From Chicago, With Love

Mile Marker 1107:

Greetings from the Windy City!  

Bike the Drive is a Memorial Day tradition here.

Before the accident, I always flew to Chicago the last weekend of May.  With my cycling buddy Shelley, I rose early and buckled my helmet.  We hopped on our bikes (mine, rented) and joined 20,000 riders to pedal a loop around the famous -- and windy -- Lake Shore Drive.

This year, even HALF the ride will be a challenge.

I've packed carefully:  biking shoes,  bike pedal, power belt, crutches... even my water leg.   Still, I can't shake the feeling that something's MISSING.

Susan and Rocco come with me from Philly.  They pick me up, drop me off, and lug my awkward "leg bag" onto the plane.   I call them my Secret Service, but really they're so much more!

Shelley heads up the Chicago branch of the team.  She's our chauffeur, tour guide, and bike commissioner all rolled into one.

The night before the bike ride, we shift into high gear -- We've got a crisis on our hands.

Shelley borrowed a bike for me, but the seat won’t go down low enough.  I can't even climb on.  I can't imagine trying to stop or start, let alone ride 15 miles!

I'm in a panic.  Everyone's here to ride with me.  And now I might not ride at all.

We call the local bike shop – Bobby’s Bike Hike.  When the guy picks up, I breathe a sigh of relief.

“I’m here from out of town to do Bike the Drive,” I tell him.  “But I’m having technical problems with my bike.”  

'Technical problems' isn't quite accurate, but it makes a long story much shorter.

The shop closed an hour ago.  I ask the guy if they’ll re-open before the ride tomorrow morning.  Yet I know it's unlikely.  The ride begins at sunrise.

"No," he says, "but I’ll be here for another half-hour if you want to come by.”  He's surprisingly friendly for 9:00 in the evening.

"There’s just one thing,” I tell him.  “I’m only 4’10.  So I'll need a really small bike.”

“I think I have one that’ll work,” he says.

He's so nice, I decide to tell him one more thing.

“Also...um... I wear a prosthesis, so I'll need to attach my own pedal.”

I brace myself for a hang-up.  He probably thinks it's a prank call.

“Come on over,” he says instead.

Shelley and I hop in a cab.   As we approach the shop, Rocco zips by on his bike, rented here just an hour earlier.  (I don't call him Secret Service for nothing!)

Bike guy Mark greets us at the door, smiling.  

“Did you think I was kidding?” I say.  I hand him the pedal.  Then tug up the leg of my jeans to show him the Genium.  

Mechanic Connor sets me up on a small black city bike.  He lowers the seat so my toes touch the ground.  He attaches my caged, weighted pedal, fresh from Philly.

In a matter of minutes, the Bobby’s Bike Hike crew earns an honorary place on my all-star team!

Traditional 6 a.m.
pre-ride photo

Mile Marker 1110:

Early the next morning, the sun glimmers off Lake Michigan.   In our hotel room, it feels like any other Bike the Drive day...

...except for the leg
charging in the corner!

Outside, Shelley stabilizes the handlebars of my bike so I can climb on.  Even with the low seat, it's taller than my bike at home.

But as we start off, there's another 'technical problem.'  It's 49 degrees.  My prosthesis comes loose each time I lift my leg.

I keep pedaling.  It can only get warmer, right?

We meet the rest of our group near Buckingham Fountain -- Vickie who's biked with us in the past, and my brother Andy, who’s biking for the first time in years!

Finally at the starting line --
Flanked by my Secret Service :)

Illinois is flat, but Lake Shore Drive runs hilly along the coast.  On this upright bike, I can't lean forward to propel myself.  In the first few miles, I learn to lower the gears.  Rock at the waist and heave with my shoulders.  The hills get progressively easier.

The sun shines full force, and my socket stays suctioned.  As we approach the first turn-around, I even snap a few pics -- while riding!

That's Rocco up ahead!

Vickie and Shelley

Go Andy!

Susan, always by my side :)

Almost 8 miles down --
aside from SOCKET RUBS, I feel good!!!

After a break, we head south again.  I find a rhythm of riding and chatting, mounting each hill as it comes.

Until Mile 14.

Merely blocks away, we can’t even see the finish line.   To reach Grant Park, we have to climb the final, steepest hill, which happens to be a drawbridge over the Chicago River.

“I don’t know about this,” I gasp.  I steer toward the side of the road in case I need to get off and walk.

Up ahead, Vickie looks over her shoulder.  “ONLY 25 PEDALS TO THE TOP!” she yells.

As you might guess, the numbers save me.   I lower into “granny gear” and throw every ounce of power into that hill.  One by one, I count the pedal turns.  With each push and pull, I’m closer to the top.

Exactly 28 pedals later, I reach the hinge of the drawbridge.  (Nice call, Vickie!)

I touch my foot to the ground.   My right leg's quivering.  And I can't even feel my left.

Hi-fives all around!

It's all downhill from here!

When the morning ends, we've covered almost 20 MILES.

Not exactly old times, but close!

Mile Marker 1111:  ('Cause the pedometer doesn't count bike miles!) 

The weekend rolls on...

Chocolate dipped bacon...
not quite as good as it sounds.

There's an outdoor music festival starring Andy's School of Rock kids.

  

Holy Cow!

Shelley’s birthday at Harry Caray’s.

Navy Pier with Wendy and company.

Pizza with Vimla's girls.

And Nina's first visit to "The Bean."




We're so busy having fun, I don't think about what's missing.

But I notice a few things.  I used to visit my friends in the suburbs.  This year, they all come to me.  I used to walk the Magnificent Mile.  This year, I take cabs everywhere.

And what's with all the multi-level streets and open-tiered stairways?   Where are the ramps and elevators?  Why is everything so far apart??

Chicago is my home away from home, yet it's different this year.   It's really ME -- not the city -- that's changed.


Mile Marker 1113:

On our last morning, the hotel doorman hails us a cab.  "Where to?" he asks.

I glance down at my metallic aqua-blue leg.  "The BEACH, of course!"

He looks skeptical.  It's 55 and rainy.  But it's the perfect day to try out my new water leg "Sandy."

The Secret Service gives me a hand as we climb slick steps and cross muddy pavement.   At Ohio Street Beach, a workman is churning up sand with a mini-bulldozer.

He stops and looks on with interest.  The wind's blowing and the fog's rolling in.  Our bright jackets stand out against the gray sky.

"My first time on the beach!"  I call out, waving to him.

The workman nods his head.  "My dad too," he says, pointing to my leg.  We share a smile.

I sit down on a concrete jetty to take off my sandals.

The ground is cold, but the beach is alive.

As I step into the waves, my eyes cloud over with tears.



I squeeze the wet sand between my toes.

My LEFT LEG can't feel it, but somehow it does.


On that hazy beach, the answer becomes crystal clear.
I know exactly what's missing.  And all I still have.

From Chicago, with love.
Wish you were here.

A video of Sandy's first dip, with Secret Service of course!  (Awesome cinematography by Shelley!)

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.