Still Recovering

If you haven't seen 127 Hours and don't know how the guy escaped from his rocky entrapment, read no further. But I may be the only person who wasn't aware of how this guy escaped..... until someone told me today.  My first reaction was, "Wait, don't tell me what happened, I haven't seen the movie."  My second reaction was like being punched in the gut - over and over again.  The feeling hasn't left me all day.

I read a review of the movie on a parent review website (you can be sure they'll give you every detail in their attempt to shield young viewers from gore, violence, sex and swearing).  I only read the section on violence/gore; I wanted to know how graphic they depicted the amputation before making a decision about whether or not to see it.  Just reading about how he severed off his arm made me light-headed and nauseous.  I have a visceral reaction to body parts being severed.

I remember a few months after my accident the movie Julia came out, a movie about Lillian Hellman and her friend, Julia.  My mom saw it before I did and strongly discouraged me from seeing it.  One of the characters wore a prosthetic limb and she thought I would be disturbed by that.  "Oh, Mom, I'll be fine," I said as I waved off her comment. My boyfriend and I went to the movie and I held his hand the whole time, realizing how nervous I was as I waited for the part where the amputee would walk on screen.  The actress nailed it; she limped just like I do.  Seeing on film what I had only yet seen in my own reflection was a shock.

I acted cavalier and pretended it didn't affect me, but it did.  I shook it off and went on with my evening.  Over the years I haaven't become less sensitive. On the contrary.  I've become more sensitive.  When I heard about James Franco's character cutting off his arm today, I was back at my own accident, lying on the side of the road.  The worst part wasn't seeing a part of my leg a few feet away.  The worst part was feeling like my heart had just been ripped out.

Though I'm a James Franco fan and I've been excited to see this movie, I think I'll pass.  I'll keep my heart intact.

Breathe

I got a call the other night that I had an abnormal mammogram.  Please come back in for another look.  While I was glad I had an appointment in just two days time, that was enough time to envision every possibility. First I went to my death.  Yep, that's the way I do it; I go for the biggest, most painful possibility first.  Sadness enveloped me.  Though painful, I can leave my brothers and sisters. Though excruciating, I can leave my husband.  And though no parent should survive their child, I could even imagine leaving my parents.   But I can't leave my kids.  Not my kids. Just the thought of it was like a punch to my gut by Arnold Schwarzenegger. I'm able to imagine what it would be like for them to live without me.  My Dad died when I was thirteen years old so I know what it's like to always miss, always wonder what it would have been like.  I don't want that for my kids.  Even though they are eleven and fourteen years old, there are still so many "firsts" that I want to witness.  Sadness.

Then I went to anger.  If I have breast cancer my body would be betraying me once again.  Hasn't this body been through enough?  Haven't I paid my bodily dues in life?  Then I remembered that I'm aging and there will be more physical challenges to face.  There's no set limit on how many times we'll each be challenged by our bodies.  Some get it more than others.  But still, I don't want another physical challenge in my life right now.  I've got plans! Anger.

Then I felt practical.  I realized that breast cancer is not a death sentence.  If I had a lump, I'd likely need chemotherapy and/or radiation.  I could be a survivor in a new way.  I began lining up the stream of family and friends who could help my family and I in our time of need.  Practical.

Then I was consumed with fear.  Just thinking about chemo and radiation made my heart race and my breath became shallow.  I felt the coldness of the white hospital bed sheets and the operating room in the basement.  I swallowed the metallic taste after surgery.  As I age, I've only become more afraid of needles and physical pain.  Utter Fear.

And then I just felt silly.  I became my own witness.  What the hell am I doing?   Why project anything into my future, even if it's just a day away?  Why don't I instead take a deep breathe and allow each moment to unfold in it's own way?  Why not sing my daughter a lullaby (yes, she still likes them - thank God) and be present in the moment?  Whether I have cancer or not doesn't need to detract from the beauty and joy right in front of me.  I realized I had a choice in the matter.  I could choose my experience.   So I played a game with my family and I sang my daughter and lullaby.

"Sleep my child and peace attend thee, all through the night.  Guardian angels God will send thee, all through the night....."

I asked for my own Guardian Angels to be with me, to hold me, to remind me to breathe, all though the night.

I didn't know what I was walking into when I entered the doors to the diagnostic center this morning.  No one did.  I didn't know if this would be one of those moments in life I never forget: the moment I find out I have cancer.  Who will I be when I walk out of these doors? I wondered.

The technician couldn't have been nicer; she walked me through each step with kindness and respect.  I wondered what it's like for her to be with women as they stand on this threshold.  In the waiting room next to me I heard another technician talking to another patient, explaining that they need to do an ultrasound, to take a closer look.  Would that be me in just a few minutes?  I sent the woman a blessing for her journey, whatever form it took.

Fortunately I didn't need an ultrasound.  I just have dense breasts and the pushing and prying and squishing was all they needed to see that there wasn't a lump there.  Just dense fibers.  I walked out of the diagnostic center the same woman I was when I walked in: a woman without breast cancer.

But I was changed by the experience of witnessing myself, of seeing how much I can and do project so much into an unknown future.  In my need to control, I try to envision every possibility in life so that I can avoid any mishaps.  I wonder, what if I let go of trying to control the future? What if I just breathe into it instead?

Backing Up

We’re having plumbing problems at home. I am so grateful that my husband is willing and able to get the snake, clear the clog and he cleans up the messy aftermath.The problem may be bigger than a snake or pipe cleaning solutions. I’m not sure, but I do know that my primal reaction to this situation is fear. A bubble of angst lodges in my gut when I walk down the hallway and into the bathroom. I fear flushing, never knowing if that will be the time the toilet refuses to work. When it works, I breathe a sigh of relief, feeling like I got away with something. And every few weeks, when I hear the all-to-familiar gurgle of the toilet, my heart sinks. Clogged again. Fear wells up and I feel out of control, helpless, unsure of what this all means for my immediate future. I can easily catastrophize the whole event.

Given that I had catastrophe happen to me at a relatively young age, moving straight to The Worst That Can Happen is understandable. But it’s exhausting and, I’ve learned, doesn’t serve me. In fact, it often makes matters worse. While I’m busy preparing for The Worst That Can Happen, reality is still going on around me and I’m not paying attention.

Over the past five years, there’s a newer voice speaking to me, one besides Fear. If there’s one thing that growing older has given me, it’s perspective. So while my default mode is to drive straight to fear, perspective actually throws a curve in the road, giving me a choice about where I go. That choice has actually always been there, but fear does blind. I didn’t used to see that road, or any of the others for that matter.

Perspective has taught not only taught me that I have choice in how I react to a situation, it’s taught me that I don’t have to react. I can take the time to respond. I can hold back and instead of freaking out with my husband about the damn clogged toilet, I can take a deep breath, put this in perspective, understand that the walls won’t become infused with backed up water and come crushing down around us (yes, I go there).

Perspective also allows me to stay present in the moment, in reality, to what’s actually happening, not what I’m afraid will happen.

The trick is, I actually have to choose to take a different road, to not drive on autopilot. So, the next time the toilet clogs, if there’s a next time , I’ll take that deep breath and focus on reality, not just my fears. And maybe call a plumber.

Park it!

Twenty-five years ago when I was in college, I had a professor who "got" me.  Not in a way that made me feel seen for who I was, but in a way that made me feel naked at a party.  Once, when he and I were talking about a paper I was writing on recreation for the disabled, our conversation veered uncomfortably toward me and how I viewed myself as a disabled person.  It had been eight years since I had lost my leg and I was trying hard to keep up with the best of them.  I skied, kayaked, I had been on an amputee soccer team and had sky-dived.  I felt I was nearly as competent as two-legged people. So when he said, "I bet you don't have a disabled placard for your car, do you?"  my face flushed with a mixture of indignation (of course I don't.  I'm not disabled!) and anger (how dare you know me better than I know myself).  I squirmed in my chair and mumbled something about not needing one.  "There's no shame in having a disabled parking permit, Colleen."  Sure there is.

It was another five years before I could do get one.  Not that there weren't times when I desperately wanted to use one.  Sometimes walking through a parking lot was so painful that I didn't have any reserves left in me to walk through the store itself.

When I used my disabled parking permit for the first time I experienced a mixture of emotions.  I felt relieved that I didn't have to walk so far to get to the grocery store.  I also felt a little giddy and validated that disabled parking spots even existed.  People in power understand that people like me actually need them.  But I was also ashamed of using the disabled parking space.  I wanted to dress in incognito so no one would recognize me.  I felt guilty. Surely there are people more deserving than I who need the spot.   But I had to admit to myself that saving my energy and pain tolerance for the store itself was infinitely better than using it up in the parking lot getting to my destination.

I've used my disabled parking permit for many years now and the little knot in my stomach, faint as it's become over the years, still presents itself most times I use it.  Sometimes that little knot is tightening in my gut because the reality is that I usually need the disabled parking spot.  This frequent reminder that my body is "less than" it was meant to be wears on me.

Sometimes the little knot reminds me that I'm using it for convenience rather than need.  I know I'm being lazy, but I rationalize to myself that there's got to be a perk to being an amputee and parking close to my destination is one of the few perks I get.

What's the most difficult, though, is when I get out of my car to the stares of able-bodied folks who are probably wondering why the heck I'm using a disabled parking permit.  I know that when I'm wearing pants, which is the majority of the time, I look normal.  A brief internal struggle ensues:  Exaggerate your limp to show that you need and deserve this spot.  No, walk your best. It's better for your body. You don't need to prove anything to anyone. Depending on the severity of the stares by the on-looker, I adjust my gait accordingly.

One of my focuses this year is to practice gratitude. I know that my life runs more smoothly when I'm grateful for what I have.  I don't know if I'll ever get rid of the internal struggle I have over using the disabled parking space, but if I practice gratitude, it'll be a lot easier to park those feelings in a corner parking lot in my brain.

My Second Birthday

Holiday treats don't stop for me on January 1st.  No, I have one more day to celebrate, one more indulgence. For the past ten years on January 3rd, I go to the store and buy a rich chocolate cake and a pint of vanilla ice cream. After dinner I share this decadence with my family. When we say our "happys" before dinner, I can honestly announce, "I'm happy to be alive." Prior to ten years ago, January 3rd was a day in which I allowed myself to become depressed, morose and reclusive.  I wrapped myself in my victimhood, holding that cloak tightly around me, like it was my right. I spent the day thinking about everything I had lost.  I lost my self-identity, I lost myriad opportunities, I lost confidence.  If I thought about what I had gained it was mostly the negative: a big, clunky plastic leg, stares from strangers, a healthy dose of self-doubt as an attractive woman. I was very private about this and even a little ashamed, but I couldn't help it. January 3rd is the anniversary of the accident in which I lost my leg.

About eleven years ago I started seeing a therapist.  Yep, it's a classic story in which the victim gets to discover how she brings that role on herself.  When the anniversary of my accident came rolling around, my therapist asked me, in an excited tone, what I was doing to celebrate.  What? I thought  Is she crazy?

As is so often true in my life, when someone allows me to view life through their own lenses, a new world opens up.  This is when I decided that the way I could celebrate January 3rd was with chocolate cake.  After I bought my first one, I felt guilty, like I was betraying the young girl I lost that day on the freeway.  My despondency on January 3rd was my way of honoring the death of who I was as a two-legged person, much the way I honor my father on the anniversary of his death.  I felt like in celebrating my anniversary I was celebrating the death of that young two-legged girl that I used to be.

Chocolate cake works its own magic.  That first year, even though I had conditioned myself to feel sad, a smile came on my face as I slowly ate my first mouthful of cake and ice cream.  Maybe, just maybe, I thought, I can allow myself to be happy that I'm alive instead of sad that I lost my leg.  Maybe the simple pleasure of chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream is enough right now.  Instead of feeling sad and despondent, I did allowed myself to be happy.  It felt forced at first and I wasn't sure I even believed it, but as I finished my cake I was happier.

Over the years, I've learned to honor this day in a new way.  Instead of thinking about what I've lost, I think about what I have gained:  lessons too numerous to count, experiences that have made me feel alive, and best of all, no, bigger than best,  I have been blessed with a loving husband and two amazing kids.  Now that deserves a celebration.

A Wholy Night

Rare are the moments when I feel in the presence of the Mystery, when I  feel completely whole, when I feel as if successive moments have been strung carefully on a string to create a masterpiece of a necklace.  Last Wednesday night was one of those moments.I had the honor of reading my story that was recently published in The Spirit of a Woman, Stories to Empower and Inspire, edited by Terry Laszlo-Gopadze.  My story is about the reconciliation between myself and Harvey, the man who hit me in the accident which took my leg. Harvey came to Bellingham, from Victoria, on Tuesday and had dinner with me and my family.  We reconnected after not seeing each other for nearly five years.  Harvey has a huge heart and an endearing soul.  He told silly jokes and held his own in the midst of my family's coming and goings. On Wednesday, some of my extended family came up from Seattle for the reading, but they came a few hours early.  We all went out to dinner with Harvey.  This was the first time my mother met Harvey.  Just like me, at the trial two years after the accident, she wasn't allowed to talk to the man who took her daughter's leg. My family was welcoming, warm and inviting, as only my family can be.  I could tell this was difficult for Harvey, to face the possible enemy, and he did so with such grace.  My family worked their magic and put him at ease.  My brother gave a toast to the wonder of the moment. And then it was time for me to read.  In the past when I've read my work, I was so nervous I sweat like a running faucet and then shook uncontrollably after I finished. Not Wednesday.  I had the good fortune to read with Christina Baldwin, a seasoned writer and speaker.  She held the space for us at the front of the room and was a grounding presence. I think that I am so integrated with  this part of my story that there was nothing to be nervous about.  I had given thought to what else I might want to say so I was prepared when questions were asked.  But mostly I  felt the Mystery of life run through me that night, allowing me to step into my wholeness.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

It's not every day that I experience a drastic range of emotions in a matter of minutes as I did today. 

This past weekend I received a beautiful ring from my husband for our 15th anniversary.  This is the first time I've had a gemstone (we designed our matching wedding bands ourselves) and for ways to numerous and personal to mention, receiving this ring from my husband was about as touching and meaningful as it gets.  We took the ring to the jewelry store in the mall to have it re-sized.  The sales woman gushed over the beauty of the emerald and gave me a list of dos and don'ts related to ring care.  I had to actually give back this beautiful gift for three days so they can send it away  ("you insure it, right?") for the delicate operation.

This symbol of continued love and commitment means the world to me.  I was fighting back  tears of joy as we emerged from the store and back out into the mall.  Just a few stores away was a middle aged woman giving out fliers for a new massage store.  She stepped toward me, her arm outstretched, saying something about their promotion.  I already had my hand out in protest when her eyes scanned my body. I was wearing shorts and when she saw my prosthetic leg she recoiled.  Yes, she actually recoiled.  She stopped talking mid-sentence, her arm shot back to her torso, and she took a few steps away from me and  her eyes widened in, what, horror? distaste? disgust?

At first I laughed, so drastic was her change of attitude toward me.   Then I wondered aloud,  "How do I not have that affect me?" Mark quietly took my hand and his squeeze validated that the experience was nothing short of icky.  All I could think of was how disgusting she saw me.  She took away her offer to massage my body becuase of it's appearance.  My throat constricted painfully making it hard to breathe.  I fought back the tears. After all, we had to walk through Macy's to get to the car and I didn't want to cry as I walked through Macy's.  I had to fight back the feeling that I was disgusting.

And then I thought of the ring, the symbol of love and acceptance that it represents and the man holding my hand.  That silly, shallow woman wasn't going to ruin my joy or darken my day with her judgments. 

I think when I go back on Thursday to pick up my ring, I'll schedule a massage at the new place at the mall.  

The Pendulum Swings

I can only be super busy for so long and then I need a break.  That's what the past month has been about for me.  Since January I had been walking everyday, fitting in my 1/2 hour walk even when all I had between work and a night time commitment was 45 minutes.  And I blogged, daily at first for two months and then twice a week.

It's been a busy first half of the year and the most fulfilling 6 months I've had in a long time. I reminded myself how much I can accomplish when I really set my mind to it.  Making the daily choice to DO rather than BE was a dramatic shift for me and a state of mind I hadn't adopted for years.  I enjoyed checking so much off the personal To Do list.  I was a woman of accomplishment.

And now I just want to rest. I want to get up everyday and write my book. I want to go to coffee shops and sip on lattes. I want to have languid, expanded days of nothingness before me where spontaneity rules. I want to feel like I did as a child when days felt interminably long.  I actually had a day like that yesterday and I felt like a new woman.  After do-do-doing, I got back to center. I followed my heart in the moment. I read Autobiography of a Face and then googled the author and read more about her.  I actually shopped for and made dinner. I saw my niece for coffee and chatted with an old friend on the phone. My daughter and I figured out how to knit (again).  I even cleaned out my email inbox.  It wasn't a day of grand accomplishments, but I did accomplish taking it easy.

During the past month as I've allowed myself to slow my pace, I can't help but think about my next goal.  I'm talking with the Executive Director at the Prosthetics Outreach Foundation about how we can continue working together to raise money. How can I still support this organization?  How can my support continue to be equally beneficial to me?  How can I continue to take care of my body as it ages?  All these questions loom and percolate as I think about my next move. 

For those who haven't heard, part of my next move is to do a reading at Village Books on Wednesday, September 8 at 7 pm.  I'll be reading my essay, No Apologies Necessary, that is included in the anthology The Spirit of a Woman, Stories to Empower and Inspire, edited by Terry Laszlo-Gopadze.  I am honored to  be sharing the podium with Christina Baldwin, a local writer of journaling, story telling and leadership, who also has an essay in the anthology.  I invite you to join me. 

Until then, I'll keep percolating on my next goal.  And relaxing as much as I can.

100 Miles!

I did it. I walked my 100th mile!

The Prosthetics Outreach Foundation's Walk-a-thon on Saturday was a wonderful event. My team of family and friends joined me for my 100th mile.

As I've mentioned before, this whole experience of taking a daily mile walk has been a quiet one. There's no fanfare at the end of each day; walking is just what I do. But I have to say that at that 100th mile, I felt full. While my team and the POF staff and volunteers cheered for me, there was a party going on in my heart. Fireworks were flying, streamers were popping and a marching band oompahed it's way through my chest.

I took that moment to reflect back to January 10, exactly six months earlier. That was the day I took my first walk, my first attempt to regain my strength. I felt overwhelmed. In just six short months of taking a daily walk, I changed my life.

Sunday, the day after my 100th mile, was a busy day. I had a one hour window to take a walk, but I was exhausted. I was so tickled with myself. I took a walk anyway. It wasn't a full mile, but I got off the couch and I walked. I will continue to walk. Not because I have to. Not because I must. I walk because I want to.

It's so easy for me, in the midst of this success, to look at all the areas of my life that aren't working, where I am not excelling. I hold inside me an intense perfectionist. She expects a lot from me. I told her to just pipe down for a few days while I bask in my moment of personal glory. Right now I just want to be proud of myself, something I don't do very often.

I can't end this post without a huge THANK YOU to everyone who supported me, in so many ways. In the past 100 days I have received so much from family, friends, acquaintances and people I don't even know. I bow before you in gratitude.

Small Change

It's day 99 and I'm reflecting on the last 3+ months. One aspect of this campaign that blows me away is the power of the individual.

It's easy for me to think that my small part doesn't matter, so why bother doing something in the first place if I'll have such a small impact. I'm glad the 130 people who donated to my campaign didn't think like I do. That so many people have stepped forward to support other people around the world touches me deeply.

The world has become quite small. For as much as I can say that an amputee in a developing country matters, I can say that about any one of us. We all matter AND we can all make a difference. In this world of violence on the evening news, tabloids and Reality TV, it's easy to lose sight of the fact that people all around the world are doing their part, every day, to help make the world a better place, just like every person who donated to my campaign.

So, thank you for renewing my hope in the world. Thank you for your support. Truly, every little bit does help.

To see Evening Magazine's coverage of my campaign, click here