Take Three

Mile Marker 930:

What to do?  

At 5:50 a.m. I am already fresh out of ideas.

It is February 11th. 

Last year on this day, I watched Bob take his historic first steps as a bilateral amputee.  And the year before, I celebrated my own WALKING DAY.

In between came parallel bars and crutches, ramps and stairs.  Four sockets and two knees.  And -- oh yeah -- one incredibly beat-up pair of sneakers.

But early this morning, I lie in bed restless.  Two years in a row, this day has been important and amazing.  Now, half-dreaming and half-awake, I rack my brain for another milestone that'll measure up.

Idea #1 floats by...

Take SEPTA to the doctor’s this afternoon.  ("Really?" all you city-dwellers groan.)  But up till now, I’ve taken my car everywhere.  Climbing those huge bus steps would mark new territory.  An adventure!

Ten minutes later, the 6 a.m. news dampens this idea.  Rain all morning.  Freezing rain, to be specific.   Not prime Walking Day weather.

On to Idea #2…

Instead of one mile on the treadmill, I’ll walk two.   I smile into the pillow.  This one has potential.  On this day each year, I'll add another mile!  A new tradition! 

Goal in mind, I head over to the rehab gym.   I pick my way carefully through the wet parking lot and then dry my shoes on the carpet just inside.  Merrily, I hop onto the treadmill.  

Unfortunately, 22 minutes and only one mile later, my leg has had enough.  Numbness sets in, along with an ominous socket rub.  I limp over to the mat.

Pull bag and towel in hand, I slip off my sweaty prosthesis.  I dry and massage my leg as I chat with workout buddies in the wellness center.

Despite the nasty weather, everyone's spirits are high.  

Beth, a fellow amputee, just celebrated her first year cancer-free!  

Check out those muscles!

18-year-old Dajon is pumpin' iron like a superhero.  And Dajon's mom, Pat, is a power-walker herself.  

Suddenly, I know exactly how to mark Mile 930 -- and this very special day!

Jess, our wellness leader (and biggest cheerleader), captures our departure on video:

We don't go far – just a victory lap around the rehab gym.  But as we put one foot in front of the other, we carve a path between the exercise machines.  We march over carpet and tile.  We wave to therapists and smile at other patients.  By the time we emerge from our short loop, our speed and rhythm transforms us into a giggling, energetic, cohesive team.

On the outside, not much has changed.  The windows are still splattered with cold rain.  The hovering sky is still shadowed in February gray.

Karen
(a.k.a. Riding Hood)
leads rainy day fun!

On my own, walking had seemed like a painful chore.  

But at Mile Marker 930 -- with these friends beside me -- each step radiates all the light and hope of the past two years.

Hello Sunshine.  This is my team.

Two years ago, between those parallel bars, I took one tentative step at a time.

Last year, I watched Bob bravely take two.

This year, it's not about what I do.  It's about who I'm with! 

 

When in doubt, take three!  I did.

HAPPY WALKING DAY!


To see footage from last year's Walking Day, click here.

Indoor Recess

Mile Marker 919:

Snowflakes, 40 m.p.h. gusts, below freezing temps...
As an amputee, the winter blues strike with a vengeance.

Slick sidewalks send my left foot sliding.  Wild winds knock me to my knees.  It's enough to make me hole up like a groundhog and sleep the season away!

So for the last few miles, my Genium and I have decided to fight back.

Call it innovation.  Call it necessity.  Call it INDOOR RECESS....

Remember how your teacher dug out the old board games when the school's playground was covered in snow?

Surprisingly, these dreary days have helped me do just that.  They've given me a chance to revisit some old skills -- to get them in shape before spring arrives.

In 6th grade, I lived for weekends at the roller rink.  Under the disco ball, my friends and I did the backwards skate, the couples skate, and the ever-popular Hey, Hey Alligator!

Now I've traded in my Jordache jeans for a prosthesis.

As the miles roll into the 900's, friends Chris and Mary reacquaint me with my indoor skating roots.  The smooth floors and repetitive laps prove to be just my speed.  While the rest of my skate pals tear up the frigid streets of Philly, I lace up, let loose, and try not to trip over toddlers!

We've even recruited a newbie --
my friend (and former nurse)
Deb's daughter, Rebecca!

Stride by stride, my footwork is making a slow, steady comeback.

I'm probably the only skater in the rink's history to wear a helmet, but better safe than sorry.  At this rate, I'd be laughed out of Jefferson's ER if I came in with a SKATING injury!


Next, I swap skates for shoes to join my amputee support group for an evening of BOWLING.

At a cool basement bowling alley in South Philly, we become bionic bowling to the 10th power!  Together, we re-teach our bodies how to send that ball as hard, far, and straight as we can.

I mark a rhythm and count my steps to get a running (er, walking!) start.  1, 2, 3, 4, lunge, release!

The technique pays off.  My Genium and I hit a new high score -- 44.

Most of Team Bionic still bowls me over.  But at least now I'm bowling up the right alley!


And finally, who needs an indoor gym when you're surrounded by stairs?

This week, the PT students at Arcadia University welcomed me to their class for a lesson on prosthetics -- and STAIR-CLIMBING.  If you think it's motivating to work out with a PT, try working out with 50 of them!

With a close look, you can see I still have plenty of skills to chase.  But 15 steps with only one mis-swipe?  In my life, that's stair-climbing on steroids!

All in all, a few days of indoor recess can be fun.

But as any school kid -- or teacher -- will tell you, it's just a way to bide time until the weather clears.

Punxsutawney Phil agrees.  In a few short weeks, he's really gonna step outside and celebrate!

And me?  I'll be right there in his shadow.

Thanks to PT Chris for the awesome AU video!

Let It Snow

Mile Marker 913:

10 years ago I had an apartment not too far from where I live now.

On a snowy night, I’d be traipsing around Old City’s colonial streets, hood pulled tight, jeans tucked into hiking boots.  As the white flakes piled up against the red brick buildings, I let time slip away. 

Now I don’t venture out till the sidewalks are thoroughly salted.   And even then, the only thing slipping away is me!

At Mile Marker 913, I watch snowflakes swirl in the lamplight.   They’re wet and cold against my tongue.  I feel my cheeks redden as they freeze on contact.

Things have changed in 10 years.  My body and home, my job and daily routine -- sometimes it feels like a whole new life.   

A snowfall is still exciting and magical.  But it’s mostly hazardous, slippery, and confining. 

Tonight, my Genium is safe and dry.  It is not tucked into hiking boots.  Instead, it's tucked underneath the dashboard of my car.  Despite its fancy functions, the Genium does not have snow tires! 

In this rush hour snowstorm, I’m heading home from work.  In 45 minutes, I’ve traveled exactly 10 city blocks.  Time is slipping away.

10 years ago I’d have cursed this wasted Friday night.  But tonight, I’m entranced by the diamonds fluttering above me.  Thanks to my car’s sun roof – or “snow roof” in this case – I too can be part of the fun!

And even though I'm not on a snow hike tonight, I've come far since the wintery weekend of Mile 305.   This year, as compared to last, I don’t worry as much about the weather.  My prosthesis is more comfortable, and even on a bad day, I'm not stranded upstairs.  My car stays parked in a low-maintenance garage, and I live in a neighborhood where the sidewalks will soon be clear.  Come tomorrow morning, I’ll be able to walk for real. 

That’s exactly what I do.  The next day, when the sun is high, I tread slowly and carefully through Mile 913.  What better motivation than a one-block trip to Starbucks? 

Gritty rock salt lines my path.  It’s not as pretty as glistening snow, but it gets the job done.   As I pass my neighbor Betsy's house, the colonial bricks have already dried in the sunlight.

Slush-covered curb cuts prove more dicey.  Melty footprints and tire tracks, I realize, aren't much better than ice.  I hold my Genium straight and tread carefully across Arch Street.  By the time I reach the other side, my whole body's rigid with tension.

A warm latté soothes the trip home.  To make walking easier, I head back on the opposite side of the street.  Even on a snowy day, the angle of the sidewalk is important.   

A patch of cobblestones stretches before me, not quite as dry as the bricks I passed before.  

I tap my toe into a puddle – trying to discriminate water from ice.

Finally, at the gate of my building, I’m flushed with both victory and relief.

Snow has lost some luster over the past 10 years.  Even on this brilliant day.

Think spring, Genium.  Think spring!

The World Outside

Mile Marker 900:

For three days in a row, I've FORGOTTEN to carry my pedometer.  The journey goes on anyway.

At the inpatient gym, I sit down next to a woman with sparkling eyes and a radiant smile.  In the few weeks I’ve known “Annie,” she’s gotten stronger and stronger.  She breathes better.  She walks better.  She lights up the gym, cheering on other patients – even as she takes step after step herself.

But on this day, Annie gets a yellow ribbon on her wheelchair, and her eyes fill with tears.

“What’s wrong?” her PT asks, concerned.

“I feel so safe here,” Annie says.  “What will I do without you?”

Yes, Annie.  I know.

The yellow ribbon means Annie's going home soon.  

Just minutes before, she was telling me about her family.  "I miss my grandbabies," she said.   But now I see there’s a part of her that doesn’t want to leave.

It’s been more than 2 years since I had a yellow ribbon tied around my own wheelchair.  

In that time, I’ve grown from inpatient, to outpatient, to hospital volunteer.  Still, that uncomfortable mixture of pride and sadness returns again and again.  I know how Annie feels.

In the business of recovery, each muscle takes its own sweet time.  The days crawl by with progress so slow, it sometimes seems to move backwards.  Then, all at once, everything comes together; your body’s moving as one.  Your energy returns.  Things are going swimmingly. 

This is when you get your yellow ribbon.

See mine?

It’s meant to congratulate.  But back in December 2010, in the days before my own discharge, I fell into a downward spiral.  The skills and independence I’d so happily welcomed suddenly turned against me.  Hope became anxiety.  Then full-blown panic.

To prepare me for going home, the rehab hospital scheduled a "practice outing."   That morning, I slid into my winter coat.  It felt tight and unfamiliar, lumpy against the back of the wheelchair.  

Therapists Colleen and Jillian met me in my room.

“Ready?” they asked.

I nodded nervously. 

We rode the elevator down to the first floor of the rehab hospital.  Gloves on, I propelled my wheelchair out the door and down the front ramp.  It was almost New Year’s, and I hadn’t been outside since early November.  Was this what normal people did every day?   The sidewalk, the sunshine, the cold -- it all felt like a foreign country.

With Colleen and Jillian’s help, I turned the wheels of my chair against the bitter wind.  We headed to a nearby hotel which had a gift shop and a lobby equipped with ramps and stairs.  All good tests for my newly-acquired crutch skills.

Inside, we stripped off our winter gear.  Jillian handed me crutches, and I navigated the new environment.  I hopped up carpeted stairs, lowered myself down inclines, and made my way among narrow aisles filled with stuffed animals and postcards.  We even tried out the stalls in the restroom.

But the biggest challenge proved to be on the trip back.  Sixteenth Street was three lanes wide.  At the intersection, cars turned directly through the crosswalk.   As I rolled into the street, I was so tiny; the cars around me, HUGE.  The rumble of traffic boomed in my ears.  My heart pounded.  The world erupted into total chaos.  

My mind fled to Washington Avenue where a certain truck's tires waited for me.  It was all I could do not to clench my elbows to my head and curl up like a hedgehog.

Being hit seemed the only outcome.

   

I pushed the wheelchair so hard my arm muscles burned in my winter coat.  Finally, I felt Colleen boost me up the curb cut onto the sidewalk.  We'd made it across.

You'd think such an outing would have bolstered my confidence.  But over the next few days, my stress level increased.  

Ahead lay the trip home.  How would I ever make it through the car ride safely?   If a traffic accident didn’t kill me, surely my own panic would!

With endless patience (and Kleenex), hospital psychologist Lenore coached me through scenarios, guided me through visualizations, and helped me find relaxing music on my iPad.  With her support, I told my parents I’d rather take the back roads home than the highway.

Going home was overwhelming, but there was more to it than that.

As limiting as hospital life was, I'd found a certain comfort in its routine.  My doctors, nurses, and therapists were at their best when I was at my worst.  Over exercise and meals, I bonded with fellow patients.

With Mom, Tracy, Mark,
and my new friend Val

So I knew how Annie felt when she got her yellow ribbon.  She did want to go home, but it was uncharted territory.

At Mile Marker 900, I watch this from the sidelines.  

I’m volunteering in the very same gym where I was once a patient.  It's been a long time since I looked out my window -- frozen with fear -- at the dangerous world outside.   But now there's another precipice ahead.

MILE MARKER 1000 looms on the horizon.  I've got fewer than 100 miles left.  It feels like the great unknown. 

As I sit with Annie, there's an emptiness in my pocket where the pedometer should be.  

Even after coming this far, I guess I'm reluctant to FINISH.

And why not?  This journey's provided me with structure and a goal.  Comfort in counting.  Not unlike the shelter of the hospital.

How can I measure progress if not mile by mile?   And then, what lies beyond?

Annie went home on Saturday.  And although I wasn’t there to see it, I’m pretty sure she got in the car. 

Because when it was my turn, I did too.

I need your ideas for the 1000th mile!

Thoughts?  Suggestions?  Please post ‘em!

No Fear

Mile Marker 885:

Do one thing every day that scares you.

--Eleanor Roosevelt

My grandmother was a firecracker. 

She had hot red hair and a rebellious spirit to match.  "Dot-Dot," as we called her, walked fearlessly in 3-inch Candie's or yellow Reebok hi-tops.  Unphased by traditional grandmother images, she held her head high – especially when riding us on the back of her motorcycle!

When I was 13, she introduced me to city life – and WALKING.  She clipped her pedometer onto my waist band and pointed me toward South Street.  (Of course!)  Together we explored punk shops like Zipperheads and rainbow-filled 80’s stores like Heaven.

As she got older, it was harder for her to get out of the house.  So instead we'd order in Chinese food.  We'd talk about books and peruse gardening catalogues.  I'd show her photos from my adventures -- trips to France, Chicago, and Vermont.   We never mentioned it, but I wondered if she felt confined by what she could no longer do.

For me, 2012 concluded with a parade of rock climbing, rollerblading, and running -- or at least trying to!

Yes, that's Mark next to me!
Always...

On the last day of December comes the grandest experiment of them all.  ICE SKATING.  

(This addiction to fun is a slippery slope -- literally.)  

“I just want to try putting the skates on,” I say to my cousin Tracy as we make our way across the parking lot.  She knows there are lots of shoes that won't fit because my left foot can’t point its toe.

We rent our skates and give it a whirl.  On a bench, I unlace the left skate.  My Genium's foot goes in with surprising ease.  Test number one – PASS.

But then I stand up.  The pitch of the skate isn’t right.  It tilts the Genium forward causing my knee to buckle.   Because the heel of the skate is higher than the toe, the Genium thinks we’re going down a hill.   I switch settings on the remote control.  Which of the Genium’s four modes will carry me safely from bench to ice? 

Yoga mode!  (Yes, really.)  

In yoga setting, the knee becomes super-resistant and hard to bend, like dragging your leg through mud.  It's strong enough to hold the knee stable as I wobble across the rubber floor mats.  Hand on Tracy’s shoulder, I make my way to the rink.

But when I set foot on the ice, yoga gives out to jazzercise.  Without a grip on the soft floor, my Genium shoots out from under me.   I go into a disco move, John Travolta style!

Take 2.  I decide inline skating mode might improve things.  It'll allow the knee to bend with no resistance at all.  On the rubber floor, it made my leg too flimsy to control.  But on the ice, it works like magic.  (Thanks to Prosthetist Tim – a.k.a. Super Genium Programmer!)  With a built-in lock, I can even push off.  A bit.

Technology aside, for the first few laps the WALL is a bigger help than any Genium setting.  Tray and I stick close and hug it tight. 

Good friend Jodie was
even there to take a photo!

Then she lets go.

And I do too!

So what if my gait is tilted to one side?  So what if my right ankle aches from doing the work of two?  So what if I’m nowhere near as proficient as I used to be?  I am SKATING!

And when I finally stop and glance around the rink, I see that most skaters are slipping and sliding just like me!

Later that evening -- New Year’s Eve -- I’m surrounded by friends.  Just before midnight, we’re huddled in our winter coats on the corner of Front and South, amidst a crowd of horns, blowers, and glow-in-the-dark glasses.  Waiting for the fireworks.

It’s our tradition every year.  But this night is different. 

Just minutes before, my phone rang.  It was Mark calling.  He told me Dot-Dot had died.

As the first explosion lights up the sky, I feel tears coming on.   But the fireworks continue anyway.  The colors rise, slowly at first and then with more intensity.  The darkness pops with rings, and flashes, and brilliant chandeliers.

All at once, I realize this is her grand departure.  Dot-Dot is going out in true "Dot-Dot" style.  She’s found her freedom.

I did not inherit Dot-Dot’s rebellious gene.  In fact, some days there are so many things that SCARE me that I fall into bed exhausted.

But at Mile Marker 885, I know that a piece of her courage is with me.  It inches me forward each time I try something new.  As I strap on rollerblades or ice skates.  As I grab that first rock on the rock wall.  Heck, even as I shop for shoes!

My Genium and I will never be strutting around in 3-inch heels.  But yellow Reebok hi-tops?  Maybe.

And in Dot-Dot's memory, we'll boldly keep WALKING.

Wishing you a HAPPY, HEALTHY, and BRAVE 2013!

Bionic Bowling

Mile Marker 870:

Under the neon lights of Lucky Strike Lanes, even gutter balls have glamour.

Our school staff holiday party happens here every year.  But I've been out of the bowling loop for a while.  Since December 2009, to be exact.  That year, I set the school's low score record.  In the first game, I bowled an 8; the second, a 25.

With 2 legs.

This year, I'm back.   And better yet, BIONIC.  Word on the street (started by me, of course) is that I'm going to break my own score barrier.  "With a prosthesis," I joke to my colleagues, "I'll be a better bowler."   And it's a pretty safe bet.   With scores that low, there's nowhere to go but up.

In case you're wondering, my fancy Genium knee does not have a "bowling mode."  Or at least I didn't have the forethought to ask Prosthetist Tim to program one!

Fueling up at Fergie's!

On the last day of school before winter break, the special ed team sets off for a pre-party lunch -- Chase, Corrine, Bethany, Jon and me.  As we walk several blocks from Chestnut to Sansom Street, we realize it's our first true MILE together.

Fergie's Pub is surprisingly crowded for lunch time -- or maybe it's just that we teachers don't get out much!  Either way, if the sweet potato fries are any indication, it's going to be a high-scoring afternoon.

An hour or so later, I fasten my Genium's first pair of bowling shoes.  (Note the kid-style velcro... I may have gotten a new leg, but my feet haven't grown any!)

Other teachers have already started bowling around us.  Among the fluorescent lights and music, Corrine and Bethany type our names into the electronic scorer.

Before I even pick up a bowling ball, I notice how slippery the floors are.  It's like the white soles of the bowling shoes are coated with Vaseline!

Chase hands me a 6-pound ball and spots me as I take my place the head of our lane.  "Don't go past this line," she points.  "It's even more slippery there."

And... GUTTER BALL!

I try imitate the other bowlers -- to get a running start and lunge as I release the ball.  But ask my pals at the rehab gym -- I am not much of a runner or a lunger...

No records yet, but at least
I'm not alone!

After watching me toss the ball into the gutter for several turns, Bethany asks curiously, "Are you looking at the arrows?"  I've deemed her the most professional bowler on our team. (Rumor has it, once she even bowled in a league.)

"Which arrows?" I reply.

She points them out.  And I realize they've been there all the time, about 10 feet from away from me, lined up in V-formation like a flock of birds heading south.

"Aim for the center one," she says.

I do.  And I hit ONE PIN!

Well, a taste of success is all this team needs.  Don't forget, we're teachers.

A frame or two later, Bethany suggests I squat instead of using my awkward, unstable lunge.  "That's supposed to HELP your momentum," she tells me.  But I agree with her.  It's not helping at all.  It's throwing me -- and my ball -- off balance.

Blinkin' lights and all!

Then Chase recommends I stand at the line, rather than attempting a running start.  I follow her lead.  After all, she's earned an honor of her own today -- winner of the school's ugly sweater contest!

In the next few frames, I earn a sprinkling of 3's and 6's.  And then behold, an 8 -- a Christmas miracle!

When 10 frames are over, I've hit my HIGH SCORE record.  A whopping 31.  And to add to the glory, I haven't even come in last!

Still, my colleagues can rest easy this holiday season.  Even as a bionic bowler, I'm not much of a threat.

But watch out everybody.  Practice makes perfect.

My Genium and I will see you next year!

Naughty or Ni(e)ce

Mile Marker 855:

You better watch out, you better not cry…

My niece Riley is going to see Santa today, and boy is she psyched!  She thinks he's gonna bring her that "Peppa Pig House" she wants for Christmas.  Right now, I mean.

When you’re 2 ½, there’s a fine line between asking and getting.  And don't even try to explain NAUGHTY or NICE.

Santa's up ahead, sitting in his big North Pole chair.  We scoop nephew Brennan -- still sleeping -- out of his stroller.  His wide eyes pop open as my sister tugs off his fleece jacket and hat.   We plop him down on the big man's lap, happily clueless.  

Noooo!!!

Poor Riley, on the other hand, is on to our trickery!  Who's this guy with the scratchy beard and why is there no Peppa Pig House in sight?!

When we escape the clutches of Santa, Riley takes comfort in the “farm” (a.k.a. live nativity scene) around the corner.  This girl's a Vermonter through and through! 

A self-portrait :)

We visit the carousel at Franklin Square.  I lift Riley onto her zebra and hold her steady as the jerky ride goes round and round.

Then, we hit the slide.  It seems my Genium is determined to get on the NICE list this year.

The next day, I host lunch for my oldest niece Brianna, my friend Suzanne, and her daughter Maddie.

“Did he say he was sorry?” Brianna asks.  Out of the blue, she's talking about the trash truck driver who hit me.

We've just baked brownies with Santa hats, so I’m not sure why the conversation has taken this turn – to the accident, to my robot leg.

I manage a nod.  "Mmm-hmm."

My mouth is full of pizza -- not so full that I can’t answer, but it's all I can squeeze out at the moment. How can I explain the complexities of blame or the logistics of what happened?  She's only 8 years old.

Luckily, kids' minds move like a flash.  Brianna and Maddie quickly lapse into silliness.  They get so giddy they almost tip their own scales from NICE toward NAUGHTY!

My friend Shelley’s nephew Casey has a very insightful take on the NAUGHTY vs. NICE idea.  Especially for a 4-year-old.  (Shelley let me borrow this dialogue from her Facebook post.   I swiped the photo, too!)

Grandma to Casey:  Are you on the naughty or nice list?

Casey:  Probably I’m on both.

Shelley points out the cool Yin-Yang workings of his mind.

Even so young, he knows it's best to have all his bases covered!

Mile Marker 856:

'Tis the season to be jolly.

I was planning to end this post with Casey's words.  It's comforting to believe we have control over our world, just by acting in a certain way.

But this month, we've all watched NAUGHTY and NICE battle it out.  People suffer.  School kids and teachers are full of life one day and gone the next.

Horrific things happen to NICE people.

When I arrive at PT this week, Deb sits me down on a mat.

She tells me Joanna has died.

NICE described Joanna perfectly.  When our PT sessions overlapped.  I’d arrive just as she was hugging Deb goodbye.

They must be really close!   I'd think each time I saw their embrace.

Until Joanna started hugging me, too.

In our spare moments between therapy, Joanna and I found things in common.  We both lived in South Philly and loved the Jersey shore.  She was a kindergarten teacher, too -- until illness took over.

When we talked about our uneven gaits or how hard it was to get out in the morning, Joanna rolled her eyes and smiled at me, like these were secrets we shared.

Over time, I saw Joanna less and less.  Deb kept me posted with stories.  She told me about Joanna's enormous shoe collection.  How she wanted to learn to walk in high heels again!

Joanna's illness took away many things.  But not her kindness and spirit.

I just can't stop thinking about NAUGHTY and NICE.  And the randomness of it all.

At home that evening, I fish out Joanna’s red wristband – the one she gave me last year, just before the holiday season began.

I slip it on next to my own Thousand Miles green one.  My mind wanders back to our talks on the mats and between the parallel bars.  I think about Joanna's 32 years of life.  About how our paths intersected only in small moments, but about the deep impact she left behind.

An hour or so later, I glance down at my wrist.  Joanna’s wristband has wrapped itself around mine.  Embracing it completely, just like one of her hugs.

Late in the night, I hear a new song on my Pandora station.  It so embodies the last few miles that I want to play it over and over again.

In the spirit of Joanna -- who expressed love every time I saw her -- I’m sharing it with you.

Consider it an extra serving of NICE this holiday season.  Because it really does matter.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XjFgkAZq4zc

Moving Days

Mile Marker 836:

If I told you my computer’s been buried at the bottom of a box, would you believe me?

For 2 weeks now, I’ve unpacked box after box of neatly wrapped surprises.  They’re nestled in newspaper and bound with bubble wrap.  And when I open them here – in the new apartment – they’re like tiny presents.

I’ve got many more to go.  But even among the chaos, this place is bright.

There are no stairs to climb.  The washer and dryer are not in the basement.   When I tie up a trash bag, it drops neatly into a chute at the end of the hall.  And when I head out for the day, I ride the elevator down to the car, waiting in a heated garage.  (Hear what I'm sayin', fellow city dwellers?!)

Everything is on one level.  Nothing is off-limits to crutches.  My Upstairs Life is over.

“It’s just so EASY,” I tell my friend Bosco.  “Everything’s so SIMPLE here.”

“It’s been a long time since you've used those words,” she says.

She's right.

But moving is never easy.

My last day at Jeff...
Andy and Mark
help me get packed up!

Exactly 2 years ago this week, I was transferred from Jefferson Hospital to Magee Rehab Hospital.

When I found out I'd go by ambulance, I overflowed with tears of PANIC.  At that time, less than 7 weeks after the accident, the tiniest thought or sound or sensation sent me careening back to that moment of impact -- my body against the truck.  And all the frightening moments that came after.

I feared that being in an ambulance again would release a flood of those flashbacks.

When the paramedics arrived at my room with the stretcher, I tried to hold it together.  I made them promise not to turn on the siren.  They agreed.

"Can my brother ride with me?" I asked.  

Mark stood by the stretcher.  Even if they'd said no, he couldn't have left my side.  I had a death-grip on his hand!

They said he could ride up front, and I started to protest.

But at that instant, it seemed every nurse on the unit stepped into the hallway.  They clapped their hands.  They wished me well and waved goodbye as the paramedics wheeled me out.  A standing ovation.  What a farewell!

Outside, I inhaled my first breath of December air.   With a few smooth movements, I was loaded into the back of the ambulance.  

Then I saw the paramedic give a quick, almost imperceptible nod to Mark.  He jumped in the back with me.

I gripped his hand all the way to the rehab hospital.

The move to this new apartment was nowhere near as traumatic, but it was difficult in its own way.  

Brother Steve to the
rescue!

There were weeks of packing, cleaning, and organizing that involved the entire family.

Then, there were days of stumbling over half-filled boxes.

  

Yes, that's a dresser
going out a window...

And finally, there was a morning of furniture-moving that resembled an epic performance of Cirque du Soleil.

Bravo!  Bravo!

But the hardest part was saying goodbye.

Once the house was empty, I stood out in the garden, the only part of the place that still seemed alive.  I thought about how much I loved my home.  How I'd painted its walls and arranged its rooms.  How I'd planted flowers and herbs.  How I'd imagined a future here.

This was where I started out on November 9th -- the morning everything changed.  It's where I showered and dressed.  Where I buckled my bike helmet.  Where I unlocked my bike and put my backpack in the saddlebag.

In my mind, it will always be the last place I was WHOLE.

Some people say tomorrow, December 21, 2012, will bring the end of the world.  

But in an article I just read, a modern-day Mayan says we're missing the point.  It's not the end of the world, he explains.  It's the end of an era.  He says he's looking forward to seeing what the next era will bring.

So am I.

I'm now 16 blocks north, in the oldest part of the city.  

Yet it feels like a new world.

I can walk to restaurants and shops.  Even go out for an evening stroll!

Like my neighbor Betsy's
holiday decorations?

Yes, it's the start of a new era -- complete with an elevator and indoor parking.  (Maybe not for the Mayans, but for me!)

And, of course, there's no telling what's inside the next box....