Day 43

Another day of walking. This time in an asphalt jungle. We headed up to Vancouver today to feel the Olympic spirit. What we really felt was the Canadian spirit for their love of hockey. I've never seen so many people wearing their country's "gear."

We probably walked three miles today and it was much harder than yesterday's four miles. I think there are a few reasons for that. Walking on asphalt is much harder, as I'm sure it is for anyone. My lower back really feels the impact. Also, when I was hiking up, up, up yesterday, my prosthetic leg couldn't make a full stride. On the uphill, my prosthetic leg can only make half a stride, from full extension up to meeting my long leg. That means that my prothesis doesn't have the opportunity to rub on my backside so much. Today, after three miles of full strides, my backside is feeling pretty raw.

But, for the most part, I'm feeling good. I need an Advil to cut the incessant ache and a night of sleep will help with the raw spot.

I will say this: in my post yesterday I wrote that maybe Tessa's hurt ankle was a blessing in disguise. It wasn't. I would have loved to have had Mark and Tessa there with me during my accomplishment. It was really nice to walk with the family today, bantering, joking and having a good time. I wish I could have had that yesterday; I'm sure it would have helped.

My hikes aren't over, though, so there will be other opportunities for the family to hike with me. Then I won't need to hike with ruby slippers because "home" will always be with me.

Day 42

YAAAAAAHOOOOOOOOO! I did it! And then some. Boy Howdy am I thrilled.

I sit with a glass of champagne and an aching lower body as I recall the events of the 2 1/2 hours I spent in the Chuckanut mountains today.

I really wanted to hike up to Fragrance Lake, so the initial plan was to drive one car to the parking lot near the lake and leave it there. Then, when we were done hiking the two miles up to the lake, we could walk to the car and drive down to the car at the trail head. But, truth be told, there was something in me that not only desperately wanted to hike up and down, but knew I could. When it came time to leave the house I had to decide, do we take both cars or can I commit to 4 miles?

I committed.

We drove to the trail head and started up the trail. The sun was shining and there were scores of other people hiking the same trail. What was I thinking that I might see some trail-side plants? It's still February! Instead there was a sea of sword ferns blanketing the forests floor. Deep deep green amidst the brown duff of fir and cedar.

After we hit the half way point 45 minutes into the hike, Tessa twisted her ankle. She didn't want it to hurt, but Mark and I could tell it did. Reluctantly she and Mark headed back to the car and I decided to go on by myself the rest of the way.

Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. I'm used to hiking alone; in the past my friends often had to keep their own pace. They always waited for me at a resting point, but I am used to being with my thoughts and my panting breathe as I walk alone.

As I did, I thought about how much easier this all was than I expected. What was I thinking limiting myself to 2 miles? I can do 6 or 8! But then I rounded another switchback and wondered when the hell the lake would appear! The last half mile was tough, more on my lungs than my legs.

I finally got to the lake about 45 minutes after parting from Mark and Tessa. Teary eyed, puffed up from this accomplishment, I kept walking until I found a bench. I sat for about 5 minutes, relished the moment, washed my four (!) heart rocks in the lake and headed back down.

This C-leg is amazing. I can walk foot over foot, bearing weight on my prosthetic leg while it's bent. Walking down was a breeze. When I've hiked in the past, this is the part that really tweaks my lower back. But today, I walked down easily and quickly, probably in an hour. As I walked down the trail, it was the first time in a long time that walking felt so natural that I wanted to run. I ached to have my body let loose and run down the hill, the breeze flowing through my hair. Do nearly 50 year olds, even two-legged ones, run down hiking trails? I don't think so. I did what any dignified nearly-50 year old would do and walked down the trail. But I swear, it was like I was walking with ruby slippers on.

When I arrived at the trail head, Mark and Tessa were in the car waiting for me. I thought I would cry; I thought I would feel utter relief. Instead I felt blissed out. I was all smiles.

What dawned on me today with intense clarity is this: When I think of myself as disabled, I am. When I think of myself as not disabled, I'm not. I think Tessa was right: I'm disabled and I'm not. My leg teaches me about the paradox of life.

Today, I felt alive and my own brand of normal. Holy cow, I walked FOUR miles today!

Cheers!

Day 41

Tomorrow is the big day and I'm so excited. Tomorrow I'm taking my 2 mile hike in the woods.

I so look forward to being in the woods, smelling the wet earth, seeing the budding trees and forest floor plants. I'm sure I'll try to recall each plant's name; I studied ethnobotany in college and loved becoming acquainted with each plant's use.

I look forward to huffing my way up the hill. I usually grumble because I hate to sweat. I'll likely wonder when it will all be over, but the exhilaration at the end will make it all worth it.

I'm going to be conscious of breaking a pattern tomorrow. You see, even though there's so much anticipation before I'm physical, before leaving the house, as I'm getting ready, I can get pretty grumbly. It comes off as if I'm mad at everybody else. I've reviewed this behavior enough times to know that I really just get scared. I get scared that whatever I'm about to do will be hard. I get scared that I'll look foolish. I get scared that I'll fail. Any irritation, anything that goes wrong just exacerbates my fear, so I'll be aware of being authentic. Instead of snapping at my family and masking my fear in anger, I'll just say, "I'm scared." Even if I don't know what I'm scared of in the moment. A wise woman recently told me that the physical feelings of being scared and being excited are the same. So I guess it's really my choice about how I express those feelings.

I want to have fun tomorrow. I want to remember that no matter how far I go, what I'm most looking forward to is being in the woods. I can hike in half a mile and have a similar experience to that which I'd have two miles up. My intention, however, is to hike the full two miles.

Now, if I could just do the whole hike with ruby slippers on. How swell would that be?

Day 40

The feedback I get from other people is interesting: most people don’t see or think of me as disabled.

There’s a huge part of me that appreciates that and prides myself in that. I don't want pity; I don't want to be treated differently. I remember what it's like to have two legs and I know that having only one leg does not make me different than other people.

Then there’s a part of me that is confused by all of that. I deal with my leg on a daily basis. It is clear to me that my body does not work the same as two-legged bodies. It takes me energy to accommodate the loss of my leg in my life, if not physically, then emotionally. Not in a huge way, but the loss is there, everyday. I don’t mourn it daily, I deal with it daily. I don’t bemoan the loss, I’ve accepted it. Since I remember what it's like to have two legs, I also know that having only one leg does make me different than other people.

It’s a hard line to balance, recognizing my limits and not being defined by them. That’s easier for me to do when I’m alone, but once I’m reflected by other people, the tune changes.

When I hear from other people that they see me as normal, after the initial glow, it seems to minimize what I deal with. Being labeled as normal fails to recognize all that I do to manage living with one leg. Another hard line to balance – the need to be recognized for dealing with a difference and the need to be recognized for being normal.

I think what I understand now is that there's a tug of war between my spiritual body and my physical body. My physical body is challenged and as it ages, it's challenged even further because of the loss of my leg. Physically I don't feel exceptionally normal. It's my spiritual body that feels normal. The rest of my limbs could be cut from my physical body, but that won't cut out my spiritual body. My essence, my true nature, the part of me that transcends the physical is rich and deep.

I’ve become acutely aware over the years that there are so many hidden challenges that millions of people deal with on a daily basis. Perhaps what makes us all truly normal is having our own private challenge in life, accepting it as our own, and learning to grow from that challenge. I know that I've grown as a result of being an amputee.There is a plethora of lessons I've learned in life just because I don't have my leg. Has the loss of my leg been worth it? Absolutely. Would I change how my life turned out? Absolutely not.

Day 39

Ever since I was a little girl I've wanted to be an old lady. I've always carried an image of myself as wrinkled with a wispy gray bun sitting in a rocking chair. Children will come sit on my lap and revel in my kind council. I imagined myself emanating wisdom.

I turn fifty in five weeks and, while I'm nowhere near my image of being an old lady, I am on my way. My hair is already gray and I've gathered a bit of wisdom on my journey.

What I didn't factor into the equation was the toll life takes on my body. Regardless of my amputation, but in many respects because of it, my body is showing the signs of good old wear and tear. I need to get bifocals; my bones creak when I stand from a sitting position; I get heartburn. How did this happen?

Ever since my accident aches and pains are a normal part of life for me, which was unusual for my age. My peer group didn't grumble about tendinitis, bursitis, or swollen ankles. I know that, in many respects, my body is older than my chronological age. It made me feel a little freakish and lonely. And I dealt with the pain by ignoring it, getting angry with it, and hiding it.

But now that my friends are getting older I finally get to commiserate with them. They too know how hard it is to stand after sitting for an hour. I empathize when I hear them complain about sore muscles or a bad back. Their bodies are starting the wear and tear process, too. While I don't wish this on anyone, I feel like I have company!

Not that I like to spend a lot of time whining about my body. What I didn't expect about aging is how young I would feel on the inside. That old lady with a bun sitting in the rocker? When I was a girl I thought of her as quiet, soft and gentle. I didn't realize that I would grow up and, instead of sitting in a rocker, I'd want to be listening to rock music.

Just so long as I stay young at heart, I'm not too concerned about my body.

Day 38

Today I made a decision. For the next week I am not going to use any disabled parking. I want to be aware of how much I depend on it and how much I use it as the easy way.

It took about ten years before I could consider getting a disabled placard for my car. Once I had one, I used it, not all the time, but definitely when my leg was tender or painful.

Since I've had kids I've so easily rationalized why I can use it. When they were little and I was getting back down to my normal weight (read: I was still heavy) I did need to use it. Getting around the grocery store holding a baby was a challenge in itself. I knew my limits and that didn't include trekking across a parking lot.

I usually feel awkward getting out of my car, though. I feel like I need to explain to the stranger who walks by me, looking at me with judgmental eyes, why I'm justified in using this disabled parking space. I know I look normal, but there have been a number of years when my walking has not been normal. But the stranger doesn't know that. The stranger only sees me, a normal looking person, get out of the car. I make sure my placard is hung quite visibly on the rearview mirror. No one can question me if I have a bonafide placard.

As I was pulling into a disabled spot today, out of habit and ease, it dawned on me that, in fact, I'm quite capable of parking at the far end of the parking lot, walking all the way to the store, walking around the store and actually walking back to the car. If I can walk for a half and hour everyday, I can certainly walk across a parking lot.

So this tells me two things. First, that I'm becoming more aware of my habits and the stories I tell myself about my disability. I am learning to question myself a little bit and see if there's another story to tell. Second, I am becoming stronger. Even though I felt like I took ten giant steps backwards during my walk today (I had to stop on every block because my residual limb was getting the vice grip feeling again), the fact of the matter is that I walk at least 2/3 of a mile every day.

So, I want to change my story this week. In the new story, I'm strong and capable. I am someone who walks across the parking lot to the store.

With a smile on my face and a spring in my step.

Day 37

Yesterday started out as a drippy wet walk in the woods. At the end of my hour the sun was shining and the newly emerging leaves were painfully green, so intensely were they glistening.

Today was a mellow neighborhood walk in the sun with my children . Not a "sunglasses day", but it wasn't raining.

I'm still pondering the whole disability issue - how much choice I have about being disabled and how my attitude affects my disability. Can I have a disability and not be disabled?

I have to figure this one out.

Day 36

I took an hour walk today on Sehome hill, a beautiful arboretum behind Western Washington University. I used to take lots of walks there when I first started college, right after my accident.

I was so grateful for Sehome hill, a lush, luscious, vibrantly green forest that was, with effort, accessible to me. Walking was very painful and arduous those first few years after the accident. I kept walking in spite of that because intrinsically I knew that I had to. I didn't want life to pass me by. I wanted to live as much as I could.

As I was walking today, I pondered what makes me disabled. I questioned whether I'm even truly disabled. When I was a young eighteen year old, I couldn't think of myself as disabled. I flat out refused. I spent energy learning to stretch, expand, reach and find my limits, of which there were few. I wasn't interested in being disabled so I wasn't. I prided myself on being able to just keep up with the friends who slowed down enough for me to do so. I had a can-do attitude. In my twenties, anything was possible, almost.

When I had kids, all my energy went into them, not pushing my physical limits. I found there were new limits to explore: how much sleep I could go without; how long I could comfort a crying baby; how patient I could be playing dinosaurs for hours; how much I could love when my child was sad. Pushing those boundaries had nothing to do with my leg and never will.

Being physical went by the wayside. I allowed that to happen. But I'm realizing that the slow decline, the imperceptible descent into inactivity shaped my attitude about my body and my abilities. So much so that gradually I started to think of myself as disabled. Then I started to call myself disabled. What I thought was simply calling a spade a spade was in fact a shift in attitude.

Walking the same paths today I walked over thirty years ago put me in touch with the young woman who refused to be disabled. It reminded me that, in fact, I have a choice in the matter. How attached am I to identifying myself as a disabled person? What I realized on my walk today is that I get to choose my attitude toward my body and, in turn, make a choice about whether or not I'm disabled.

Despite the static limitations of my body - I'll never grow my leg back - life can be heaven or it can be hell. It's all in what I make it. It doesn't even really matter what the issue is. Lack of money, ill health, strained relationships. My relationship to those situations will determine how happy I am.

I'm turning fifty in about six weeks, but there's a big part of me that's still an eighteen year who wants to live as much as I can. Now I understand that it's my choice. Disabled or not.

Day 35

Over the past few days I've asked my kids a question: Do you think you have a disabled mom?

Luke said, "No, but I wish you could run with me and take me to the Y." I love that my son wants to run with me. What I would give to run with him, but that's just not in the cards. But my son doesn't think I'm disabled. I like that.

Tessa said, "Well, yes and no." This answer spurred a lengthy conversation while we were taking my walk together. The long and the short of it is that Yes, Mom is an amputee and, by definition she is disabled. And No, Mom is normal, so by definition, she's not disabled. I challenged her a little on this. "There's some normal things I can't do, like some of the other mom's. So and So runs and So and So bikes and So and So dances," I said.

"Well, Mom," Tessa explained, "that's because they're good at those things." I didn't explain that they're good at those activities because they have two legs and can actually engage in them. I heard what was underneath, or at least what I wanted to be underneath that statement.

I'm good at other things. Where I excel in life may not be, well, OK, I'm nearly fifty so the writing is on the wall, the things I excel at ARE NOT in the physical realm. I know that. I get that. I'm OK with that. My gifts lie elsewhere.

What I'm really OK with is that my kids don't mope around because they have a mom that is disabled and ruining their life by making it little due to inactivity. Deep down I know that's never been the case, but there's always been that fear that my disability puts a major damper on their lives. Sometimes, yes. But most of the time, to them I'm just a normal mom.

I guess I'm doing something right.

Day 34

I love progress!

When I look back to how I was in the world just two months ago I am amazed at how different I interact with the world, especially in terms of walking. Over the past three years with the never ending leg-in-progress, I slowly shifted my attitude toward walking. So slowly that I barely realized that it had changed.

At first my modifications were justified and understandable. My first leg-in-progress was quite uncomfortable and I had to say no to walking the kids to school anymore. I limited my trips to the mall (even more than normal!) because it was simply too far to walk. I realized my world had become quite small when walking around Fred Meyer was a challenge. And so I easily justified why getting up out of the living room chair to answer the phone was too hard. "Honey, could you get the phone?" or "Honey, could you get me a glass of water?" Who could deny me that when it's painful to get up and walk?

And yet, I see now how I dug my own grave of limited ability. After my accident life was cumbersome. Prosthetic legs back then weighed more than they do now and fit differently so they felt like a ball and chain. That said, my seventeen year old body was not interested in being sedentary and jumped at any opportunity to "do it myself." Over thirty years of lugging this leg around, having two children, and simple aging had left me wanting to rest. I wasn't jumping up anymore saying, "Here, I'll do it!" No, I was fine if someone else did it. I just slowly allowed myself to become sedentary and I didn't hardly realize it. Not walking became my new normal.

And then there came a point in my life and I knew it was time to get back in my body or not. And if I chose not to then I would be forever looking at life from my living room chair. I met a 65 year old woman a few weeks ago who started working out at the gym when she was 60 years old. "I wish I had started years ago," she said, "I feel so much younger. Imagine how I'd feel now if I had started when I was 50."

Well, this year I turn 50. While I don't plan on joining a gym, daily walks are fast becoming a part of my new normal. It's not easy, but it's not hard, either. It's just progress.