Sunflowers

Hello from Mile Marker 13,772 at Substack!

I feel like a stranger in a strange land here, but lucky for me, I've got a wondeful guide.  Fellow writer Gabrielle Kaplan-Mayer has a beautiful Substack called Journey with the Seasons, and she asked me if I'd write a guest post.

At her Summer Solstice Writing Circle last week, a 4-minute prompt planted the seed for this story.  I'm so grateful to share it with you.

Some walks shine brighter with time.  To me, this is one of them.  

Just click on the sunflowers below. :)

Thanks for walking (and reading) with me!
Rebecca

My first Substack piece! Thank you so much @Gabrielle Ariella Kaplan-Mayer for planting the seed for this story and spreading its light!

- Rebecca Levenberg

Read on Substack

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.

Protected

12 years later, I am here...

Happy Alive Day!

Each year on the anniversary of my accident, I find myself standing on the corner of 5th Street and Washington Avenue in South Philly. 

I watch the traffic go by, breathe in the autumn air, and stare wistfully (or perhaps lovingly) at a little patch of blacktop that's so familiar I consider it mine.

Today the blacktop is different.

(And I've never been more excited to write a blog post in my life!)

This intersection -- which has felt to me like the most vulnerable place in the world -- is now PROTECTED.

With a brand new
PROTECTED BIKE LANE!

It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.  

The best "Alive Day" gift I could have asked for. 

(Seriously, my eyes tear up with joy!)

A biker in a gold helmet approaches, following the same route I rode on this exact day 12 years ago.  I snap a pic as she passes by. 

It feels like the whole street
should be paved with gold!

I look both ways and then step carefully onto the green lines myself.  The paint is still fresh; the colors, impossibly bright.  

My eyes follow the smooth curve of white strokes on the ground.

I admire the row of perfectly placed posts, dividing the roadway between traffic and bicycles.

I knew this was in process.  It's been years in the making.  But I drove by just weeks ago -- and none of this was here! 

(It's so new, it comes with instructions!)

I step back on the sidewalk to take it all in.  An ambulance passes.  Then a few trucks.  Then some kick-scooters.  Then another bike. 

Washington Ave. is busy as always, but it feels different somehow.  Changed.

I have to tell you... I almost didn't go back this year.  

I've changed too, and I felt a strong pull to do this day differently.  To turn a new page.  Get a fresh start.

I wondered if it was time.  But how would I know?

Is 12 years too soon to move on?
Or is it too late?

Turns out, 12 years is just right.

This isn't the end of the journey, really.  Just the end of a certain chapter.  There'll be many more milestones, I'm sure.

Maybe I'll write about them. 

Or maybe I'll move on to something new.   

Whatever happens next, this little patch of blacktop will always be with me.  It's a cherished, sacred part of who I am.

Today, like always,
I leave a little something behind.

But today, leaving feels different.  Better.  Less unfinished.  More secure.  

Wherever I go, I'll know this place is taken care of. 

Its markings will be there to protect all who pass through.  Bikers on their way to work, like I was.  Kids on their way to school.  Skaters, scooters, strollers, and so many more.

What could be better than that?

Thank you Philly!

Be safe, everyone.  Buckle your helmet.  Pedal on.

And, as a wise PT once taught me, don't forget to enjoy the ride!

xo,

Rebecca

Vision Zero's goal is to reduce traffic deaths to zero by 2030.  For more on Vision Zero Philly and protected bike lanes, click here.

Lost and Found

Hello from Mile Marker 11,050...

Where I've lost my grandmother's bracelet.

I don't know why I'm surprised.  

It's November.  The season of lost and found.

When I got dressed this morning, the bracelet's catch was loose, but I pressed it closed and headed out the door.

One lap around the block, and I noticed it was gone.

I retrace my steps, stopping back at Old City Coffee to ask the staff to keep an eye out.

"It's a small gold ID bracelet inscribed with my grandmother's name," I tell them.  They know my regular coffee order -- "small with almond milk" -- but now they take down my phone number too.  

It's a new level of intimacy, this shared loss.  

We've all lost things we love.  We all understand.

I circle around the block again, this time in reverse, trying to unwind time, as if the fragile bracelet would leap off the leaf-strewn sidewalk and back onto my wrist.  

It's hard to walk in this direction.  The slant of the sidewalk is wrong for my gait.  I hike my prosthetic over the incline, trying not to trip, scanning my eyes back and forth thorough the confetti of red and gold leaves.  I tell myself it's OK.  It's only a bracelet.  An object that belonged to my grandmother.  It's not her.

Still, I keep searching.

Just a glimmer.  A tiny spark.  That's all I need to find.

It is just a bracelet.  I know that.  But I'm sensitive to losing things.  It has always unsettled me, but even more so since the accident.  

And especially at this time of year.

Two mornings from now -- on November 9 -- as the sun rises over Washington Avenue, it will be exactly 12 years since I was hit by a truck at this intersection.

I still remember what I lost in that early morning sunlight -- my leg, my health, my life BEFORE -- and the many losses that unfolded in the days and years that followed.

But as time passes, I find that I'm more and more focused on what I've found AFTER.

And all that's found me, too :)

Family.  Friends. Community.  A whole team of helpers and healers.  (You know who you are!)  And this life we've built together.

Celebrating my "Alive Day" reminds me to pause, look back, and give thanks for the distance we've covered.

To embrace where I am now,

Even in the struggle.

To find gratitude and hope,

Even in the smallest steps.

At Mile 11,051 -- give or take a few of those steps -- I arrive home, eyes still cast downward, feeling this newest loss like a small hole in my heart.  

I've swept over every inch of sidewalk.  The bracelet is nowhere, seemingly vanished into the autumn air.

Then, I reach down to adjust the waistband of my pants.  

And something shiny falls into my fingers.  The unlatched bracelet.  Lost and found!

Sometimes, miraculously, things find their way back.

Every year is a privilege.  I hope I never lose that perspective.

Happy Year 12.

Thank you for walking with me!
Rebecca

(P.S.  Most of these photos were taken after the bracelet was found.  Some feelings are too intense to capture on film. xo)

10 Blocks Away

Hello from Mile Marker 10,544...

It's a beautiful morning in Philly.

The neighborhood is quiet.  A young couple snaps wedding photos in the sunlight.  When I walk by Old Christ Church, a choir sings on the breeze. 

My new foot feels especially springy.  

People smile.  Say good morning.  Breathe the fresh air.

The humidity has somehow vanished overnight.

Also overnight, my phone tinged with this text message:

2 AM:  There was a shooting incident in the vicinity of 4th and South Streets.  The Center City ED has received multiple victims.  There is significant police presence around the emergency department.  The ED is on divert...

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... 

What's your story?

Mile Marker 7816:

Stay calm, breathe; you're in good hands, competent hands; these hands can save your life; they've saved others' lives, applied bandages, hooked up IV lines, removed pain; relax, that one drip will bring relief; inhale the tingling that feels like fireflies in your head; lie back on the clean, sterile sheet, newly spread across the gurney just for you; stay calm, breathe; relief is just moments away; brace yourself for the long haul; inhale past the tube in your nose and throat, scratchy and hard-to-swallow; embrace the heartbeat of the hospital; bandages on and off; new IVs every three days; nurses in and out, 7 to 7, like sunrise and sunset; stay calm, breathe; lie back against the raised head of your bed; press a button, help will come; the days will start and end and start again; time will crawl by; keep your eyes on the second hand of the clock, the one that hangs on the blue wall across from your bed (a blue darker and more muddled than the sea or sky); count the minutes, the hours till morning; watch the tiny DVD screen; stare out your doorway into the dim light of the corridor; close your eyes; stay calm, breathe.

Whew.  

Trauma Survivors Day

Mile Marker 7395:

Cycling with surgeons?  Yes please.

On the heels of Nurse Appreciation Week comes Trauma Survivors Day.

Coincidence?  I think not.  

Nurse Appreciation Week

Mile Marker 7377:

Cure sometimes, treat often, comfort always.

--Hippocrates

I don't remember the first week after my accident.  

Being the Change

Mile Marker 6825:

Really November?  It's been 8 years.  How about cutting me a break?

Um, that's a "No."

As in NOvember... 

Training Camp

Mile Marker 6550:

"Don't take this the wrong way," Justen says. "You're like a puppy on the wall."

I've just finished my warm-up climb -- an easy corner route with good jugs for hands and a ton of foot holds.  Justen (a.k.a. the Climbing Sensei) has worked with many adaptive climbers, and I'm eager to hear his feedback.

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?

What Happened to You?

Mile Marker 5575:  

On a Saturday afternoon, my mom and I are running errands at the Montgomery Mall.  As I'm strolling through Macy's housewares department, a saleswoman turns to me unexpectedly.

"What happened to you?"  she says.

For a split-second, I have no idea what she's talking about.  What happened to me?  When?  Today?

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.

5 Ways to Escape (when you can't go to France)

Mile Marker 5042:

I live inside a construction zone.


My windows are coated with dust, and the air smells of exhaust.  The view from my balcony looks like feeding time at Jurassic Park.

And there's no escape...

So She Did

Mile Marker 5000:

Just like that, I land back in my happy place.

Well, "just like that" is a bit of an understatement.

What I mean is, after flying for 11 hours, trekking through 3 airports, adjusting to a 6 hour time change, pulling 44 pounds of luggage over cobblestones in the pouring rain, and wearing my leg for 22 hours straight...

Happy New Year!

Mile Marker 4700:

At 8 a.m. the fire alarm blasts.

It's our first one of the year -- a false alarm, thank goodness!

Still it's jarring, and heart pounding, and blaringly loud.  The siren echoes off the walls of my bedroom.  

At least I have my leg on.

Places I've Been

Mile Marker 4450: 

They say you can't go back, but really you can.

It's just not the same.

Take Chicago.  Or more specifically, a bike path in Chicago...

Handled With Care

Mile Marker 446:

Cleverness is a gift; kindness is a choice.

--Jeff Bezos, founder of Amazon, speaking at Princeton University’s Graduation

‘Tis the season for speeches and send-offs.  Everyone, it seems, is going somewhere.  Moving on.

Last Wednesday, I stood behind a podium as tall as I was.  The auditorium was filled with doctors, nurses, hospital administrators, patients, and families (including mine).

At Mile Marker 446, I was honored to be speaking at Jefferson Hospital’s Excellence in Trauma Awards. 

My voice echoed through the large room.  I talked about strength, compassion, courage, and hope.  I tried to explain all that my medical team had done for me.  How, for the past 18 months, I’d been handled with such CARE.

As the words unfolded, I studied the audience.  Nods, chuckles, even a few tears.  But was I getting my point across?

Near the end of the speech, I spotted a friendly face in the front row.   Dr. Nate.   He looked different in his suit and tie.  But then he shot me a smile and a quick wink.  Yep, that was him.

As a resident, Dr. Nate embodied what I was trying to say.   Day after day, his tall frame filled my hospital doorway.  His disarming half-smile calmed my nerves.

He became so familiar that I never even bothered with his last name.  Like Madonna, or Adele, or Prince -- he was simply Nate.  The Best Supporting Surgeon on my amazing team.

He set the bar high for newer residents.  I wouldn't let them touch my bandages or detach the Wound Vac machine without his supervision.  And he was a MASTER of distraction.   He used his sense of humor – along with a strong IV drip -- to keep me in stitches !  (The "ha ha" kind.)

But the moment I remember most came five days after my bowel obstruction surgery.   I just couldn't bring myself to try solid food.  I could not forget that excruciating pain.

With impeccable timing, Dr. Nate popped into my doorway.  “Want to see a picture of your intestines?” he asked.

He wore a mischievous smile.  It was lunchtime.

I glanced down at the untouched Salisbury steak on my tray.  “Sure,” I said.  “Why not?"

Nate bent down to show me.  In the photo, my intestine looked like a pinkish-brown zig-zagging ribbon, gathered tightly by a thick, dark rubber band.  Below the band, it swelled up like a bubble of inflated chewing gum.  The source of the pain.

Nate pointed to the evil-looking rubber band.  “See this part?” he said.  “It’s not there anymore.”

So that was it.  He’d given me proof.  My intestines and I were free!

With that picture engraved in my mind, I started eating.  Right then and there.  Sometimes medicine just needs a little extra touch.


When the awards ceremony ended on Wednesday afternoon, I talked with my nurses and doctors.  Thanking them for all they'd done -- however big or small.

"But I only took care of you a few times," said Nurse Leslie.

"You were there for me when I needed you," I replied, "and you're there for OTHERS everyday."

Nurses Julie and Deb...
Where would I be without them??

Each person at that ceremony -- doctors, nurses, patients, and families -- had stories to tell.  Snapshots of strength and sadness, courage and hope.  Small moments they remembered.  People and events that had come together to create HEALING.

I chatted with Dr. Nate, too -- this time, without the need for IV cocktails or intestinal photos.

I learned he has 3 kids.  I learned he’s a cyclist who often bikes to work.  I also learned that it's his last year here, that he’s leaving in June to take a research position at another hospital.

This third fact occupied my mind the whole way home.

Because when Dr. Nate goes, my hospital will lose a drop of its KINDNESS.  Just one small spoonful in the vast ocean that exists there.  But it will leave a ripple. 

As a teacher, I've grown used to graduations.   I know that endings are beginnings, too.  Still, not a day passes when I don't think about my medical team.  They are always there for me in the background, urging me ahead as I move on.

With Nate’s departure this summer, a new class of residents, nurses, and students will arrive -- full of enthusiasm and ready to learn.    

Pay attention, I want to tell them.  That bar is HIGH.

Because you are learning from the BEST.

Pedal on, Dr. Nate --

Wishing you a smooth road, a swift tailwind, and a safe ride!