Time and Again

Mile Marker 1747:

Time and again, I return to Jefferson.

Over 3 1/2 years, the tile floors have been replaced with light wood.  The walls have been repainted butter yellow and robin's egg blue.

Scenic prints of beaches, gardens -- and yes, even bicycles! -- line the walls.

I'm a regular now, not as a patient, but as a trained volunteer.  I trek the hallways each week loaded down with plants and garden supplies.  I'm even friends with Barry, the security guard in the lobby!

He just celebrated his 18th year
with a donor heart!!

I see the hospital from a new perspective.  The rooms and doorways that once loomed so large are now just... rooms and doors.   I glimpse behind-the-scenes shift changes.  I get the cafeteria discount.  I empathize with patients and family members through new eyes.  Been there, done that,  I think, time and time again.

At Mile 1747, Deb and I move through the hallways together.  She's not my nurse today.  We're two friends on a mission.   In 4 hours, we log 3 miles photographing staff who touch the lives of trauma patients.  We're making a video to be shown at the Excellence in Trauma Awards in early June.

This is the third year my family and I are invited.

"Aren't they tired of us yet?" I ask Deb.  (I worry about outstaying our welcome!)

Deb laughs and rolls her eyes.   She knows how excited I get from the invite.  The idea of coming back as a "survivor" reminds me how much I've moved on.

On this day, Deb and I travel from floor to floor, camera ready.  We stop at Patient Services, Pastoral Care, Critical Care, the Neuro ICU, Orthopedics, and Rehab.  In each location, the good-natured staff gathers together for quick photos.  In their scrubs and white coats, many look familiar.  Some remember me or know my story.

But there are also surprises.  When we step off the elevator onto the 9th floor, I meet someone new.

"Do you have a blog?"  I hear from behind.

Great to meet you Dianne!!

I turn around and meet Dianne.  She tells me she works in Orthotics at Jefferson.  We've never met in person (till now!) but she's been reading this blog for almost 2 years!  We grab a quick photo before she heads to the casting room.

How refreshing to be recognized as a writer rather than a patient!   Yep, times sure have changed...

Mile Marker 1748:  

But despite the months and miles, Jefferson's healing power never ceases to amaze me.

Sure, I've moved on.   But in a sense, time STANDS STILL here.

Patients fill the beds.  Gurneys line the halls.  Nurses dart in and out of rooms, as prompt and attentive and busy as ever.  Under this roof, it could be November or May.  2010 or 2014.

Deb and I arrive at 7 Center, my old unit and Deb's current one.  We rally the nurses for a photo.  I see lots of familiar faces.  Then I glance down the hall.  My old room, 7206, has undergone a full makeover:  new door, new floors... and of course, new patient!

A man shuffles by dragging an IV pole.  His back is hunched.   An NG tube dangles from his nose.  On his feet are yellow "fall risk" socks.

"How're you doing?" one of the nurses asks him.

"Ok," he says quietly.

I whisper into Deb's ear a secret I learned first-hand,  "Ok is as good as it gets with an NG tube!"

When we turn the corner onto 7 Northwest, we run into Brendon.

All he has to do is smile, and the memories come tumbling back.  He was my nurse one early morning after a sleepless, painful post-surgery night.  As the sun rose outside my window, Brendon's presence flooded me with relief.  (His charming brogue didn't hurt either!)  He rescued me from my sweaty bed sheets, cleaned up my messy IV port, and assured me things would get better.  They did.

Today he's got lots of other patients waiting for him.   So we exchange a long overdue hug, and he dives right back into work!

Mile Marker 1749:

It's late afternoon by the time Deb and I make our way to the Emergency Department.

Our energy's flagging.  The trauma bay will be our last stop.

It's bright and high-tech.  The stuff of dreams...  In the center of each area sits a gurney wrapped in white sheets.  Two alien-looking lights hover overhead.  Machines and monitors perch at the ready.   The walls are lined with metal cabinets, each one carefully labeled.

A lifesaving lab.

This room, more than anywhere else, sends me hurtling back through time.

Nurse Aileen steps out from behind the desk.  With her friendly smile and dark ponytail, she's maybe 2 inches taller than I am.  But in a second, we realize we have something else in common.  Aileen was here the morning I was brought in by ambulance!

She shows me the actual bay I was in -- 32T -- and tells me what she remembers.  My horribly mangled leg.  Dr. M's determination to control my pain.  How my mom came in to see me, and how worried I was about her.

Then Aileen calls Margaret, who remembers me too.   At 7 a.m. on November 9, Aileen had just begun her shift.   Margaret was finishing her last month as a trauma nurse before becoming a nurse practitioner.  What are the chances I would end up in both their capable hands?

There are no words to express how FORTUNATE I am!

The two of them took care of me on this very bed, in this very room.  In the last 3 1/2 years, they've cared for thousands of patients.  Yet they still remember.

On this blog, I often talk about how things change.  (Just type the word "change" into the search box, and you'll see what I mean.)   As humans, we like to move forward at a steady pace.  It instills us with comfort and hope.  Don't we all want to leave the troublesome stuff behind?

But science says that time doesn't work that way.  Like so many other things, time is relative.  It's based on our own speed moving through space.   I'm no expert in quantum physics, but as I near Mile 1750, I kinda get it.

When I push out through the revolving doors of the lobby, I can feel my own speed.  Although my leg aches from this long day, I keep walking.  I leave the hospital behind.

On the sidewalk outside, there are a thousand reminders....



Blue Jefferson signs.  Wheelchairs.  Flags proclaiming the hospital's new slogan, Health Is All We Do.

Maybe so, I think.  But here's the thing, Jefferson.  You do it AGAIN and AGAIN.

While time moves forward, you remain like a rock between Chestnut and Walnut Streets.  You stock your floors with the best staff anyone could ask for.   When an ambulance can't reach you, you send out a helicopter.  You light your hallways day and night.  Hour to hour, your trauma team waits.  So when we need you, you're there.

Some things are better left unchanged.

Today, 3 miles passed for me.  And before that, 3 1/2 years.  But YOUR work goes on and on.

Thank you Jefferson.  Time and time again.

A Walk in the Park

Mile Marker 1700:

In May 2011-- long before I began counting miles -- there was a walk in the park.

Six months earlier, Prosthetist Tim had dropped by to visit me in the hospital.  Two months after that, he casted me for a prosthetic socket.  And a few weeks later, I took my first steps between the parallel bars of his office.

On this particular day in May, the path ahead looked pretty sunny.  Prosthetic Innovations was sponsoring a 2-mile Walk for the Wounded, for Operation First Response which helps wounded warriors.  As a new member to the PI family, I was eager to participate and even more eager to WALK.

"Do you think I could walk 2 miles?"  I asked Tim during one of my frequent visits to his office.

"If you want to try it," he told me, "I'll walk with you the whole way."

That was all I needed to hear.  The challenge was on!

The morning of the walk dawned hot and humid.  By the time Mom and I arrived at 10 a.m., the temperature had already reached 80.  We made our way from the gravel parking lot to a large stage where men and women in uniform had gathered.  The grassy field was filled with motorcycles, helicopters, and flags.  An award ceremony for veterans began.

As the minutes passed, I became less and less sure of myself.   There was no shade and nowhere to sit down.  Under a nearby tree, I waited with my mom and some PI staff.  The tree roots made me unsteady.  I planted my cane in the dirt for balance.

Panic crept in.  I was too hot and sweaty.  My socket felt like it was on wrong.  I limped over to a port-o-potty on the other side of the field.  In that tiny box, I peeled off my socket and liner.  I held my nose and tried not to lean against the wall.  But a little voice inside my head urged me on:   If you can fix your leg in here, you can do it anywhere!   The more rational part of me disagreed:  Are you out of your mind?!

The walk finally began.

"Grass?!  We're walking on GRASS??"

In my short time as an amputee, I'd never taken more than a few steps on grass.  Nobody told me this walk would be a rambling stroll in a wildly cut field!

But the PI team rallied around me.  Tim's dad walked in front of me, Bonnie from the office walked behind me, and Tyl trailed us with her camera.

As promised, Tim paced next to me, reciting his ever-present mantra...

"Big step with the right, small step with the left!"

Meanwhile, Mom remained steadfast at my heels, reminding me it was ok to give up whenever I needed.  "Don't be a hero!" she warned, her voice full of worry.

Together we continued onward.  Everyone watched my feet, including me.

The sun blazed down.  Somewhere along the way, Tim took my cane.  Someone handed me a bottle of water.  I kept putting one foot in front of the other.  Uphill.  Downhill.  Over grass and rocks and holes in the ground.  My socket stayed attached, and I stayed on my feet.  I don't know how we did it, but somehow we reached the finish line!

It was a day of VICTORY!

So why am I telling this story now?

Fast forward 3 years.  (In amputee time, that's 5 sockets, 3 suspension systems, 3 knees, 2 feet, and 1 revision surgery.)  Since that first walk, I've traveled well over 1000 miles.  I've learned about silicone and skin irritations.  I've fashioned socket pads from shoe soles and Saran wrap.  I've become a ninja with an Allen wrench.

This year, PI is celebrating its 8th anniversary at Walk for the Wounded.  As the days approach, I can't wait!  Walking is second nature now.  I cruise easily over grass and stone and ruts in the ground.  I can endure 2 miles.  I'm the master of my Genium.

On this sunny May morning, I show up at the park with my brother and parents.  The temperature is an ideal 65 degrees.

Trying to get into the spirit...

But at Mile Marker 1700, things go south.  If you're an amputee, you understand all too well that comfort is fleeting.  That technology sometimes fails.  That a good walking day does not always come when you call it.

At 10 a.m., I'm already frustrated by a long morning of socket issues.   Despite padding with sock-ply and silicone, the interior brim pokes my leg like the tip of a paring knife.  And if that weren't enough, I am walking on a "loaner leg."  My Genium has been sent back for repairs.  Again.  This month alone, it has logged more air miles than I have.

These are normal ups and downs in the life of a prosthetic user.  Bumps in the road.  Small blips on the walking radar.  I try to remember I'm lucky to be walking at all.

But on days like today, those glitches add up.  When expectations are high, there's farther to fall.

I wanted this to be a great walk.  A victory, like it was 3 years ago.  Instead, I sit it out completely.

It feels like I'm moving backwards.

I've now been an amputee for more than 3 years.  Yet the more miles I cover, the more questions I uncover.  Will I ever be able to count on my leg?  Will I get to a point where walking doesn't depend on the whim of the moment?  Will the next step always elude me?

As I think about where I came from and where I'm headed, there's one thing I know about this journey...

It is not a walk in the park.


To see a video of my first (and victorious) Walk for the Wounded, click here.

Thanks to Tyl for the video and all the photos!

The Gimpy Chicks

Mile Marker 1670:

We're not famous yet, but we draw attention wherever we go.

The setting: Orlando, Florida.  At Jimmy John's sandwich shop, heads turn as we enter.  We're three attractive women with long hair from blonde to brunette.  In workout clothes and brightly colored sneakers, we're laughing and chattering.  So why do people stare?

Today, between us, we've got three legs, two pairs of crutches, and one prosthesis!

The clerk takes our orders, her eyes glancing from our bodies to the cash register.  We smile warmly in return.  Make our way toward the pick-up counter.  When our sandwiches are ready, I take the bag.  Then I open the door for Ali and Chris.

By default, I'm the helper today -- the only one with 2 working legs!

When a chance meeting brings us together in Florida, Ali, Chris, and I become instantly inseparable.  Ali is a "left AK" (left leg, above-the-knee) like me.  Having lost her leg at 16, she is the most experienced amputee among us.  Chris is a "right BK" (right leg, below-the-knee).  She's the newbie; her amputation was just last January.  With my three years as an amputee, I fall somewhere in the middle.

During our week together, we dine on Jimmy John's, Starbucks, and Thai food.   We meet each other's families.  We walk with various leg arrangements.

At first, we exchange tips about socket fit.  Ali has just had revision surgery.  Chris has a neuroma she's trying to relieve.  I am just plain tired of being uncomfortable.  Later our conversation moves to hobbies and fitness, work and relationships, shoes and clothes.  Ali is a nurse; Chris is a rock climber.  Both are moms.  I take lessons from each of them.

I admire how they put their kids first despite ongoing leg issues.  Chris, who has traveled to Florida from chilly Wisconsin, makes sure her kids get time at the pool.  Ali, who's from Tennessee, tells me that during a tornado, she once had to crawl down the stairs carrying both of her toddler daughters!

One afternoon as we're standing around, Ali's one-year-old daughter Bella pulls herself up on my Genium.  Then her tiny face stares up at me with shock.  I am not her mother!

We all crack up.

"Bella thinks I'm the only one with a leg like that!"  Ali says, coming over to fetch her baby.

Toward mid-week, Chris, Ali, and I come up with an idea for a reality show.  It will be Push Girls meets The Bionic Woman.  Chris' husband Scott suggests the title Gimp Girls, but we prefer Gimpy Chicks!

There might be a few guest stars :)

We're sure it'll be a hit because of its wide appeal:  amputees, cancer survivors, trauma patients, nurses, rock climbers, teachers, physical therapists, tech buffs, parents, and women in general.  By raising awareness through the media, we might even drive new legislation and insurance coverage for amputees!

We agree on a smart subtitle:
Imperfection is the new perfection.

Now all we need is an agent!

At the end of our stay, I say goodbye to my fellow Gimpy Chicks.  We promise to stay in touch.  I leave Florida feeling empowered by my new identity.  I am no longer simply Rebecca, a lone amputee from Philly....

I am a Gimpy Chick!

In the Orlando airport, the TSA agent flags my backpack.  I'm not surprised.  Inside, I'm carrying Allen wrenches, silicone sleeves and patches, moleskin, alcohol spray, tape, and ointment in various quantities.

"Whose bag is this?" he says, holding it up.  I raise my hand.  Confidently.

He takes me over to the counter and pulls out my metal vacuum pump.  With its red plastic handles, round numbered dial, and clear tubing, I guess it does look kind of dangerous.  "What's this for?" he asks.

"It's a pump to get the air out of my leg," I answer, gesturing proudly toward my prosthesis.

"Never heard that one before!" he says.  He places it back in the bag and hands me my belongings.

Good thing.  By the time we reach the gate area, my socket is acting up again.  I'm so uncomfortable that I dismantle my entire leg.  I use an Allen wrench to unscrew the Genium from the base of my socket.  Then I remove the socket from my leg and peel off the silicone liner.  Prosthetic parts litter the floor around my feet.

My mom looks on nervously.  Before this trip, I never would have attempted such a feat.  I reattach my Genium to a different socket and put the whole thing back on my leg.  Lickety split.  My mom breathes a sigh of relief.

I head off in the direction of Starbucks, texting Chris and Ali as I go.  They will understand.

Gimpy Chick Power!  If only the cameras were rolling!

Save!

What a spring!  The month of April has taken me from the northwest corner of Pennsylvania to the southeast corner of the U.S.  (More about that later....)

I'm running a little behind with blog posts, but that doesn't mean there haven't been big steps.   Here are a few definitely worth SAVING!

Mile Marker 1642:

I finally meet Tanya.

Smack in the center of Chinatown, the Medic 1 firehouse is a bright red dot between fruit markets, tea cafés, and storefronts full of jade Buddhas.  Adults and children hustle past us, their arms laden with plastic grocery bags.  I stand outside the firehouse with my parents.  Our eyes are wide; our stomachs are tense.  We are nervous and excited.

We are waiting for Tanya.

In the past 3 years, I've recounted the story of my rescue thousands of times.  How this amazing paramedic appeared like a superhero at my weakest moment.  How she knelt beside me on the blacktop where 5th Street meets Washington Avenue.  How her voice pushed through my fear and pain and loneliness.  "Get ready sweetheart," she said.  "It's gonna hurt like a you-know-what!"  (But as you can probably guess, she didn't say "you-know-what.")

Over time, this one woman, with her skill and kindness, became a bit of a legend.

After the accident, it took months to learn Tanya's name.  And when I started searching Philly's vast Fire Rescue system, it was not easy to locate her.

The way we found each other was through a strange turn of events.  Last January, my grandfather took a fall.  My parents called an ambulance.  The medics came and stabilized him for a trip to the hospital.

My parents began telling them the story of our other experience with emergency rescue.  Of a paramedic named Tanya, and how grateful they were for her care.

"We work with Tanya!" they said.  They worked the day-shift.  Tanya worked the night-shift at the same firehouse.

They reached Tanya by phone, and my mom got a chance to talk to her.  After a barrage of "thank you's" from my mom, Tanya finally got a word in edgewise.

She remembered the accident well.  "That was a long time ago," she said.   And then she asked...

"Did she lose her leg?"


At Mile 1642, I recognize Tanya immediately.  And she recognizes me too -- even though I'm wearing jeans!  We embrace like old friends, and I hand her the flowers I've brought, the most beautiful bouquet I could find.  Then we WALK together, 4 blocks to a nearby Starbucks.

"You don't know how many times I thought about you," I tell her.

"You don't know how many times I wondered what happened to you!" she answers.

Then Tanya tells us the story that I've been telling for 3 years.  From her perspective.

In 2010, she worked at a firehouse merely 3 blocks from the accident scene.  And at 7 a.m. on that Tuesday, she was just an hour from the end of her shift.

Tanya's firehouse did not contain an ambulance.  Instead, Tanya and her partner Joanne came to my rescue in a small SUV with basic medical equipment.  When they saw the extent of my injuries, they called for a transport vehicle (a.k.a. ambulance) which was sent from another firehouse 1-2 miles away.  It was Tanya's job to keep me conscious while Joanne called for back-up and issued a trauma alert at Jefferson Hospital.

As we talk, I'm amazed at the details Tanya remembers.  In Philadelphia, some medic units run 6,000-8,000 calls per year.  Yet Tanya remembers the large crowd that had gathered on the sidewalk, and how not a single person came near me.  She remembers knowing immediately that I needed intubation and surgery.  She remembers how frustrating it was to wait for the transport to arrive.  And she remembers that her most important job -- aside from controlling the bleeding -- was to keep me talking and focused on her.

But the most touching part of her story, to me at least, is that she KNEW.  Even in those earliest moments, she knew the extent of my injuries.  Long before the trauma team assessed me, long before I even arrived at the hospital, Tanya suspected I might lose my leg.  And although she had that knowledge, she somehow found the strength and skill to reassure me, physically and emotionally, during our critical minutes together.

My perspective was much different.  All I knew was that someone came to help.  And I trusted her.  And because of her, I was no longer alone.

From the moment Tanya arrived, I knew I was SAVED.

Mile Marker 1650:

One week later, Mom and I board a propeller plane just slightly larger than a Honda Pilot.  We take our assigned seats in Row 9, the last row.  It resembles the rear bench seat of a city bus.  In seat 9C, I am dead center.  My Genium stretches into the aisle.  We fly to Erie, PA.

In Erie, we're surrounded by medics like Tanya.  About 260 of them.  At the EMMCO West Emergency Medical Services Symposium, I am the final presenter, here to talk about my experience as a trauma patient.

I even meet a group of medically-minded
middle and high school students
(Future EMS!)

Before my turn comes, Mom and I wander through the exhibit hall.  We meet hospital staff and rescue dogs.  We peruse firefighter equipment.  We learn Hands-Only CPR.  We see signs for workshops on decontamination, respiratory distress, and blast injuries.

At one of the tables, a man asks me if I'm an EMT.  I laugh at the idea that I could do anything as remotely significant.

"No," I say.  "I'm a former patient."

"You're a SAVE," he tells me.

I like it.

When we gather for the final presentations, the seats are packed with firefighters and officers, nurses and dispatchers, EMTs and paramedics.  Rescuers of all kinds.  I'm struck by the number of selfless, supportive, and skilled professionals all in one room.

We hear about Pennsylvania's EMS System from a legislative perspective.  "Hope is not a strategy," says  Richard Gibbons, PA's Director of EMS.  He says that readiness and collaboration are essential to patient survival.  It brings to mind Tanya's story about my own rescue.

Edmund Hassan, Deputy Superintendent for Boston EMS, speaks next.  He describes the complex preparation necessary for events such as the Boston Marathon.  He tells us how, in the moments of last year's bombing, the EMS workers had to transform from being victims themselves to being first responders.   He talks about how police and security had to run past the injured in order to neutralize the threat, and how bystanders stepped in to assist the victims.  He talks about triage and tourniquets and transport.

I am so transfixed by his presentation, I forget to be nervous for mine.  I'm surprised when the AV guy taps me on the shoulder and asks for my PowerPoint.

Ed is a tough act to follow!

Finally, I get up on the podium.   I tell everyone about my EMS experience.  I tell them about 5th and Washington, and my rescue, and of course, about Tanya.  I tell them how my world was shattered, but that because of her, I wasn't alone.

Emergency medics perform like an on-the-spot trauma team.  They do the job of doctors, nurses, technicians, social workers, clergy, and transport.  And they do it all at the corner of 5th Street and Washington Avenue.

No matter how far I travel, I will always be connected to the people who were there for me at the very beginning.  It's impossible to express how thankful I am for the care I received in those very first moments.  But I can say this:

I am honored, proud, and very, very fortunate to be a SAVE.

The Tooth About Trauma

(or How A Windy Night Landed Me In The Dentist's Office)

Mile Marker 1620:

The wind howls like a thousand ambulance sirens.  I lie in bed, shoulders tense, jaw tightened.  I toss and turn until the sheets are tangled.  At some point, I fall back to sleep.  That's when the sirens become ghosts.

In March 2011, the night after my 13^th surgery, I had a terrible dream.  In it, I stood in the middle of a blizzard on a huge snowy hill.  Hundreds of sledding ghosts whipped by me from every direction.  The wind gusted as they whizzed down the hill.  Their screams screeched in my ears.  I knew I’d be hit, but I was immobile.  With my single leg trapped deep in the snow, there was nothing I could do to get out of their way.

I woke up in the ICU drenched with sweat.  Just 4 months earlier, I'd had my leg amputated, and now I'd just undergone major abdominal surgery.   My little leg quivered in the sheets.  My stomach rippled with metal sutures and adhesive tape.   My head ached with morphine.  And the suction sound of the NG tube -- that incessant high-pitched whistle -- followed me like a constant screaming ghost.  The dream made perfect sense.  I was utterly powerless.  There was no escaping the chaos.

At Mile Marker 1620, the cause is different, but the effect is the same.

A few weeks ago when I spoke to the staff at Hershey Medical Center, I told them that over time it’s possible to organize traumatic memories.   To tuck them neatly away.  To take them out when I want them, not when they want me.

Of course, that's not entirely true.  Sometimes the ghosts sneak out.

After 3 years, I've still got memories of the toughest days.  The theme music from Glee takes me back to sleepless nights in my hospital room.  The smell of Purpose soap reminds me of when my mom would help me get washed up each morning.  Even some physical sensations -- Ankle Blades and the Stone Sandal -- work like instant time travel.  They make me remember.

But they aren't threatening.  They don't recreate the FEAR.

This night does.  The wind shrieks.  I toss and turn, and clench my jaw some more.  At 3 a.m. I get out of bed.  Grab an empty bag.  Stuff my pillow, fleece blanket, iPad, phone, and water bottle into it.  I do these things in pajamas, barefoot, balancing on my right leg.  Then I shove the bag onto my shoulder and crutch into the spare bedroom.  It's smaller and quieter in there, somehow safer because it has no windows.

Exhausted and stressed, I scrunch my body onto the unopened futon.  One foot hangs off the end.  

I listen to Radiolab.  Grit my teeth.  Eventually, I sleep.

In the morning, a few things are obvious:

(1)  The ghosts have gone back where they came from.

(2)  I should have called my 4^th floor friends and bunked in with them.

(3)  I probably broke a tooth.

By Mile 1622, I'm in the dentist’s chair.  Luckily the dentist happens to be my good friend Jeff.  He looks in my mouth, wiggles my teeth, and takes an x-ray.  Although my jaw still aches, he declares no major damage.  He tells me I’ve got a minor case of TOOTH TRAUMA.

“Trauma?" I say.  "I’m familiar with that!”   The diagnosis is oddly comforting.

When I tell him the story of the windy night, we end up laughing about the tiny futon.  I tell him I never could have fit on it with 2 legs!

I've built a safe home for my traumatic memories.  It's taken time and practice (and help from a skillful therapist).  But the truth about trauma is this:  when the lights go down, it sometimes leaks out.

More than three years later, there are still a few ghosts.

When they visit, I have to hunker down and bite the bullet -- although it might land me at the dentist.

When I leave Jeff's office, I'm smiling again.  The sun is high.  My mind is clear.  And, best yet, there's no wind at all.

The Sweetest Place

Mile Marker 1612:

There's a certain sweetness in telling my story.

For weeks beforehand, I line up the events like ingredients on a shopping list.  From photos, I mix together a PowerPoint.  I decide what to include and what to leave out.  Dice or chop?  Stir or blend?  It's a constantly changing recipe, and only in the tasting, can I tell if I got it right.

The key ingredient... chocolate?

I'm excited to be here in the Sweetest Place on Earth.   But more than that, I feel fortunate to be in a place, physically and emotionally, where I'm able to share my story with others.

As my parents and I wait in the bright, windowed lobby of Penn State Hershey Medical Center, patients go by in wheelchairs.  Doctors in scrubs drink coffee at a nearby table.  On the other side of the room, a woman on a scooter tries to reign in 2 rowdy toddlers.  My mom says she can feel the anxiety here.  But to me it's just an atrium, spacious and airy.  In the middle of fields and farmland, it's nothing like the city hospitals I know so well.

An hour later, at Mile Marker 1612, I stand in an auditorium filled with doctors, nurses, and hospital staff.  Above me, on a screen the shape of a giant Hershey Bar, is my first slide:  A Thousand Miles:  Trauma from a Patient and Family Perspective.

This is Surgery Grand Rounds.

Kinda rolls off your tongue, doesn't it?

I'm impressed with many things here (including that cool title!).  I'm impressed with the story behind the town, the vision and teamwork that impacted the lives of so many people.  I'm impressed with the hospital, a sprawling and busy Pediatric and Adult Trauma Center.  But what impresses me most are the medical professionals who've taken an hour of their valuable time to come and hear me.

I begin with the basic ingredients:  a bike, a street, and a teacher heading off to work.  Then I add the garbage truck.  The right turn.  The injuries, the rescue, the surgeries, the hospitalizations.  The pain, the fear, the worry, the set-backs.  And all the people -- like everyone in this audience -- who competently and compassionately carried me and my family to where we are today.

I throw in the scary times, but I sprinkle in the sweet stuff too.   Like Australia and A Bump in the Road.  All the human and healing moments.  Three years later, those tiny details are the tastes I like best.

Halfway through the presentation, beepers go off like a barrage of oven timers.  Not one, not two, but a whole auditorium full!   I stop talking, but no one makes a move.  "That sounds like an emergency," I suggest.  "Maybe you guys should go."  A laugh echoes back.  So I pick up where I left off.  But then, 5 minutes later, they all beep again.  "It's ok if you need to leave," I say.  "Really, I've been there!"

I remember the stark white lights of the trauma bay.  The doctors' wide eyes hovering above my gurney.  I have been there.  I've been the patient in need when the beepers go off.

But I guess this time it's not a true emergency after all.

At the end of the program, we open it up to questions.  The first one is from Dr. Peter Dillon, Chair and Professor of Surgery.  "What was the most important aspect of your relationship with your team?" he asks.  "What did you need the most?"

I've been telling my story in one form or another for the last 3 years.  Yet this question takes me somewhere new.  Instinctively, I lean into the microphone and tell him the most important aspect was TRUST.   After 1,612 miles, I discover the secret ingredient that has flavored every interaction with my team.

Other questions and comments come from the audience.  This one gets a laugh:  "Do your parents feel like putting you in a padded room so they can go on vacation?"

Ha ha.  In the last 45 minutes, I've shown photos of biking and skating and rock climbing.  So it's a logical conclusion.  And reasonable too.  Like I said, my mom feels the anxiety in a hospital that's not even mine!

When a trauma occurs, it leaves vast and deep scars.  You lose your health, your independence, your confidence, and even your hope.  It's TRUST that gets you through.

The story starts out bitter.  But if you're very, very lucky (like I was), you find some sweet places along the way.



A heartfelt THANK YOU to the Trauma Team at Hershey Medical Center for the opportunity to share my story.  And for the skill, courage, compassion, and TRUST you share with your patients every day.

Comfort Zone

What do an ICY SIDEWALK and an ELLIPTICAL TRAINER have in common?

They're both outside my comfort zone!

Mile Marker 1575:  

Mother Nature dumps more snow on Philly.   For the last 2 winters, she’s been kind.   But now, in my 3^rd year as an amputee, she declares, “No more kid gloves.  You can handle this!”

I'm not so sure about that.

No,  I want to
STEP OUTSIDE!

In mid-February, school closes for 2 days in a row.  By the third day, I'm restless.  I've made plans, but do I dare venture out?

My friend Kelly, a fellow amputee, posts on Facebook that she has just shoveled her driveway.   Go Kelly!!  That's just the spark I need....

I lace up my boots, start the car, and steer out of the parking garage.  Fortunately, I don't even have a driveway to shovel!

The streets are glazed with slush as I head across the city.  When I find a parking spot along the curb, cars drive by, splashing my door.  Nervously I wait to get out.  I watch the sideview mirror till I can’t see any more headlights.  The time is NOW.

In one swift motion, I unlatch the door and swing out my Genium.  I push up into a standing position, and close the door as quick as I can.  Sliding my glove along the car, I make my way toward the sidewalk.  My heart is pounding.  I hate being this close to traffic.

Uh-oh.  A foot-high snowdrift blocks the curb.  If I sink into it, I'll fall for sure.  (Walking in deep snow is like marching, a skill I haven't yet mastered.)  So I inch along the parked cars until I reach a shoveled-out space at the corner.

I was too panicked to get
a photo of that stretch of ice,
but it looked kinda like this one!

There, I face the next obstacle -- a 20 foot stretch of sidewalk that looks more like an arctic tundra.  I draw in a deep breath and begin shuffling along it like I'm walking on glass.  Land each step as light as a snowflake.  One false move could cause an avalanche.  That avalanche could be ME.

Finally I reach the parking kiosk.  Relief!  But only for a second.  I realize, at that moment, I'll have to cross that sidewalk twice more – once to put the parking ticket in my car and a second time to get where I’m going.

Here's a handy map (courtesy of my friend Shelley):

Ugh.  Magic better happen after this adventure!

This winter, more than ever, the walls of my comfort zone confine me.  I stay indoors when I want to go out.  I drive when I'd rather take Septa.  I circle the city in my car, checking the sidewalks, afraid to walk on them.

Ok, I admit it.  The entire month of February lies outside my comfort zone.

It makes me angry and frustrated.  But at Mile 1575, there's a new force pushing against those walls.  If Kelly can do it, maybe I can too.

And today, if I do stay on my feet, I'm pretty sure it will be worth the trip.  For the first time in 3 years, I’m going to see Ed.  

Ed was a volunteer at the rehab hospital when I was there in December 2010.  Each morning, he greeted me with a warm smile as I’d wheel into the dining room for my breakfast tray.  Back then, EVERYTHING lay outside my comfort zone -- even coming to breakfast.  But Ed stretched those boundaries just a little bit wider.

“When I can walk again,” I'd tell him, “I’m going to come back and be a volunteer like you!”

And for more than a year now, I have been going back.  Each week, I volunteer at the rehab hospital, keeping patients company as they undergo therapy in the gym.

The reunion is worth it!

When I think how far my comfort zone has expanded in the last 3 years, what's a few more yards of ice??

After that trek, I log the next 25 miles mostly indoors.  But getting out in the winter makes even the smallest steps feel like a victory.

Friends Ruth and Asa help me navigate the snowy city.





In Washington Square, I find my favorite picnic spot buried under a sea of white.

And my first sip of lavender green tea tastes like much-needed spring.

Little by little, as if by magic, the snow disappears.


Mile Marker 1600:

The temperature hits 40 for the first time in months.

My friend Robert shows me his latest accomplishment -- the elliptical trainer.  He's inspired me before.  But his newest idea pushes at those walls, just like Kelly's snow shoveling!

At Mile 1600, Trainer Ian gives me a quick tutorial.  PT Colleen suggests putting my Genium in "free swing" mode.  PT Deb sticks Dycem on the pedal to keep my left foot in place.

I grip the handrails, push back against my socket, and step onto the machine.   In "free swing," my Genium is as flimsy as a piece of spaghetti.  But it works.  As I push the pedals forward, it comes along for the ride!

I start out tentatively, arms braced on the center handles, eyes glued to my left foot.  Gradually, I find a rhythm.   One hand at a time, I reach for the machine's moving arms.  Take my eyes off the Genium for one split second and then another.

At day 3, it still looks more natural than it feels.  My arms work overtime, and my left foot isn't quite stable.  But at least I'm moving!

Deb and I even have a little FUN with it...

Of course, leaving your comfort zone is much easier when you've got your team around.  Slip-ups are laughable.  And anyway, pedaling the elliptical is nothing like walking on ice!

But it is something new.

Each time I cross that boundary, a tiny bit of fear melts away.  Step by step, mile by mile, the desire grows.  I want to travel farther and farther.

Does magic really happen out there?

Maybe, maybe not.   But sometimes, I discover a burst of confidence.  Sometimes, I get a good workout.

Or sometimes -- as in the case of the arctic tundra -- I realize just what I can handle.

And that knowledge holds a magic all its own.