Day 13

Two years ago my daughter was Dorothy for Halloween. Boy, was I jealous. She got to wear a pair of ruby slippers! When I was a girl The Wizard of Oz aired once a year on TV. When it came on my family of eight huddled around the TV with our pajamas on, eyes glued to the set. It's a long movie, so when I was tired, I would hold my eyes open just to watch the end.

When I was in college I spent time reading all 16 Oz books written by L. Frank Baum. I was still recovering from my accident and the fantasy these books offered was a welcome relief from the pain I was desperately avoiding. I didn't notice that Dorothy was a heroine or that her entourage were symbolic of her journey.

Since then I've been traveling my own yellow brick road. Brick by brick I've walked as I've searched for my way home. I've met my inner Scarecrow and discovered my brains - and my wisdom. Like the Scarecrow I doubt my knowing and can convince my self that "I don't know." I've met my inner Lion and realized my inner courage. After my accident I was quite surprised at my undaunting ability to keep moving and to challenge myself in so many ways. I feel like I'm just meeting inner Tin Man and finding my heart, not the heart that loves others, that heart has always been with me. I'm discovering the heart that allows me to love myself.

Like Dorothy, I find it hard to remember that the home I yearn for is right here inside me. But my journey now is all about walking home to myself, to my wisdom, my courage and my heart.

Day 12

Who invented push-ups, anyway?

For my training I did exercises today. I started out by doing 45 push-ups - from the knees. My arms are shaking and wobbly. I feel it in my core muscles, too. Push-ups are a killer exercise.

My physical therapist told me that our Gluteus Maximus muscles are the ones that determine how strong our gait is. The stronger my butt, the stronger my gait. The stronger my gait, the easier it will be to go on a 2 mile hike. After a lot of trial and error, my physical therapist and I found a way for me to do my butt exercises without tweaking other body parts. I stand up,lean on the kitchen counter and move one leg at a time in circles, off to the side, that kind of thing. I haven't seen my therapist for a few months and it's been that long since I've done the exercises. I was definitely the kind of patient, this go around, that wanted my physical therapist to do most of the work for me. Physical therapy doesn't work that way. I know that. I just didn't have the motivation to do the exercises. Every time I went in there, we evaluated my pain, I rated my pain. The exercises caused new little pains, so we talked about that pain. In essence we were focusing on the pain.

Now I'm focusing on what I want: a strong, healthy body that will take me into the 2nd half of my life. I don't need to focus on the pain and I don't need to try and get rid of it altogether. What I'm focusing on is changing my relationship to the pain.

Even the pain caused by those push-ups!

Day 11

When I was 13 years old Sue, a wonderful young friend of my mom's, took me on my first backpacking trip at Mt. Rainier. It was truly one of the most wonderful experiences of my life. I didn't know how magnificent and expansive the natural world could be. Though I was raised Catholic, that backpacking trip convinced me that God existed everywhere.

Each summer for a number of years after, Sue took us on backpacking trips around the state. None compared to St. Andrew's park at Rainier, but each trip exposed me to more of nature's grandeur and delight.

After I lost my leg, at 17 years old, I didn't think I'd backpack again. Sue gave me a year to heal, but then got me back on trail. The trip was hot, arduous and painful. I was a bitch. But there were pockets of relief when a vista, the cedar's pungent odor, or a deer sighting would stir my soul and I forgot that a part of me was missing. I felt so complete and whole in nature.

I did more backpacking after that, mostly in my twenties. During the past ten years I've taken occasional hikes and two years ago took my family on a 2 mile backpacking trip in the Cascades. It was one of the most beautiful trails I've ever been on, full of cedar, fern, and woodland wildflowers. There were many unexpected steps on the trail which I wasn't prepared for physically or emotionally. Mark helped me up, standing on the stair above me with his hand outstretched, waiting to pull me up. The kids, with their boundless energy, were way ahead of us. The trail was longer than the promised one mile. When a fellow hiker, on his way down, assured us we were really close, Mark insisted that I drop my backpack on the side of the trail and offered to come back for it when we found camp. I obliged immediately.

Without the weight of the backpack, climbing the stairs was much easier. I asked him to run ahead to check on the kids. I actually wanted to be alone. With the trees. I didn't know if I was saying hello or goodbye to them. I didn't know if I'd ever get back on trail after this trip, it was so difficult. I cried tears of joy that I was there again. It was enough in that moment.

But the woods call me. I want to go back. So I've decided that walking my daughter to school and back - 1 mile - isn't enough. I've changed my goal and am proud to announce that I'm in training to go back on trail. I am going to go on a TWO mile hike, hopefully somewhere close to home, perhaps in the Chuckanut mountains.

I love the Olympic Games. They will be starting soon just north of us in Vancouver B.C.. When I was a girl I always wanted to be an ice skater. Well, ice skating isn't in my future, a two mile hike is. And I'm in training. Perhaps not as vigorously as an Olympic champion, but something deep is driving me like I imagine drives them. I need to do this - because the trees call, because I want to know that I can still access that part of my life, because it's simply not asking too much to go on a two mile hike and because I want to feel my wholeness in nature.

Tomorrow I'll do push-ups.

Day 10

I was humbled during my walk today.

I rushed home from work and hurried as I got the kids doing chores and homework, prepared dinner, and got ready for company tonight. In the mail was a letter from my childhood friend. She and I only exchange Christmas cards anymore, but this year she wrote a note in response to my card. As I read her card, time slowed down as I slowly took in what she wrote. She told me about her father's and sister's deaths. I had immediate flashbacks to sitting around their family dinner table for countless meals, laughing at her father, who I adored. He could make this shy little girl laugh like no one else could at that time in my life. Her sister, older than us, was always kind and supportive. And way too young to die. My heart aches for my friend's loss.

I went for my walk, thinking about my friend and her grief. My thoughts turned to the thousands of people in Haiti. People in so much pain; so many kinds of pain. And I wonder how they are coping or if shock is their coping mechanism right now. I heard devastating reports on the news today about how long it will take to unbury all the people out of the rubble. Months, perhaps a year. A sudden and temporary burial plot. My heart went out to the thousands of people in Haiti, those who died and those who survived.

My pain seems so small compared to what so many people go through each day. It's so cliche to say it could be worse, but the fact is, it could. I am humbled as I remember that we each have something share with the world about our pain, even if it is never spoken. How we each deal with our pain sends a ripple out into the world.

Day 9

Structure. I love it and I hate it.

I hate it when it confines me and forces me to stay within a box I don't want to be in.
I love structure when it defines the parameters of my influence. I especially love structure as it relates to my walking.

We walked a new route today. It's a warm sunny day so we went down to a park near the water for our walk. I loved seeing all the people out skating, picnicking, and playing at the playground, but it meant that I was outside my comfort zone. After only 8 days I've developed a routine with my walking. After just 8 days I've created a structure to my walk. And today I stepped outside that structure.

I was a little grumpy, not knowing where my half-way point was, only able to rely on the clock for how much farther I had to walk. It was so much easier to focus on my discomfort today than when I have the luxury of walking within my structure.

I love the idea of spontaneity; I love to be spontaneous. I don't always appreciate the inconvenience of it, especially when I walk. Ambiguity doesn't serve me well when I'm walking. I need to know how far I'm going, what the terrain is like, what's expected of me. I wish I could be more spontaneous with my walking. Countless times in my life someone will ask me to go on a walk with them or suggest we walk to the store instead of drive. This usually sends me into a little panic, wondering if I can do it or not, especially without pain. I've learned to honor my body and say no, but I don't like saying no. I want to say "Yes" to as much in life as possible and I sometimes resent my leg for holding me back.

Perhaps I've learned how to say "No" too well. Perhaps I've said "No" when I could have said "Yes." Perhaps I've underestimated myself for a long time. I used to have the mental fortitude to carry on through the discomfort, through the pain, through the sweat. Not only has my body gotten weak, but so has my backbone. It wasn't until I became pregnant that I ever felt really disabled. It's been a long 14 years since then. It's time to create and keep the structure of my walk until I can trust my body again.

Day 8

I'm conflicted.

I added four blocks to my walk today AND I did the entire walk without stopping.
This makes me think that the pain issue has been because of my lack of motivation, my lack of walking. Which means that I have more influence over my walking than I thought I did. I've been telling myself I can't walk because it hurts. And now I am discovering that it hurts because I haven't been walking. This is a bitter pill to swallow. Before I can get too excited about the fact that I have more control over this situation that I previously thought, I have to be accountable for how I got here in the first place. I want to just skip over this part, but I'm going to do things differently this time. I'll let this sit with me and allow myself to accept the part I'm accountable for - without reasons, explanations or excuses. Cuz there's plenty of those. The bottom line is, I didn't give my body the priority it needed to thrive.

After I lost my leg I immediately went into survivor mode. In my twenties I needed to explore my body and, in the process of trying different activities, I found myself thriving. But when I got pregnant, everything came crashing down on me. Being physical was simply too hard. In fact, being pregnant was the first time I ever felt disabled. Regarding my leg, I've been surviving the past 14 years. It's time to thrive again. Which means, like it did in my twenties, that I need to move beyond my disability as a way to define myself and remember that I am bigger than my disability.

.

Day 7

Walking is amazing. It does so much more than strengthen the body; it feeds the soul. As Mark and I were walking down the hill, our neighbor saw us as she was driving by. She stopped and turned off her car so we could chat for a few minutes. The dark of winter has kept us all inside and unconnected. It was nice to be out and available to the opportunity to catch up with her.

Then I ran into a my friend's daughter. I heard her mom was in the hospital yesterday, waiting to have her baby. Her daughter broke the exciting news that her baby sister had arrived - and that all were well and healthy. I came back home and emailed a group of friends, who were all waiting, with the news.

I live in a great neighborhood. When I first moved here 7 years ago I was a little unsettled by how nice everyone was. I felt like I should wear pearls all the time; I felt like I had walked onto the set of Leave It To Beaver. But this has become my 'normal' now and I am so grateful to be a part of a community that wants community. We all do our part, beginning with friendly hellos and often deepening into much more.

Bellingham is my Soul town. My accident happened just 6 miles south of here in the Chuckanut mountains. This is the town the hospital rushed me to. Nine months later I started college here at Western Washington University. Alone for the first time, getting my adult feet wet, I established my patterns in dealing with my amputation. Some good, some not so good. When we returned seven years ago, it was 25 years after the accident. I felt like I was given the chance to change some of the patterns that weren't serving anymore. I had a new leg made when I first moved here; I started writing, and, knowing I was done bearing children, I knew I was in that next phase of my physical life: life after giving birth. Bellingham has given me ample opportunity to re-birth myself into the person I've always wanted to become. My gestation period is just a little longer than I expected.

And that's OK.

Day 6

My pain talked to me today. I heard a request to slow down. I'm not a fast walker by two-legged standards but I do walk as fast as I can. The faster I walk, the more momentum I get going and the lighter my prosthesis feels. The whole leg weighs about 15 pounds which is a lot to lug around. When I slow down my pace the weight of the leg is more pronounced. But pain told me to slow down today.

Lo and behold. Slowing my pace helped. The vice loosened its grip on my residual limb to a tolerable level. I found a gait that was fast enough to gain some momentum and slow enough to allow my muscles some relief. The only times I had to stop on the way home was for Murphy.

Which makes me wonder. Is this a fit issue or have I lost muscle mass the past two years and need to build it up again?

When Mark first hugged me, many years ago, one of his first comments was on how strong my back was. I was so proud of myself when he noticed that. My strength was a result of how I compensated for my missing limb.

I want to feel strong again. Last fall I went to physical therapy for other aches and pains I have as a result of being a long term amputee. Each week in the small PT room as my therapist asked me to try yet another exercise that was physically taxing for me, I was reminded that I want to be strong again. I had about 40% success rate doing my exercises at home between appointments. More often than not I found reasons, excuses, rationalizations about why I couldn't do my exercises. I just wasn't ready to make the leap yet, the leap into change.

So why, when the desire is so deep, is it so hard to change a habit? After just six days I've already made this a part of my daily routine. I've already seen small benefits. In just six days. I've taken the leap. I think I'm flying.

Day 5

I just returned from a wet and windy walk. I was reminded of being a young girl and how I loved to walk in the rain. It's refreshing, cool and warm at the same time. A good walk.

I was up at Western Washington University today for a meeting. I was reminded of being a freshman there just nine months after my accident and how painful that first year was - walking from class to class, from the dorm to the Union Building and the cafeteria. But then I remembered that the second year was painful, as were the third and the fourth years. Looking back I was surprised to realize that my leg has always caused me some kind of pain. There hasn't been a time in my life, since the accident, that I haven't been in pain. In looking back at my relationship to pain I see a progression from anger to acceptance.

I used to get so angry when my pain reared its ugly head. God forbid you were the person next to me when I couldn't take another step. The pain would ignite the anger that lay simmering constantly underneath, the anger that I lost my leg in the first place. It was so hard to know what to do with all that anger. I know now that my anger created resistance and often made the pain worse, or at least it felt worse since the pain was the only thing I focused on.

Acceptance has been such a blessing. It's taken years and lots of stories to get here, but acceptance allows me to be open to my pain. When I am truly accepting, I can have a conversation with pain. When it escalates, I move into it, even bless it sometimes. I feel a warmth wash through the pain and then it lessens in intensity. I can't get rid of the pain, but I can choose my relationship to the pain. Sometimes pain is telling me to slow down. Sometimes pain is telling me something is wrong with the fit of the socket. And, I believe, sometimes pain is telling me I have something else to learn - about pain? about self-care? about patience?

There's always something else to learn.

Day 4

Someone asked me why I don't get the fit of my prosthesis fixed. While that seems the obvious answer to my problem, it's something my prosthetist and I have been working on for 2 years. It's a long boring story, but the long and the short of it is that we haven't found a good fit yet.

Making the knee, ankle, and foot is a science. Making the socket, the part that doesn't fit right, is an art. My prosthetist made me a leg 7 years ago and it was the best fit I've ever had. He's proven to me he's an artist. This time, however, regardless of everything we've tried, I continue to have pain.

I don't believe this has happened for a reason, but I do believe I get to learn something from this - if I choose. Believe me, I've had my pity parties. But pity parties are lonely. Even when my husband sits with me and validates my feelings, I'm still intensely alone at the party. And that's when I find something else besides self-pity to hold onto, something to connect me to the bigger picture, something to help make sense of all this.

One thing I'm grateful to have learned is patience. When I first went to my prosthetist to get the new leg made he said it would be done in a month, six weeks tops. It's been 27 months and three sockets later and we're still no closer to a comfortable leg. And there's a part of me, a big part of me, that's OK with that. I'm learning patience. Early in the process I told myself that I won't learn patience if I get what I want when I want it. When I have another set-back, when an appointment gets canceled, when a part doesn't come in, I take a deep breath. No one is making this happen. My prosthetist, bless his heart, has gone over and beyond the call of duty to accommodate my needs.

We ponder why this isn't working. We think it may be because I've been an amputee for 32 years now and certain muscles have atrophied making a fit more challenging. But I don't even know if a reason is necessary. Being patient with the process is. So that's what I do - most of the time. Just don't ask my husband to verify that. He's the one who catches my in my pity parties.