Day 33

Today I pulled out the Bionic Woman t-Shirt some friends gave me a few years ago when I first got this new leg. I haven't worn the T-shirt yet because I haven't felt like I was deserving. I had this incredible state-of-the-art knee yet I couldn't walk around the block without stopping for a rest. Lindsay Wagner I was not.

When I first took possession of this leg, with the new knee (the C-leg), and I put it on in my prosthetist's office, I became emotional, overcome by the significance of this new technology and what it means for people such as myself and the quality of our lives. I am now able to twist at the ankle when I walk, something I didn't even realize my real ankle does naturally. I can walk down stairs, one foot over the other, instead of taking them one by one like a toddler. I can walk over uneven ground (which, to an above-knee amputee is anything outside the house) with the confidence that my knee won't buckle. This knee is amazing in its ability to support my body weight when it is bent.

I have a "peg leg" that I use when I'm around the water. A metal pylon is attached to a simple socket. At the end of the pylon is a basic rubber foot. Walking in a peg leg makes me look like Peg Leg Pete. Makes me want to chug whiskey form a jug and cuss. And it makes me think of all the amputees in the past who lived with so much pain because of these crude ill-fitting prosthetic legs.

I recently read an article in last month's National Geographic about the bionic age of replicating body parts, from eyes and ears to arms and legs. While my leg is not as advanced as the arm the article highlighted, which is crudely controlled by brain messages, I am so appreciative of technology and proud to be a small part of this historic time in prosthetics.

My Bionic Woman t-shirt is in the laundry, getting ready for me to wear tomorrow. I feel like I deserve to wear it now. I will never be Lindsay Wagner, but I'm claiming what I've got. And what I've accomplished.

Day 32

I think I put my leg on crooked today. No, I'm not kidding. It happens every now and then and I only notice it if I take a long walk. Like my daily walk. My skin becomes irritated and it's quite uncomfortable.

I took most of the day off of work so I could go to lunch with my sister, who was in town today. Murphy's law was in effect and both of my kids stayed home sick. My son is old enough to take care of his sister, but I still don't like leaving them alone when they're sick. Which I did. Three times. The first was for an hour meeting at work. I came home, snuggled on the couch and watched a movie with them. Then I left to see my sister for a two hour lunch. When I returned we played a roaring game of Monopoly. Then I went on my walk.

When I started my walk I noticed the tell tale signs of 'crooked leg' by the nagging irritation on my skin where my prosthetic leg meets my skin, just under my bum. It was quite uncomfortable at the beginning of my walk. "I'll just walk a few blocks," I told myself and then immediately questioned that decision. Am I being kind to myself and protecting my skin or am I finding an excuse to go back home to the kids? Truth be told it was an excuse.

I kept walking and realized how hard it is to take time away from my kids for just me. I didn't feel so guilty going to work and having lunch with my sister. Those are both rationalized easily. Of course I have to go to work. It's my job. Of course I would see my sister. She's not in Bellingham very often. But leave for a half an hour walk just for me? That's much harder for me to rationalize.

A half hour was a long enough time to find a few good rationalizations. What did I tell my kids, indirectly, by taking my thirty first walk today? I told them that I cherish my body. I value exercise. I am committed. I want to be strong. I work for what I want. I am persistent. I see the value of working toward a goal.

And, funny thing, by the time I turned around to walk back home, my skin didn't hurt nearly as much.

Day 31

Yoohoo! Day 30. I've walked everyday for thirty days! I'm so proud of myself. Looking back I think I must have missed a day in there somewhere. But I didn't. I didn't skip a single day.

I'm a dabbler. I test lots of water, sticking my toes in and wading around for a bit and then I usually get bored. So I put my toes back in my comfy shoes and walk away. But not this time. This time I sticking with it. I feel the momentum spurring me on and keeping me going. At this point it would take a different kind of effort to not walk.

Admittedly there are days when I feel inconvenienced by the time it takes to walk. When I get home from work and have only an hour with the family before I have to go to a meeting and a half an hour of that is a walk, I tend to contract, shrink back and re-think my priorities. But I've always made myself #1 and taken the walk. I ask my family to go with me so I can still spend time with them. Sometimes they do and sometimes they don't.

I used to tell myself that I'm a commitaphobe. What I understand about myself now is that I'm actually a very committed person; I am able to take on something and stick with it. In fact I find it harder to give something up than to be persistent. The longer I walk, the more invested I am in continuing and the less interested I am in giving it up. The longer I walk, the deeper the benefits. The longer I walk, the happier I am.

How can I give that up?

Day 30

A few weeks ago I saw the schedule of classes for the YMCA. A class that caught my eye was teaching hula hooping. I know, I know.... a hula hoop class. Go figure. I can do that at home.

Yesterday I read a story in the Crab Creek Review about a girl who "hooped" all the time. Like, all the time. A good reminder that I don't want to get extreme, about anything. Ten minutes a day would be good for me.

This afternoon I went to get my daughter's hula hoop out of the garage. She has two big hula hoops made from black PVC pipe and decorated with fun festive colored tape. These hula hoops are bigger in circumference making them easier to use because they take longer to circumnavigate one's waist so less hip movement is needed.

This will be easy, I thought. It's been a few years since I've hooped and I forgot. I forgot how much effort it takes. I forgot how much it engages my core muscles. I simply forgot that people who hoop just make it look easy. But it isn't.

My daughter counted while I hooped. After each fall of the hoop she announced my time. "Eight seconds, Mommy." "Twelve seconds, Mommy." I got up to eighteen seconds. I don't say that with an ounce of pride. I am, however, quite humbled. I saw the hula hooper as I was driving through Fairhaven the other day. Now she makes it look effortless.

Maybe I will sign up for that class afterall.

Day 29

Today I upped the ante and took a 45 minute walk. In order to prepare for my two mile hike in the woods, we went to Lake Padden instead of staying on my neighborhood sidewalks and my comfort zone.

We walked on the main path around the lake for about twenty minutes and then took a side path that was muddier, full of ups and downs and roots and rocks. When I walk on terrain like this I need to look at the ground so I know where to place my prosthetic foot each step. It's easy for me to trip on any bump in my path.

Keeping my eyes to the ground used to be boring because I only focused on two things: I focused on putting one foot in front of the other and I focused on my resentment. In order to enjoy the beauty around me, I had to stop. I sorely missed walking as I took in the trees and moss and ferns. Walking in the woods has been a soul centering activity since I was a child. I felt cheated that I couldn't take advantage of the beauty while I was in it, unless I stopped.

And then I realized that there's a lot to see right where I was looking. My kayak buddy, Sue, got me hooked on finding heart rocks. So instead of resentment I excitedly look for heart rocks. If I'm on a path that doesn't have rocks, then I look for any beauty that I can find.

Looking for heart rocks is one of my favorite past times. I haven't had the opportunity to look for heart rocks much in the last two years because I haven't been walking. In the last four weeks my walks have centered around my neighborhood streets where rock hearts are at a minimum.

Today when I walked in the woods, eyes focused on the ground, I was excited to see if a heart rock would appear. I walked a little slower so I could scan the earth. Sometimes larger rocks, partially buried, look like heart rocks. Once I unbury the rest of the rock I discover that just the exposed part of the rock was a heart. I like these rocks because they are "heart rock wannabes." They know some day they'll be heart rocks and they're just a little impatient. Then there are the rocks that are "nearly heart rocks"; in reality they are triangles and it will take just a little more time before their hearts are exposed.

I love heart rocks. I love the metaphor they pose. Years and years of erosion and weather have slowly stripped away layers and ground down the granite until the heart of the rock is revealed.

I wasn't finding a heart rock today. I don't always find one when I look, which makes them extra special, but today I felt like I needed to find one. It had been so long since I had. No sooner had I asked my daughter to help me find one than I heard, "Look, Mommy, here's one."

I squealed with delight as she placed the full heart in my hand. I placed it in my pocket. And there it remains, a reminder of how I stretched my boundaries today.

Day 28

I've had an interesting relationship to phantom pain over the last 32 years. Phantom pain is pain that feels very real in the part of my leg that is missing. For the first 15 years after the accident I had phantom pain multiple times a day. It felt like a crowbar to the shin bone or someone pounding a nail into my big toe. Every time the pain announced its presence it would take my breath away, quite literally. It lasted only five to ten seconds and took everything I had to get through it. I was embarrassed when people saw me wince in pain and I was angry at the pain for invading my day.

My doctors told me it wasn't real pain, intimating that it was in my head. Pain is pain and I didn't believe that my mind could fabricate something akin to torture.

On the fifteenth anniversary of my accident, I realized that I had been waiting for an apology from the man who hit me with his car. That night I figured that, if I wanted one, I better call him and ask for it, since he hadn't called me to offer one. It's a long story, but the long and the short of it is that we did meet each other over Valentine's day weekend seventeen years ago. Though we saw each other at the trial two years after the accident, we weren't allowed to talk to each other, so this was our first time ever talking to each other.

The afternoon we spent together we talked for hours. We were able to cry. We were able to listen to each other's perspective. A lot happened to me that weekend. One significant change was that, for the two weeks directly after my visit with him, I didn't have phantom pain once. For two whole weeks. It had been fifteen years and I hadn't gone a day without phantom pain and then I went for two weeks without it. When it did come back into my life, the frequency was reduced to four or five times a week, not a day.

Phantom pain has come and gone from my life since that meeting seventeen years ago. For the past two years I've had very little because, I believe, I haven't been walking as much and irritating the nerve endings.

Well, that's not the case anymore. I walk everyday and I've felt an increase in my phantom pain. I use my child birth breathing techniques to get through the pain instead of holding my breath like I used to. I listen to the pain and I'm gentle with it. I'm not angry at the pain anymore. I just try to soften around it and let it be.

I'm not happy to have this pain again, but I don't resent it either. If anything, I know there may be a lesson in the crowbar whacks. And if there isn't, then that's OK, too.

Day 26

I took my walk at 5:00 tonight and it was still light!

I can't believe how different I feel. Walking is so much easier. Not just my daily walk, but my daily walking.... from the car to my office, around the office, through the grocery store. It's all just so much easier. I feel lighter.

During my walk tonight I thought about the myriad of other ways I need to take care of my body. I'm walking because I want to be healthy, but walking alone doesn't create health.

I'm only scratching the surface of my disconnect with my body. I've always known that I hide from my body, but I've tucked that understanding away in a dark closet. Now that I'm shedding a little light in there, I feel my body nagging at me to take this all a step further. "Eat better," she whispers. "Take your supplements," she reminds me. "Call the dentist and take care of that tooth," she prods. Before, I would let these words fly by me like a chilly winter wind. Now, I'm starting to listen.

I realize how ingrained and comfortable habits are. How deeply comfortable, even when the behavior isn't good for me. Sugar is a habit I'm loath to give up; it brings such joy and delight. But I'm paying more attention to the aftermath of sugar and the headache I have an hour later. But in the moment, the comfort is worth the denial. My negative self body talk is another habit and one I am only just noticing. God forbid I ever talk about someone else as rudely as I talk to myself about myself. And really, do I even mean it or am I just in the habit of sending these negative, highly critical messages to myself?

And I realize how good I am at fear. I fear the dentist just about as much as I fear being tortured. The last time I had to get a crown I sat in the dentist's chair and cried. I finally left, without getting the crown, I was so anxiety ridden about the procedure. Going back to get that crown made was one of the bravest things I've done. And I fear the dermatologist because every time I go in I have to get more pre-cancerous cells burned off. I used to be more accepting and tolerant of pain; age has made me more vulnerable to pain.

Perhaps, now that I'm feeling lighter, I can lift the burden of habits and fear and ease my load even further. Perhaps saying "No" to the next cookie and picking up the phone to call the dentist will feel as good as my daily walk.

Perhaps.

Day 25

I have a long history of dissonance with the term "Disability". I spent many years after my accident trying to deny I had a disability and was offended if anyone called me disabled. I always felt like I was at a disadvantage to healthy two-legged people; "disabled" suggested that I wasn't able to be physical. So I focused on my abilities and desperately tried to find out what they were. Being called "disabled" only reminded me of that which I was avoiding. So I set out to proved to myself that I was able.

In my early twenties (about 5 years after my accident) I learned to downhill ski with other amputees. I had a blast, not only because of the thrill of the sport, but because I was around other people who were like me. For the first time. We didn't spend time comparing stories of our amputations or talking about how we dealt with it, we simply had a great time together. My second year of skiing I was on the disabled ski team and met some amazing folks with physical disabilities of all kinds: CP, quadriplegics, paraplegics, and hearing and sight impaired folks. Each person was a role model for me in how to buck up and be in charge of my life. I haven't laughed as much in my life as I did tipping back a pint (or two) in the ski lodge at the Regional Ski races. It was like we were all wrapped in joy because we were pushing our boundaries. I never felt disabled with these folks.

It wasn't until eight years after I lost my leg that I finally relented and got a disabled placard for my car. I finally tired of parking too far away from my destination and rationalized that there had to be a few perks to my situation. Parking close is one of them.

I spent over five years as a sea kayaker. Sue, my beloved kayak buddy, and I did many day trips throughout the year and each summer found a new 2 - 5 day salt water excursion. We loaded up our kayaks with everything but the kitchen sink (including the boxed wine), put on our headsets and paddled into the sunset. Literally. I loved being able to carry myself through the world on my own accord, without the aid of anything but a paddle. No car, no bike (well, I don't ride bikes, but you get what I mean). Just me and the water. Easier than backpacking and yet much the same (except a box of wine doesn't fit in a pack very well). I never felt disabled with Sue or my kayak.

Pregnancy is what got me. I began my slow descent into disability when I got pregnant. Now don't get me wrong, I'd cut off my right arm if I had to in order to have my two children. There is nothing I wouldn't give to be their mother. But pregnancy took it's toll, what with the weight gain and the shift in hip bones. I had to redefine myself. I had to admit my disability in a way I never did before. I lost a lot of physical function and descended into the world of disability. The term finally fit.

I've waxed and waned in my abilities since I've had my two children. I never would have thought that I would label myself a "disabled mom", but I do. I have to say that these days, I'm feeling a lot less disabled. That I am able to partake in one of life's most basic functions again, walking, has elevated my confidence and my self-image. I don't have to say, "no, kids, I can't walk there." Instead I'm getting to the point where I don't have an internal moment of panic when I see how far away I have to park or how far I have to walk for a function with my kids. I'm just like all the other moms walking casually to a game or an event.

And I love it.

Day 24

Today I celebrate Imbolc, the ancient Celtic holiday that marks the beginning of spring. Back in the day, when crops were vital and the sun's return ensured a good harvest, winter was a scary time. Would the sun really return?

The beginning of February, Imbolc, is the midpoint between Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox and marks the time when the earth starts to thaw, the days grow a little longer and the time to plant seeds draws near. Like standing on a threshold, winter is behind us and spring looms before us. This is a time of both seasons - winter can whimper its last breath and spring whispers its arrival: snow can still fall even though the delicate crocus are poking their heads out of the earth.

I love how the earth mirrors my life and is, in fact, a metaphor for my life's cycles. In the circle of the year, Imbolc is the time of hope. I, too, am cycling back round to hopefulness around my body and my ability to take care of it.

I'm reminded of one of my favorite quotes at Imbolc. Albert Camus said, "In the midst of winter I learned that there was in me an invincible summer." On my walk tonight I felt the hope, not only of spring's return, and ultimately summer, but that my body is returning to me - or I am returning to my body.

I was talking to my children the other day about how my walks are helping me in a myriad of ways. Not only am I walking, but I'm keeping all my joints lubricated. Aches and pains that bothered me just a few months ago are drastically better. My mood is better and I've even lost a few pounds. I'm much more aware of the food I put in my body. Even when it's junk, I'm not eating mindlessly. Every cookie that enters my mouth is well considered.

That I'm bringing this kind of awareness to my body is hopeful indeed. I've spent years assuming my body will take care of itself, essentially ignoring my body. I've been afraid of getting to close to this body that I spent years thinking had betrayed me. I've taken my body for granted and have not honored it as the precious vehicle that it is.

I'm not at the point of doing all the right things yet and, quite frankly, I don't know that I ever will. But I am hopeful that I'm able to take care of my body and create a new, more loving relationship to her.