Jigsaw

Mile Marker 1085:

When I left Chicago after college, someone gave me a puzzle of the city skyline.  I loved the photo on the box, but there was one problem -- inside were 500 pieces!

I'm terrible at puzzles.

Luckily, my friend Marla is a puzzle expert.  One very long evening, we assembled that Chicago puzzle on the floor of my living room.  Or to be more specific, she assembled the puzzle, and I sang along to James Taylor, impatiently eyeing the PUZZLE GLUE!

For more than a year after the accident, I recorded my memories on index cards:  images, dialogues, sounds, sensations, and fears.   As they came to me, I’d scribble them down and tuck the cards into a small plastic file box.  It was my way of taming them, of getting them out of my head.

I planned to pull out those cards one by one.  Spread them on the floor pyramid-style.  Arrange them into categories.  Organize those moments like I was writing a high-school research paper.

But to this day, I haven't even opened that box.  Puzzles still confound me.

At Mile Marker 1085, my parents and I walk down the carpeted aisle of a large auditorium.  For the second year in a row, we're attending Jefferson Hospital’s Excellence in Trauma Awards.

As we take our seats, Mom leans over to me.  “Is that Steve?” she says, nodding across the aisle.

I see a guy in a lavender shirt and tie -- good looking, short brown hair, easily 6 feet tall.

“I think so,” I whisper.  But I can't be sure.  Steve was a nursing assistant from way back in the beginning.

 A FALL RISK  bracelet --
 my only accessory!

Here is the piece I remember:
My IV pole hangs heavy with fluid.  My infected leg is suctioned to a wound-vac machine.  My blue hospital gown ("one-size-fits-most") is tangled underneath me.  I'm literally CAPTIVE in bed.

When I press the call button, Steve appears magically at my door.  He is the shape of strength and relief.

With help, I can take only a single step in any direction.  But Steve’s muscles fill the sleeves of his scrubs.  He can lift me, my equipment, and my bed if he has to!  More importantly, he comes in with a smile.  When I'm down, he cracks jokes.

Over time, those days have faded into the background.  But when I glance across the aisle, they come flooding back.

After the award ceremony, I chat with Dr. B.   He, too, is a face from the very beginning.  In November 2010, he’d just returned from duty as an army surgeon in the Middle East.

But the piece I remember is Dr. B standing over my gurney in Pre-Op.  He wears a surgical cap with a red and green pattern -- a chain of hot chili peppers.

Before each surgery, he inks his initials, A.B., onto the top of my left leg.  He reassures me he's seen infections like this before.  That the team will take care of it.  That I'm in good hands.

I hang onto his words as the anesthesia takes hold.

The rest I don’t remember.

Moving forward gives the illusion of putting things in order.  But this night at the awards, I realize how many pieces have slipped from my mind.   With more than 2 years and 1000 miles behind me, the memories are still fractured, random moments.

  

We sit down for dinner with other returning patients and families.  You’d be startled by the jigsaw pieces we bring to the table.  They're jagged, nightmarish, and dark.   A fall through an air conditioning shaft.  A late night gunshot.  A careening, high-speed car crash.  Images and feelings no one should have to remember.

The parts we can't assemble, our families fill in.  They're our witnesses.  In a split-second, their lives changed too.

But we also share laughs.  My dad tells everyone, "After the accident, Rebecca had perfect vision!"

As soon as he says it, I remember it's true:
When I first wake up in the ICU, I ask for my glasses.  Mom's been toting them in her purse for a week, just waiting for me to open my eyes and need them.

Glasses on, I look out the window.  The buildings are a blur.  Glasses off, the city's crystal clear.   I can see better without them!

Hanukkah 2010...
No glasses!

My brother Mark gets a kick out of it.  He downloads eye charts onto his phone.   Each day, he stands across the room, holding up the tiny screen.  “Can you read this?” he asks.  I always can!

When the surgeons do rounds, we joke that I got laser eye surgery as a bonus.   For 5 mysterious weeks, the world is in precise focus.  No one seems worried about it.  And no one has an explanation.

Then my right eye changes.  A week later, the left follows.  And one day everything beyond the door of my room is fuzzy again.

I put my glasses back on.

After 1085 miles, I'm still gathering pieces to this endless puzzle.  Some are tangible, like photos and medical reports.  They form the anchors and edges, the frame of the picture.  But the pieces buried deepest are the ones that worry me.  They come and go.  They don't hold their shape long.  In the beginning, I remembered too much.  Now I can't remember enough.

At an appointment with my optometrist, I recount the strange-but-true story of my post-accident eyesight.

He has an explanation -- or at least a hypothesis.  He says the anesthesia from so many surgeries relaxed the muscles of my eyes.  It literally flattened the curves that caused my astigmatism.  Weeks later, when the anesthesia finally wore off, my eyes tightened up again.

I like it.  The stories fit together like 2 perfectly matched jigsaw pieces.

Only 498 more to go...

Every Day

Mile Marker 1080:

Every day, it's tough to get started.

I used to be surprised when I woke up in the morning.  I'd see my crutches stacked against the wall, my prosthesis plugged in under the window.  Still??  I used to think.  I could hardly believe it.

Not anymore.  I'm used to it now.  I expect to see them.

But still, every day, there are a few moments when it just seems like TOO MUCH.

So I tell myself this:  Anything can happen today.

It's usually enough to get me out of bed.  I unplug my Genium, and it beeps to life.  One short blip if it's ready to go.  Or a long string of beeping complaints, like a tiny car alarm -- re-boot, re-calibrate, and try again.

"I know," I say.  "I don't like mornings either."

Every day, this routine weighs me down.  I massage my leg, apply various lotions.  Pull on the pull-bag.  Tug myself in.  First thing in the morning, my prosthesis feels heaviest.

But once I get moving, anything does happen.

Fearless leader
Chase goes first!

At school, the 6th graders are rappelling, and our team decides to join them.

I climb out on a ledge 3 stories above the street.   Heels in the air, I clutch the harness with both hands.

“This thing is secure, right?” I ask the belayers over and over.  They assure me I'm "double-belayed."  As a triple safeguard, they say, the rope is looped around the school’s rooftop air conditioner.  This third fact convinces me.  I cannot drag down an air conditioner!

Legs locked straight, I pivot over the edge.  As the weight shifts, my Genium collapses into the stucco. I hear a collective gasp from above, but I knew this would happen.  It always goes into "free swing" when I sit.

“Straighten your right leg!” the belayers yell down.  And I do.  

It's hard to say no
when kids are watching!

I hop along the wall, slackening the rope with each step.  By the end, I'm actually getting the hang of it.

I wish the building were taller!

A few days later anything happens again.

With Mary and Chris, I ride a loop around Kelly Drive.

It's fun but hard work.  On the first go-round, we pass a biker whose handlebars have come loose.  “Anyone have a wrench?” she calls out.

We put on the brakes.  (I've pretty much mastered stopping now!)  I hand my Allen wrench to Chris.  Turns out, it's handy for more than just my ANKLE!

The following weekend, I ride again with Susan, Rocco, and Mark.

Rocco gives us a lesson on the "fish ladder," a lock system that lets river life swim upstream over the waterfall.

Hey, learn something new every day...

All those miles push me further into my socket.  I spend several afternoons and evenings without my leg on.  Finally, I get a MAJOR tune-up from Prothestist Tim.

But even when I'm not moving, anything continues to happen.   Every day, I spy someone doing something amazing--

Robert takes his LONGEST walk ever.  Almost a mile in 2 1/2 hours!

Check the t-shirt...
Click to enlarge!

Dane learns to RUN!  He was the beginner amputee in Something to Chase.

And in the far reaches of Vermont, Baby Brennan starts to CRAWL!  Well, sort of.  (We're not picky on this blog!)

This morning isn't like every other day.   I wake up eagerly.  My Genium beeps without protest.  I prop my crutches against the wall.

It's Mother's Day, and Mom and I are stepping back into a tradition we left behind in 2010.  Anything is going to happen.  We are doing a 5K -- Race for the Cure!

The street is a sea of pink courage.

Zita cheers us on at
Mile One!

We walk and walk and walk.  The miles seem farther apart than ever.

We stop once to rest my leg, twice for photos.

It takes us 1 hour and 37 minutes to cross the finish line, but this year any time is our new personal best!

When the morning is over, we've covered more than 4 miles together!  Like so many moments these days, it's both an ending and a beginning.

There's no telling what tomorrow will bring.  So far, it looks like a normal workday.
A day like every other.
But you just never know.

Say What???

Mile Marker 1050:

In a certain public restroom in a Center City office building, I'm about to enter The Twilight Zone.   

Come with me.  You don't want to miss this.

At first glance, the place is unassuming.   Ancient tiles line the walls.  Rusty radiators fill the corners.  The stalls are worn-looking, white-washed one too many times.

I nod hello to the only spark of color -- a redheaded cleaning woman.

She’s petite with short hair and glasses.  For a second, she reminds me of my mom.  An extremely short second.

“What happened??!” she exclaims. “Ya broke your leg??!”  Her voice is like a very nasal duck.

As you've probably guessed, I'm wearing shorts.

“Um, something like that,” I mumble, closing the stall door behind me.  Not that it matters.

She continues quacking.  “I saw this story on the internet about a dog that had only 2 legs.  They were gonna euthanize it, but then someone wanted to adopt it.  And ya know what?  They taught it to walk on JUST 2 LEGS!  Isn’t that great?!?”

“Yeah,” I say, tugging up my shorts as quick as I can.

I come out to the sink to wash my hands.  The woman's quiet now, dusting along the radiator covers.

“Well, have a nice day,” I say, turning to leave.

“See ya later, HOP-A-LONG!” she quacks.

(Really, she called me that!  You think I could make this stuff up??)

Last week, I came upon this quote in a magazine:

Our bodies are apt to be our autobiographies.

--Frank Gelett Burgess

I thought first of tattoos -- like that guy from the movie Memento, who inked his body with memories, pieces of his life he couldn’t keep in his head.  

I’ve never been one for tattoos or body piercings.  I’ve never stood out with crazy hair colors or over-the-top styles.  

But spring has sprung.  Suddenly my Genium’s getting more airtime.

  

 It puts my story out there -- for anyone to see.

Earlier that day as I’m buying groceries in the supermarket, I reach up to grab a roll of paper towels.  There’s a gasp behind me.

“Wowwww!” 

It’s a little boy, about 6.  His eyes are huge.  Aimed directly at my Genium.

Mortified, his grandmother tries to steer him -- and her cart -- around me.

But I smile at them.  “You see my robot leg?” I say.  I’ve had this conversation so many times, it’s literally kid’s stuff!

He nods earnestly. “I saw one of those on TV!” he says proudly.

I know where this conversation's going.  We're about to discuss the latest Transformers episode.  But Grandma has other ideas.

As she drags him past the detergent, the little boy cranes his neck.  “Coooool!” he yells to me over his shoulder.

When I pass them again in the dairy aisle, we share a secret smile.

It’s just one of those days.  Everywhere I go, people have something to say.  Nothing horrible or scary.  It's just strange how all the comments pile up in the span of a few hours.  How the dialogues tattoo themselves on my mind.

Later in the evening, I turn into the parking lot of my building.

But I haven’t pulled close enough to the gate scanner.  So I open the door and stick the left side of my body out of the car to reach.  The gate buzzes open.

I notice two guys, neighbors, watching me from the sidewalk.  They’re friendly.  I’ve talked to them before -- I realize now, probably in jeans.

“What do you have, a leg brace or something?” one calls out.  He comes over for a closer look.

“It’s a prosthesis,” I say.  

He peers in through the open car door, where I’m getting my Genium situated again.  “My buddy has the same one,” he says.

This is highly unlikely, but I don’t say so.

He’s clearly impressed.  “You could be in the Olympics with that!” he tells me.  No sarcasm at all.

“I’m not so sure,” I answer.  “I don’t think my right leg could be in the Olympics.”

At that, he and his buddy both laugh.

The gate closes again, so my neighbor pulls a key fob out of his own wallet.  “Here you go,” he says, waving it in front of the scanner.

“Thanks.” 

I finally drive in, rolling my eyes.  Checking the rear view mirror for a FULL MOON.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love spring, and I'm excited for summer. 

I can’t wait to test out my shiny new water leg!  I can't wait for the toes of my right foot to touch the sand again!

But I do have a body that reads like an open book.

One leg wears a prosthesis; the other has scars from surgery and a skin graft.  My middle section tells a story all its own.  (Remember Australia, A Bump in the Road, and Stitch(es) in Time?)

“Scars are tattoos of the brave,” a wise nurse once told me.  If it's true, I've got more than 15 marks of valor.

Good thing.  'Cause SHORTS SEASON is upon us...  

and there’s nowhere to hide!

You've gotta hear it to believe it...
Josh Sundquist, one of my favorite "famous" amputees, tells his own strange story:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gnFHwuJ2YQs&feature=em-subs_digest

Miles Down, Miles to Go

Mile Marker 1040:

Back in December 2010, Zach and I were both new to this amputee business.  From our wheelchairs, we said "hi" between therapy sessions and played a wicked game of Pictionary.   One night, our nurse Pam warned me that Zach kept a monster-size Super Soaker water gun in his room.  I'd just met him, but I wasn't surprised!

More than 2 years have passed since then.

I’ve had detours.   

Zach has had ROADBLOCKS.

I’ve gotten a new leg.  

Zach’s gotten TWO legs and an arm.

He even has me beat in the surgery department.

(Let’s just say we share a vicious aversion to NG tubes!)

Zach's legs
get a boost!

Yet through it all, Zach posts hospital humor on Facebook.   He grows an awesome beard practically overnight.   He gets an apartment, trains a new puppy, and grills dinner outside.   He takes a vacation cruise… and even braves mass transit – long before I do.

The horrific tragedy this week in Boston has created a lot of talk about new amputees.  "What's the recovery like?" the news anchors ask.  "How long until they're up and walking again?"

As if it just happens.

But I understand.  We all want justice.  We want people not to be hurt.

And, of course, we want it to be EASY.

So we talk about technology and bionics and medical advances.  We reassure OURSELVES that the injured will get back the lives they deserve.

I, too, feel like racing up to Boston.  To sit by their bedsides.  To tell them that everything will be all right.

But there'll be time for that.  Trauma runs deep, both physically and emotionally.   These victims are at a starting line that was not of their own choosing, and they're headed into an uphill climb.  Healing is the long road ahead.  It's mired with obstacles that will take every ounce of courage, persistence, and grit they can muster.

For as much as we'd like to believe it, there are no simple solutions.  To succeed requires support and hard work for the long haul.

There's no predicting the ups and downs.  Each survival story -- like each limb -- is unique.  I only know there will be many moments when PATIENCE goes farther than a prosthesis.

At Mile Marker 1040, I catch up with Zach and his buddy Kishan at Prosthetic Innovations.   

And I witness some WELL-DESERVED steps forward.  Check 'em out.

No parallel bars!  No walker!  No cane!  Just two dudes holding hands…    (Zach's words, not mine...)

Zach, you're amazing  -- Here’s to many, many more miles!!

And for those in Boston just embarking on this journey, I wish for you what you'll need.  Health, courage, and strength.  Technology and a good team.  The vision to see your new horizon.  

And most of all, a SMOOTH ROAD AHEAD.

Walk It Out

Mile Marker 1015:

"Walk it out."

Tim says the same thing each time he adjusts my socket.

He hands the leg back to me -- 10 pounds of carbon fiber, plastic, and machinery.  Fresh from the lab, the socket is still warm and smells of baby powder.

I stand on my right leg and wrap the pull-bag around my left.

Tim watches as I tug myself in.

"It's still rubbing," I tell him each time.

"Walk it out," he always answers.

So I start between the parallel bars, and then head out to the carpet, ramp, and stairs.  With each step, I give the changes time to sink in.  Sometimes it takes an hour; sometimes all day.


At Mile Marker 1015, I'm not getting a socket adjustment but I am walking it out.   It's the day before the skating party, and I'm on the treadmill at Magee.  What better way to burn off nervous excitement -- and raise money for a good cause?

I'm partnered with Jerry, who walks on the Locomotor Training machine.

Three PTs control his body -- one stands behind to support his hips, two squat at his sides to work his legs.  A fourth sits at a computer screen, monitoring the speed of the treadmill and the tension of his harness.

In the background, the stereo blasts Run D.M.C.'s Walk this Way.  Our t-shirts say BELIEVE.  And we do.  Jerry begins to RUN!

It is hour #7 of a 24-hour step-a-thon called Walk It Out.  The rule is that one treadmill has to remain moving at all times.  So when there's a shift change on Jerry's machine, mine can't stop.

I'm not done yet...

The money raised goes to Magee's Locomotor Training Program, funded by the Christopher Reeve Foundation.

Here's a clip:

Thirty minutes and 1 1/2 miles later, my left leg is sweaty and my invisible toes are numb.  I've reached my walking limit.

Luckily my sister Sam, who's in from Vermont, steps on the treadmill to relieve me.  Marla, who's visiting from St. Louis, stands by in case we need another walker.  My team has come from far and wide!

"I've never been on a treadmill before," Sam says, surprising everyone in earshot.

"How do you like it?"  I ask.

"I like the woods better," she answers.   Haha.  Typical Vermonter...

Of course, she walks it out anyway!


Mile Marker 1025:

A few nights later, a thunderstorm blows through.  Outside my apartment window, I watch a power box explode.  Orange sparks fly into the wind and rain.

With a zap, the lights go out.

Stay calm, I tell myself.  Walk it out.

I haven't yet taken my Genium off for the night, so I feel my way into the bedroom to find a flashlight.

Then I slip into the dark hallway and knock on my neighbor's door.  She answers in flannel pajama bottoms, smiling, flashlight in hand.  I tell her about the power box explosion, and she gives me the emergency building management number.

"I hope it comes back on soon," she says, shrugging at the inconvenience.  Then she closes her door.

I'm in the dark hallway again.

Back in my apartment, I call the emergency number.

Power outages -- and emergencies of any kind -- sound my body's alarms.  Anxious and restless, I pace the dark apartment trying to get things in order.  Just in case I need to leave suddenly.  On crutches.

When I take my leg off, I'm vulnerable.  And slow.  And clumsy.   Especially in the dark.

In bed, I toss and turn all night.  When morning finally comes, the sunlight through the blinds floods me with relief.  There's still no electricity, but there's LIGHT.  The danger recedes.

I take a dim, lukewarm shower.  I put back on my Genium.  (It, too, has had a rough night without re-charging!)

The stove, microwave, and toaster won't work.  But in daytime, this all seems minor.  I can be brave again.

I decide to walk it out.  Grab my flashlight and descend the darkened stairway.

Escape victorious into the light of day.

Things are looking up...
I pass a hopeful sign
on the way home!

Soon, I head to the rehab gym.  The atmosphere there is even more festive and cheerful than usual.

It's wellness trainer Ian's birthday!

I mooch some electricity for my laptop while I start mat exercises.

My friend Nora passes by, practicing her side-step.  It's part of her PT session.

Giddy from the sleepless night, I just can't resist.  I grab my own resistance band and join her.   Walk it out turns into DANCE IT OUT!

Will walk for donuts!

When our pal Dajon returns from his PT session, there's a bounce in his step, too.  We crack up as he makes a beeline for the birthday food!



After 1000 miles, you'd think I'd stop counting.  But how??

To stop now would be like trying to stop breathing.

Step-by-step, walking's become my mode for solving problems.  It dares me to take chances.  It keeps my mind occupied at the most tentative, lonely moments.

All those times Tim says "Walk it out," I think what he means is this:  Give it time.  Reserve judgement.  Don't overreact.  You can handle this.

It's usually just what I need to hear.


Mile Marker 1030:

They're also straight from
my grandmother's closet!

I'm about to test drive a new pair of shoes.

They're silly and happy, just right for spring.  I love them!

But my Genium doesn't agree.  They've got the wrong heel-to-toe angle.

So I begin experimenting, stuffing pads of different thicknesses into the toe and heel.

One change at a time.  One step at a time.

No problem too big or too small....

Just WALK IT OUT.

Welcome Home

Who would've thought that after 1000 miles, I'd end up back home again?

But that's the way it happened.

My teams, old and new,
came together from near and far.

And just like that, beneath the disco ball and flashing lights -- along the smooth skating rink -- my feet knew what to do.





I stopped counting miles and started counting FRIENDS.

If a picture's worth a thousand words,



these are worth a THOUSAND MILES!

See for yourself...


Thank you for helping me celebrate this journey.

For never ever giving up.

For supporting me all along the way.









And most of all, for WELCOMING ME HOME!


Yes, of course there's a video! Click here :)