jake  -- calls back.

"Climb on!"

Those two small words launch me up the rock wall.

My goal this summer had nothing to do with climbing...

Lucky 13

Mile Marker 5200:

My niece Brianna just turned 13.

At Mile Marker 5200, I trail behind her through the narrow aisles of Primark, her favorite store in the mall.

The Limb Loss Lowdown - Week 1

It's April!

HAPPY LIMB LOSS AWARENESS MONTH...