Jar of Stones

Greetings from the Schuylkill Expressway.  

At Mile 13,810, I've never been happier to be speeding toward that Philadelphia skyline.

It's been a tough travel weekend.

I could show you the highlight reel...

The Chelsea Flea Market
with the best sister ever!

A wild game of UNO with my favorite threesome.

A one-pound baby goat named Onyx.

And an evening stroll
through sleepy Montpelier.

Those were good moments -- fresh air, farm life, family fun -- and I wouldn't trade them for not going at all. 

My mom and I have done this roadtrip dozens of times.  We've learned to love its rhythm and pick the best rest stops along the way.

But this time felt different.  I was preoccupied; my body, more demanding.  

A lowlight reel unspooled, like static, beneath it all.

Was it the weather?  The food?  The terrain?  Too much time in the car?

It's challenging to manage my health at home and harder away from home.  Always.  

I know this already -- I've learned to expect it -- but this trip was sort of a tipping point.

There were no emergencies, no hospital visits (thank goodness!).  It was just my body being my body.  Disability stuff.  Health stuff.   A bit louder than usual.

You know that analogy of stones in a jar?

It goes like this:

If life is a jar, we should fill it with big stones first -- the most important, most necessary things -- and let the smaller pebbles and grains of sand -- the less important things -- fall in between.

In theory, I like it.  It's about priortizing what's most important. 

It's the reason I drive 8 hours to see my nieces and nephew (even if my body doesn't love the plan).

And there lies my issue.  Or more precisely, my jar...

The biggest stones are difficult to fit.  Some lurk down at the bottom -- taking up space and clogging things up -- and sometimes they grow larger without warning.  

Everything else, no matter how much I love it, gets piled on top.  

And sometimes the jar overflows.

I yearn to move freely -- to be 100% in the moment wherever I am -- to float to the top and leave the distractions of my body behind.  

That's not always easy.

When the Philly skyline comes into view, I am flooded with relief.  It bubbles up and runs down the sides of my jar.  

I let it.

I am just minutes from home -- a place where I can revel in routine, regenerate my body, and (hopefully) recalculate an easier route for the next journey.

Because yes, of course, I'll take it.

What's in your jar?

Walk on,
Rebecca

P.S. While writing this postcard, I heard the latest episode of Kate Bowler's podcast, 'Everything Happens.'  It spoke to me.  If your jar is feeling a bit too full this summer, perhaps it'll speak to you too.  Listen here.

A Postcard from Above

 Happy 4th from Mile 13,790... 

... 3 stories up!

A couple passes on the sidewalk below.

My friends and I call them "The Nines."

They're in freshly-pressed whites -- she, a collared dress; he, a tee with dark jeans -- and matching straw hats.  They look good, as always.  

Dressed to the.... Well, you get the idea. :)

A blue Prius drives by, then a red Accord.  Both have the soft hum of electric engines which I've heard are just a sound effect for safety, yet always unnerve me.  They sound sneaky, like the breath of Darth Vader.

To the south, an airplane buzzes toward the airport.
To the north, a train rumbles over the Ben Franklin Bridge.

I'm up here on my balcony perch, observing it all.

I could venture out, explore the festivities.  

And maybe I should, but I know what my body needs.  

Tomorrow I'm driving to Virginia to see my friend Amy.  And Rule #1 of Adaptive Travel (at least for me) is "Pace yourself."

So I watch from above as icy Starbucks drinks bob along the sidewalk below.

"Aaah-oooo!"  A loud sneeze echoes off the buildings, so forceful it drops the "ch" all together.

"Daddy, you scared me!" says a small voice.

It belongs to a girl in a one-piece sunsuit, the kind I grew up wearing in the 70's.  It's blue and white gingham, buttoned at the shoulders, with red roses sprinked across the crinkly fabric.  She skips ahead to take her dad's hand.  

Cars clink over the manhole cover.
Bikes pass silently in the bikelane.

I watch people walk.  Always.

There are long legs,
bow legs,
short shorts,

swishy sundresses,
Crocs,

Birkenstocks, 

Hokas.

Me?

I watch from above with one shoe off and one shoe on.  (The prosthetic foot doesn't get hot!)

Since early this morning, I've been thinking about people, here and around the world, who don't have independence -- or won't in the days ahead.  

I often feel my own independence is tied to ability -- or disability.

But that's really just a small part of it.

Independence is like quality of life.  It's the freedom to make our own decisions, to write and speak and live in peace, to maximize our health, to safely access what we need.

Today, from up here, I'm grateful to have it all.

Happy 4th!

Walk on,

Rebecca

Happy(er)

Beep beep! from Mile Marker 12,111...

On our first ride together, I can't find the odometer.  

Then I see this two-digit number at the bottom of the dash.

40 mi.

40 miles?  For this trip?  

Nope.  Just 40 miles. 

Total. 

That's the odometer -- haha!

It's the first smile we share. :)

Happy new car!

Screech!  Reverse...

I did not want to get a new car.   

Or a new microwave.  Or a new toilet.  

I did not want my apartment's HVAC to clink and clank like there's a ping pong ball in the pipes. 

I did not want to send my prosthesis in for maintenance the week before I left for Paris.  And I definitely did not want to brew a stress fracture in my right foot (a.k.a. real foot) the week I returned.

I haven't walked in more than a month, aside from what's absolutely necessary.  Do I sound irritable?  I'm irritable.

Morning miles were a way to shape my day.  

Without them, I've lost some momentum.

In the world of illness and injury, these are all small things. 

I know.  I get it.

But they happen in the context of bigger things. 

A few weeks ago, I heard this line on a StoryCorps podcast:

Always look where you want to go, not where you want to avoid.

It was advice from a dad to his son, who was learning to drive.  

It made me realize how much I've been focusing on what I want to avoid these days -- pain, struggle, frustration, anger, fatigue -- all those sensations we feel when things (big or small) break down and pile up.  Some days, all I can think about is what's broken.

But dads are wise.  

Especially when it comes to cars.

At Mile 12,111, I wake up early, with fresh perspective and new energy.

It's Labor Day.  

September.  

(Old teaching habits live on.)

And I have this thought:

Not everything is happy, but could I make things a little... happier?

Instead of a sluggish start at home, I rush through my routine, get my leg on, and go out.

Walk (or limp) into the parking garage. 

Get in the car. 

Drive to CVS.

It's a mere 2 blocks from the apartment -- somewhere I used to walk -- but hey, who's counting?  

I hobble in for a quick errand.  And then, the magic happens.

My new car and I conjure up the tiniest little adventure. 

'Cause we've gotta celebrate Mile 100! 

We drive to the Italian Market, where Gleaner's Café has just opened.  

It's my old favorite coffee spot -- one I can only reach on 4 wheels.

I pull out my coffee card and realize I've earned a free cup.  Better yet, I snag one of the last Hershey's Kisses in Gleaner's history!

Woo-hoo!

It's a small happy thing -- which makes me think of other happy things, big and small.

Through all the obstacles this summer, I'm grateful for family and friends who've come to my rescue and supported me along the way.  

I picked up my new car on September 1.  

I chose her carefully with love and guidance from -- you guessed it -- my dad.

And maybe it sounds silly, but...

I think she's HAPPY to be mine!

Drive safe. Be happy(er).

Rebecca

Where Would You Walk?

Mile Marker 12,072:

I'm grounded at home this weekend.

I was supposed to be visiting my favorite Vermonters. I'd bought an airline ticket and everything!

Then, out of nowhere, my right foot starts aching.  

(Yes... the real one.)

Technically, it isn't out of nowhere.  

I often get right foot pain, especially at the end of the day.  Sometimes my knee swells, or my ankle, or both.  Like most unilateral amputees, I depend on my "sound side" for balance and performance.  A solid step with my right leg makes my prosthetic knee bend more fluently -- and my gait more natural.  Plus, you can't wear a prosthesis 24/7.  When I take my leg off, my sound side does 100% of the work. 

It's called "overuse."

At first, it's just a pang when I step down on the ball of my foot.  I ignore it and keep walking. 

But a few days later, I can barely bear weight.

Cue the alarms.  

I NEED TO PROTECT MY RIGHT FOOT.  

IT'S THE ONLY ONE I HAVE.

(This has happened before, but I don't want to think about it.  If you want, you can read about it here.) 

And so... 

Twenty-four hours before departure, I make the best -- and only -- decision for my body.  

I cancel the whole trip.  

At that very moment, an article lands in my inbox: 

The Most Walkable City on Each Continent.

Cruel joke?  Maybe.

I click on it anyway.

While I'm on hold with the airline, I open up Kayak and plug in the recommended cities.

• Boston
• Madrid
• Marrakech
• Buenos Aires
• Wellington
• Hoi An

Just for kicks, I set my travel dates for September.  (It's my fantasy, so why not celebrate my birthday in Spain?)

I imagine an epic, multi-city, around-the-world trip for the sole purpose (pun intended) of doing the one thing I cannot do at this very moment.

WALK.

Hey, it's cheaper than you'd think!

Dreaming of travel has always been a coping mechanism for me. 

Years ago, I'd spend lunchtimes at work scrolling through "E-saver" flights and "Travelzoo" discounts.  (Remember those?)

In the months after the accident, when I sat teary-eyed in my therapist's office -- certain I'd "never go anywhere ever again" -- she encouraged me to hop on over to Amazon and find books that would take me places.

I ordered this one first --
And it was too heavy to lift on my crutches!

Later, 400 miles into this journey -- recovering from yet another surgery -- I wrote my own Walking Wish List.  

All the places I'd walk IF or WHEN I could...

Click here to see it.

Now, I'm amazed at how many
of those boxes I've checked off!!

Eventually the American Airlines rep takes me off hold.  

She adjusts my flight plans without a penalty.  My Airbnb host is equally understanding.  It reminds me of the kindness I encounter whenever I travel.

Today, there will be no morning miles.  I'll conserve my limited "foot time" for basic activities at home.

I hobble around the kitchen like a robot crossed with a baby deer.  

I brew a pot of coffee my friend Priti brought back from India.

I open up biscuits and jam from our neighborhood in Paris.

I spoon out granola from my favorite local coffee shop.

Then I gather up everything and limp out to the balcony,

where I gingerly remove my right shoe.

Less than 70 miles ago, I was exploring Paris on foot -- not quite easily, but filled with joie de vivre!  

And now... I'm HERE.

It's hard to reconcile these two truths.  

I have a disability that's both permanent and variable.  It's who I am as a traveler.  

Slow or fast.

Near or far.

Walking, like health, is the most fragile of privileges.

Of all the places to be grounded at Mile 12,072,

I am extra grateful for this
corner of the sky.

Fingers (and 5 toes) crossed, there'll be many miles ahead. 

I'm open to ideas.

Where would you walk?
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

Stop the Bleed

May is National Trauma Survivors Month -- and guess what...

You can learn to help someone survive a traumatic injury like mine.

(Yes, really!)

It's called Stop the Bleed.

Now I know what you're thinking.  I, too, sat through middle school health class in the 1980's.

Back then, tourniquets were a big NO.
And dealing with blood??  
That was an even bigger NO.

But you should know (see what I did there?) these important life-saving measures aren't NOs anymore.

First aid and trauma care have evolved since then.  

I have it from a good source  -- actually the best source -- my Jefferson Trauma Team.  

It's okay to help in an emergency.  

In fact, it's RECOMMENDED.

And EVERYONE should know how!

Stop the Bleed is a nationwide campaign to teach ordinary bystanders how to help someone who's bleeding out.  

Maybe you're out hiking or rock climbing.  

Maybe you're walking through the city.  

Maybe you're waiting at a bus stop.

With a little knowledge,
YOU can save the life of someone who's injured.

First -- CALL 911.  Make sure YOU are safe.

If the person is bleeding, apply pressure to the wound.  Both hands.  Shoulders strong.  Get down on your knees if you have to.

If the wound is wide and deep, pack it with gauze -- or whatever fabric you might have handy.  

Even a t-shirt will work.
(Trauma Nurse Nora taught me that!)

For arm or leg wounds, a tourniquet might be necessary.  Learn to use one. 

If bleeding is forceful or continuous, apply a tourniquet 2-3 inches above the wound or above the nearest joint.  (You can even make one from a cloth or belt.)

Then, stay with the person and wait for help to arrive.

As as a traumatic injury survivor, I know what it's like when bystanders don't know what to do.  My accident occurred next to a bus stop with many commuters on their way to work.  Everyone watched.  

NO ONE stepped off the sidewalk to help.

I know what it's like to lie in the street, bleeding and frightened, waiting for an ambulance to arrive. 

In 3-5 minutes, a person can bleed out from a serious wound.

It can take an average of 7-10 minutes for first responders to arrive.

I have no way of knowing if my outcome would have been different if a bystander had stepped in to stop the bleed.  

But perhaps it would have been worth a try.

We can all learn the basics. Check out Stop the Bleed Project for more information.  

You can view a short video here.  
Or a longer video here.

This month, I learned the basics and joined the Jefferson Team to help educate the public. 

It was just my first step into this important cause.  More to come...

ANYONE CAN BE A HERO.

P.S.  Stop the Bleed Kits and other first aid supplies are readily available - even on Amazon.

News from the Balcony

-- Newsflash --

My "June-blooming strawberry" has a jumpstart on the season!

As a late-bloomer myself, I'm impressed I even planted it before June!

Squished into a flower box 4 inches wide, hanging 3 stories above the city street, I wasn't even sure it would survive.  

Add to that...

swinging spring temps, 
soggy soil, 

rain for days.

Yet against all odds, it's thriving.  And early!!

Maybe it's a sign -- Should I turn over a new leaf too?  Maybe I'll too be an "early bird" from now on!

(If you know me, you're probably laughing.)

Truth is, I exist in time differently.

This spring, I've been searching for my body's own rhythms.  

Trying to accept them. Work with them.

Move in harmony with the way things are.

And discover my own pace along the way.

So for now, I'll just bloom where I'm planted.  

Consider the sweetness to come.

And enjoy the view!

Happy May!

Maintenance Required

At the end of a busy week, my car's maintenance light comes on.

Oh no!  Not now!  I don't have time for this!

Maybe you've experienced this yourself.  

Or maybe you sense some foreshadowing here.  Remember the Green Goblin? 

I had a strange symbiosis with my old car. Whenever it got a flat tire, it was a sure sign that my body was headed for a breakdown too.

But this week, that maintenance light takes me by surprise.  

After a pink-ish start, I was moving at a pretty good clip.  By Friday, I even caught up with friends Cécile and Mark for a délicieux déjeuner and petite promenade through the spring blooms of their neighborhood.

And bonus, I met their friend David --
 who's been "walking" with me (via this blog) 
for quite a while!

It was a good week -- a good "normal" kind of busy.

When things are going well, I sometimes forget that traveling with a disability uses a bit more fuel. 

At times, it drains fast and unpredictably.  My body is more sensitive to weather and schedule changes, dehydration, and overuse.  Every activity has a cost attached.

So when I suddenly feel tired and overwhelmed (a.k.a my body's maintenance light comes on), I shouldn't be surprised. 

Yep, it's that.
Exactly.

Even a "normal" week requires careful curating -- and maintenance breaks.  

It's a skill I'm still working on. 

I want to do everything, but I have to give my body what it needs.  Refuel it with short pauses.  

It's frustrating sometimes, but I try to think of them as small doses of self-care.  

It might mean canceling plans.  

Or prioritizing.  

Or scaling back a day to its most essential parts.

  

It might mean taking a breather -- like lying down to do my PT exercises.

Or feeling the sun on my face
first thing in the morning.

Or stopping to smell the flowers -- literally!

Or taking time out to write a "postcard" for this blog.  (Because that's refilling too.)

The challenge, like always, is finding a balance I can maintain.

I drive a different car now.  A hybrid. 

It's small and cute and gets about a thousand miles to the gallon.  (Kidding, of course -- but it goes pretty far on a single tank of gas!)

I wish my body had the same endurance...

As an amputee I'm grateful to be able to drive.  I depend on my car much more than I did when I had 2 legs. 

But that also means paying attention when the maintenance light comes on.  

Even if life is busy.  
Even if it's inconvenient.  
Even if it's just an oil change.

(which I hope it is!)

I know people say there's a time for everything.

I just haven't found it yet. :)

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!

To Market, To Market...

These peppers deserve their own postcard!

On an unexpected early morning, I spot them in the crowded aisle of a little Italian grocery shop called Claudio.  

"Claudio's" (as the locals say) is at the northern end of South Philly's Italian Market.  It's across from Gleaner's Café, a longtime favorite coffee stop.

After coffee, Ellen wants to pop inside for "one thing."

(It's been years since I've been in Claudio's.  So... why not?)

What starts out as a quick errand turns into a full-fledged field trip.

Don't you just love when that happens??

See, peppers aren't really the point of this postcard -- MARKETS are!

In the years of the pandemic and not traveling, I forgot the way a local market can be a travel adventure in itself.

When we step inside, all those memories come rushing back.

Take Copenhagen -- my last trip before the world shut down.

Natalie and I arrived in Copenhagen in the evening dusk.  Granted, sunset was at 3:45 PM, but after an overnight flight, a connection in London, a train from the airport, and dragging our luggage along the drizzly sidewalk, we were too exhausted to search for a restaurant. 

Instead, we were lured by the fluorescent lights of our neighborhood Lidl...

Smoked salmon!  
Dark rye!  
Local yogurt!
Bars of chocolate!  

Our eyes widened.  

Every shelf was exciting!  
Seeing Danish shoppers was exciting!  
Counting our kroner at check-out was exciting!

"The Lidl" became our regular stop
on the way home each night!

If you have mobility or health issues like I do, local markets SCORE BIG.  They're a relief  -- and a necessity -- when traveling.

They offer flat terrain,
climate control (sometimes), 
and a welcome reprieve from heavy restaurant food.

One can't subsist on pastries alone --
or at least I can't!

In Austria, where "Gluten" Morgen was a daily greeting, Marla and I (and my tender digestive system) took refuge in local shops where we could pick up fresh fruit, salads...

...and my personal fave,
homemade Austrian muesli!

And in Nice, on my very first trip overseas as an amputee, Mary and I discovered the famous and colorful outdoor market, Cours Saleya.  

A perfect place for early morning walks!

Shopping à la francaise (aka "French style")
was even better than eating out!

Our food vocabulary blossomed.  We progressed from pointing and pantomiming to actually talking our way through transactions.  

By the end of the week, we even asked a fromagière
to wrap cheese for our airline trip home!

Today's stop at Claudio's reminds me how a market is a glimpse into local life -- wherever you are.  

We stand in line behind a South Philly dad.

He orders fresh mozzarella balls,

a log of soppressata longer than my forearm, 
and a super-sized container of marinated octopus, complete with suckers.  

His wife and kids stand patiently beside him cradling bags of hand-shaped pasta.  

As they reach the check-out counter, his daughter points to a four-pack of fancy Italian lemon spritzers.  She looks hopefully at her dad.  

He nods.  And she adds it to their purchase.

"I'd like to go to his house for dinner," Ellen whispers.

By the time we step outside, it's like we just returned from Italy...

via South Philly!

No plane fare, packing, or planning.  Just minutes from home.

My souvenir -- a $6.99 jar of Sicilian-style roasted peppers with pine nuts and golden raisins. :)

Pretty good bang for the buck.

Shop on!

Happy travels,
Rebecca

Thanks St. Joe's!

Potential.

That's what I see as I stand in front of all these physical therapy students at St. Joseph's University today.

They're going to change lives!

To this amazing group...

Thank you for listening to my story and asking such thoughtful questions. 

But thanks, most of all, for setting your goals to become physical therapists.

It's impossible to put into words all the ways my own PTs supported me along this journey.  They changed my life.  And they were truly my guides -- every step of the way.

(Including an awesome PT student
named Colleen!)

I could never have done it without them!

When I look out at all of you, I envision ALL the future patients who'll achieve their goals because you achieved yours.

Best of luck with your classes and clinicals.  

I can't wait to see the difference you'll make!