Chewy Feet

It came around again.

That’s what happens when twelve calendar months fly by. Once again it’s the anniversary of my amputation surgery. A day I’ll never forget. A day I dreamed about for years, even decades. A day I did years of research about, so I would have no regrets.

And it worked. Not only do I have no regrets, I’m still just as happy with my new foot, as ecstatic as the day I got it.

January 12th. It’s my ‘other’ birthday. The day I got to start over. I had a lot of trouble finding a doctor who would do the surgery for me. It was a ‘healthy’ foot, after all…no disease, no imminent threat to my health…just a serious threat to my long term mobility, which I guess doesn’t count in orthopedic medicine.

But I finally found my man. He was skeptical, but willing. He was brave enough to trust that I wouldn’t sue him, if I found that having one foot missing wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

So every year, on January 12th, I send him another thank you card. In it I tell him all the things I’ve been able to do that year, because he believed in me. Sometimes I send him pictures, to prove my stories. I don’t want him to ever forget how important he was in my story.

Most years I try to commemorate in some way. It’s a birthday, in a sense, and should be celebrated. But I don’t want to bore my kids to death, since to them it’s ‘just mom’s foot’. So I try to make it fun. In past years we’ve had feet shaped cake or a huge foot shaped cookie. Last year we made regular cupcakes, with the outline of feet on them. My kids joked that the ones I messed up on were my ‘old’ deformed foot. We ate them after dinner and no one complained about having extra treats that day.

This year life was crazier than usual on January 12th. One of my four was in Texas, visiting friends. One had a racquetball court reserved and wouldn’t be home until late. My oldest son and youngest son were all we had left. And it was the night of the big Middle School Open House. That had to be a higher priority than my foot celebration.



But after the Open House, my youngest wanted to celebrate the night by going to McDonalds. We realized we’d never been inside our local McDonalds since we moved here, six months ago, and he had gift cards he’d gotten in his birthday card in October. They were burning a hole in his pocket.

So we went to visit the Golden Arches. It was past eight, in the evening, so we practically had the place to ourselves. My oldest son and I had discussed the occasion of my foot birthday, as we’d run errands, earlier in the day. He brought up the topic, as we sat around the table, eating our fries. Then he decided we should have a contest.

To commemorate the day, we should do something new. Like see who could carve a regular, flat McDonalds burger into the best rendition of mom’s foot. He’s a teenager, and this seemed like a very logical way to make the night special.

Each boy was given one burger and one plastic knife. They brainstormed for a few minutes, then dove in. This is what one of them came up with (blood and all, since it was ‘post surgery’). I won’t tell you which one, so I don’t alter the judging.



This is what the other came up with (turn your head to the right, the picture is sideways). He nearly perfected the large humped big toe I used to have. Both are pretty impressive, I think, considering the medium and available tools.



And then, the ultimate winner emerged.

“Wait! Wait!”, my oldest son proclaimed, waving the plastic knife in the air, “I’ve got one more entry! Wait, just a second…”

He proceeded to tear open a packet of artificial sweetener and make a pile on the tray. Then he took some small pieces of straw wrapper and curled them into tight little knots. Once he placed the knots strategically in the middle of the powdery pile, he announced, “There! That’s PERFECT! I WIN!”

It took just a few minutes before we all got it.

But in fact, my big boy had indeed won the challenge. Because the reality is, my foot was taken from that hospital room, to a mortuary, and cremated on January 12, 2003. It now sits in a velvet box in my closet. Some day soon I will throw those ashes off a beautiful mountainside, in a grand gesture to say goodbye to my old life and welcome in my new one.

But for now it’s a pile of ashes. And it looks a lot like the pile of Sweet N Low with wrapper bits sprinkled throughout. We know. We’ve looked in that velvet box.



Another year has flown by. Hopefully, and almost definitely, this will be the year the book about my journey to mobility will be published, and available to give to others who might be facing some hard life choices. And before I know it, another January will be rolling around. We’ll find a new way to celebrate, I’m sure.

But something else I’m sure about - it will, without a doubt, not ever be as creative and ketchup covered, as our celebration in January of 2012.

The Book Deal

For most of my life I dreamed of getting rid of my left foot. When I was ten, it started twisting and turning into something that embarrassed me, scared me, and eventually had the power to shape my self esteem and character. I spent a good part of my life trying to hide it. I spent many weeks on crutches, after repeated surgeries did nothing to change it. It wasn’t until I was tucked safely into an encouraging marriage, to a man who didn’t care about my foot, but instead about my heart, that I was able to exhale, and stop letting it rule my life.

Once I got brave enough to get rid of it, eight years ago, I never looked back. Through all the ups and downs (mostly ups) that have come with adjusting to a metal leg, I have never, for one micro second, wished I had my old foot back. My worst day on this new leg is still a hundred times better than the best day on my old flesh and bone limb.

I have always loved to write, and when the kids were little I poured that hobby into writing essays and stories. Once I was propped up on our king sized bed, waiting for amputation stitches to heal, it suddenly occurred to me that the journey to becoming an amputee might be something good to write about. It actually happened something like this (an excerpt from the first chapter of my book):

We were laying in bed, watching TV, the cat curled up in the place where my calf would have been, if I had a lower left leg. The title amputee was still new and the results of my radical decision still up for grabs.

"I really think I want to write about this," I said to my life mate, out of the blue.

"Write about what?"

He could not connect my comment to the episode of the Daily Show that blared across the room.

"My surgery. My decision. The reason I had it cut off."

"Oh." He turned to face me. "Yeah, that'd be good. Write it all out. Get down the details. Tell your story."

His encouragement made the wheels of composition turn in my brain.

"But where do I start? Last year? The year before that? When we first began letting our family know I was choosing to lose a limb?"

He was quiet, reflective. Jon Stewart had been muted and my man was fully engaged in this new conversation.

"No…you need to start at the beginning. The very beginning. There's no other way to do it."

"But why?" It seemed excessive, vain.

"Well, because….because for someone to understand how you could be happy to lose a leg, they have to see the sadness that came before. To understand why a grown woman would beg a doctor to perform such a drastic surgery they first have to see the little girl who hid on the playground and forgot how to run. They first have to witness the life you had, the years you had, with a limb you grew to hate."

His answer made me silent. He was right. I had to start at the beginning. There was no other place to start. To understand the decision I made at age 37 you first have to understand who I was at age five.

And so I dove in. So much of my decision came from the events in life that shape who you are. I was raised in a big foster family, which made our natural family of seven constantly in a state of super sized flux. I noticed my foot starting to grow wrong, but hated bothering my overworked parents about it, knowing they had bigger things on their plates.

I hung out in the middle of the commotion, happy to fly under the radar, as I silently questioned and feared what that twisting foot meant for my future.

Years of doctors visits and quizzing any medical professional I could, about the idea of cutting it off and starting over, only to be told it was a foot with a pulse (not diseased) so amputation would never be an option, beat down my resolve.

Then marriage came, to the first man I had ever shown my naked foot (and he valiantly said, “What’s the big deal again?...”) and children arrived. More medical issues arose, this time not concerning me, but my mother and then my newborn son. I learned to step up, and fight for medical answers. I learned that doctors are just people. Many of them are heroes, but many of them are misinformed. It was up to me to decide my own fate, when it came to my wayward foot.

Finally, through a series of other events, and eventual access to a bigger and bigger internet world, I decided to have that surgery, that so many doctors had told me would never be possible.

And I love my new leg. I love my new options. I love sharing my story. It’s about much more than a leg that I lost. It’s about never giving up, on getting the life you really want. For some people it might mean losing that extra weight. For some it might mean working on the quality of their marriage. For me, it meant losing a limb.

It was scary. But it was so worth it, in the end.

I wrote the bulk of the manuscript for my book, that I’m calling “Just One Foot: How Amputation Cured My Disability”, then spent months researching how to get it published. This was over five years ago, when the publishing industry was just starting to wobble. E books were coming on the market, and everyone was scrambling, to figure out what it meant to traditional books.

I got many nibbles, many notes of encouragement from publishers, and lots of flat out rejections, but no takers. Life picked up in intensity, and the manuscript was buried in the back files of my computer for the past couple of years.

Then, for some reason, in the middle of this chaotic move from NY to Colorado, I pulled out my files again. I found a great memoir on the new book shelf of our local library that inspired me. I wrote the author and told her I loved her book, but that something about it had also inspired me to pull out my old files.

She kindly replied to my email (as many of my favorite authors do, something I’ll always be grateful for) and encouraged me in my own writing. She also shared with me that she had self published her book, then was picked up by a traditional publisher.

I’ve toyed with self publishing in the past. The main reason I’d dragged my feet about doing it myself, was the respect factor. I was in a wonderful writers group in NY, filled with published writers, and it just seemed like, to be picked up by a traditional publisher was the standard to meet. It meant your work was worthy and edited well. It meant it ‘deserved’ to be in print.

But in the past few years I’ve heard more and more stories that contradict that advice. Some really great books have been self published. My book can be a great book, without a traditional publisher, but it’s just up to me to make sure it’s right. The editing needs to be spotless. The layout needs to be professional. The cover needs to be perfect. And at that point, what’s the harm in getting it out there ‘myself’?

I’ve now decided I’ve reached the point where I’d rather have it out there, than wait for the stars to align, and have the Manhattan guys calling my number. I’d love to get my story into the hands that need it. The people who approach me at the gym and say, “My nephew just got back from Iraq and lost his leg. How can I encourage him?” The people who are brave enough to ask about my lost limb, then fascinated when I tell them I chose to have it taken off (there is just not time in the aisle of Walmart, to give them the deep reasons for my decision). And the friends I grew up with, many of whom had no idea I had anything more than a slight limp, as we navigated the years of middle school, high school, and college.

I truly believe, in this age of constantly changing technology, that my story will not be the exception, in years to come. The foot I wear today was not created a handful of years ago, when I was getting my first leg. I can’t wait to see what technology will bring me in the future. I see it in the same light as hip replacements and organ transplants. The old part didn’t work, there are parts that can replace it. Why would we not choose to start over?

I’d love to get my story out there, at the beginning of this new age, to introduce the idea to our changing world.

Because I really and truly believe in the subtitle to my soon to be published book - amputation most definitely cured my disability.




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Down for the Week

Most of the time, when it comes to the big time illnesses, involving fevers and throw up, my kids have taken turns being sick. It’s difficult to clean up after a sick person, even your own kid, without feeling a bit nauseous yourself. And it doesn’t help when the well kids of the household keep circling the kitchen, whining that there is nothing good for dinner. The only thing worse that this scenario is the one where all the kids are sick at the same time and the washing machine can’t keep up with the soiled bed sheets and bath towels.

The clock on the wall stops, the family calendar disintegrates and time stands still. Keeping the well ones fed and on schedule while you keep the sick ones hydrated, in clean sheets, and well medicated is a time consuming balancing act that every mom has to work out for herself. You don’t truly know how you’ll survive the heat until you’ve spent a week in the fire.

And if you want to raise the bar a bit let’s talk about those rare occasions when the mom is sick. It’s amazing that households don’t self destruct when the mom gets the flu. Even with supportive, helpful husbands, mom tends to be the one who holds it all together. With a fever raging she will be thrashing around in bed, only half conscious, wondering if anyone is keeping up with the dishes and if the dog has been fed.

I’m rarely sick but I’ve had many spells on crutches in the years that my kids were growing up. Until I traded in my old leg for this new titanium one, at least once a year I spent a good six weeks with my leg in a cast, hobbling through life on my one good foot. The kids had to step up the chores calendar. They learned to boil noodles while I sat on a stool next to them in the kitchen. They mastered the controls of the washing machine after I gave them verbal lessons on sorting whites and colors.

I felt terrible about those spells of immobility, feeling like I was cheating my kids out of the mothering they deserved, until a good friend pointed something out to me. “Don’t forget how much they get out of being able to minister to you. They get great self esteem by being able to help you out, in such a tangible way. The giving shouldn’t always go just one way.”

Her words slowly sunk in. They got me through several more months of living on crutches and learning to rely on my children to keep the family running smoothly. I learned to chase away feelings of incompetence and replaced them with reminders of how it was building character in my offspring.

Then I got this new leg and my time on crutches came to a screeching halt. Once I was outfitted with new hardware I not only kept up again, but I left behind the need for crutches. They still sit by my bedside, gathering dust, just in case I need them in the night. But my days of relying on the kids for constant help are over.

That is, until I get sick. Every now and then I catch something that’s going around and find myself laid up in bed for a day or two. It’s a pain for my whole family, when I’m not around to keep things juggled. But a couple of days of being checked out isn’t usually enough to shut us down for good. My kids are big enough to boil their own noodles now, without my supervision. And they know how to heat up the oven for fish sticks or tator tots. One of my big boys has even come up with his own variation of chicken parm, which he is proud of and keeps him fed when I’m not around.

But last week we had a real test of family solidarity. I went to the doctor on Monday morning with a painful infection in my eye and was immediately sent to the Emergency Room. From there I was admitted to an isolation ward and did not go home until Friday afternoon. I left home on Monday morning and didn’t walk back in the door again until Friday afternoon. I had no hints that this is how the week would play out. No chance to set up a special chores chart. No chance to put meals in the freezer. No chance to let teachers know that homework supervision might be patchy.

And yet we survived. I survived and the kids survived. It was a huge week for my husband at work so he popped by the hospital when he was able and juggled the gang at home in the evenings. And my daughter gets huge points for stepping into the mom role. She shopped for the gang and even took two little brothers along with her to help pick out food. She kept up with her work and school schedule and still found time to come by the hospital to visit her bored, stir crazy mom.

Her brothers stepped up and did their own homework, with limited supervision. They gave their dad the normal amount of grief (they are still teenagers, after all) but overall they did what had to be done to keep the family afloat. They ate hodge podge meals and didn’t complain. They got off to school in mostly clean clothes.

It is a week I would not want to repeat. It was a painful week of medical procedures and a maddening week of worrying that everyone was surviving at home without me. But they did. They took care of each other. Just like they were trained to do back before I had my new metal leg. My friend was right. Teaching them how to nurture is never a lost lesson. Especially once mom learns to let go.

Summer Leg Glitches

Summer’s on the horizon. It means the kids have blow-off-school fever. It means switching my dinner menus from warm soups and casseroles to cold sandwiches and anything that doesn’t use the stove. It also means different leg issues for those of us who get around with the help of some bionics.

It is a pleasure to finally wear shorts. It’s so much easier to fiddle with my leg, when I need adjustments, when I don’t have to pull down my pants to do it. Of course I get more looks as I walk by. I don’t mind. I have to accept the fact that most of the population has two flesh covered legs. When people notice I have a black metal ankle, they tend to do the classic double take. I do the same thing when I see other amputees. Curious minds want to figure it out.

My daughter and I were in Target the other day, contemplating which graduation plates to buy, when a little girl, about the age of five, came around the corner and suddenly noticed my leg. I say ‘suddenly’ because she did a full abrupt screeching stop as her eyes locked in on my hardware and instantly she squatted down to get a better view. Little kids seem to notice it the most, since their eye level hits most people at the knees to begin with.

She was about six feet away from us and I pretended not to see her. Parents sometimes get embarrassed at their child’s curiosity and I wanted this child to be able to look all she wanted before her mom caught on to her. She left momentarily but returned with her little brother in tow. She resumed her original squatting position, this time with her mini-me next to her, and all she said to him, as she quickly pointed, was “look…”

By then we had made our decision, filled our cart with plates and napkins adorned with caps and gowns, and we moved on to the next item on our list. Little girl and her brother went back to their mom (I assume) and probably spent the rest of their time in Target discussing the ins and outs of what they had seen. It’s all just a part of summer for me.

Another new issue I face involves my time at the gym. I don’t want to be too graphic here, but I want you to understand the difference between me and you, when it comes to sweating during a work-out. I bring a towel to wipe my face, when I am pedaling away on the stationary bike. But once my time is up, and it’s time to walk to the locker rooms, I have a slight problem.

In the course of all that pedaling, my stump has been sweating. It slowly fills up the rubber sock I wear between my hard leg shell and my skin. As I step off the bike, I step into a sock full of ‘water’. I literally squish with every step I take to the locker rooms. It’s like walking on a waterbed, but just on your left side. My limp is pronounced, and not from pain, as most people probably think. But because I am slurping with every forward step.
Once I get to the locker rooms and can take off that rubber sock, dump out its contents, and wipe down my leg, I am back to normal. The walk to the car is comfortable again. So if you see me at the gym, after my work out, and see how much I’m limping, don’t think I’m in pain. Just know I’m doing a radical leg- filled- with -sweat dance.

Warm weather also brings with it more outdoor activities. When free time rolls around we are always on the lookout for new places to explore. Two weekends ago we hiked an incredible trail that led to a waterfall. As long as the hills don’t get too steep, I do okay on these hikes. But sometimes I can be slow. I have to watch my feet when I hike. My foot does not respond to uneven terrain like a real foot does and I have to see what’s coming before I step out, to make any necessary adjustments. This slows me down but also makes me miss the scenery, if I’m not careful. So not only do I hike like a turtle, I stop a lot along the way, to just look around and take in the scenery.

Slow hiking can drive young, healthy teen sons crazy. They like to move forward, see what’s next. So a few years ago my oldest son christened himself my ‘accelerator’. He walks next to me and I grab his bent elbow, using him much like a walking stick. But better. He’s a walking stick with a motor. As he picks up his pace, it’s like having a motor pull me down the trail. It works great. His strong legs love the work out and I get an instant boost for my pace. With the stability of him on my right side, I can actually look around as we hike, and enjoy the view like everyone else.

It worked especially well last weekend. We were in Burlington Vermont, watching my brother in law run a marathon. If you’ve ever watched a marathon, you know that the runners aren’t the only ones getting exercise. You find a spot along the race course, then wait for him to come by. You yell and scream and hold up signs of encouragement. Then after he passes, you rush over to the next spot he might pass by and do it all again.

We saw our runner five times in the course of his race. Which meant we huffed it up and down streets and up and down hills. Sometimes we circled back and walked back to the same spots we’d just come from. In the end, it was a LOT of walking. But I did fine.

Between my recent work at the gym on the treadmills and my built in accelerator, we got to each spot in plenty of time. There was only one time, in the middle of the day, that I got a bit nervous. We headed down a LONG hill and I was fully aware that with every step I took down, we’d be climbing right back up once we saw our runner.

But my accelerator came through. He bent his arm at the elbow and stuck it out for me. I happily grabbed his bent forearm, and we were off. In a flash we were at the top of that big hill. I was amazed. No panting, no struggle. The only downside is that my handy dandy accelerator has plans to leave me for college in just over a year. Guess I’ll have to start training his brothers soon, in this art of acceleration.

I’ll end this before it gets too long. I just thought you might like a peek inside my world. I still love this leg that lets me do all I want to do in a day. But life with an artificial leg can have its own glitches. It’s all about adapting and moving forward.

Sometimes with a little help from a strong teenage son.

Dig Deep

Almost every time I crawl on that bike it happens. I spend the first few minutes adjusting my headphones, picking out my play list, getting comfy in the seat, then warming up my legs for the long ride on a bike that goes nowhere. Round and round my legs go, on the easy setting to get things started. After two, maybe three songs, it’s time to get serious. I lean forward and pump up the resistance. With every beep I feel the pedals resisting my feet just a little bit more.

Then comes the hard part. Pushing on when it’s not easy. Letting my thigh muscles strain against the tension. Forcing each pedal down in an even rhythm, on the left side, then the right, then back to the left. Most days I have to coach myself through it. I give myself the pep talk and visualize the good that will come from these uncomfortable moments. And then I dig deep.

I first learned to dig deep on a cold day in January, when a ten and a half pound baby was trying to make her way out of my body. We had taken the childbirth classes and been a bit deceived by the message, ‘if you just breathe correctly, you’ll do fine in labor!’

I did the breathing just as we’d practiced and it hurt like heck anyway. We ran through all the tricks, trying to find something that gave me any hope that I’d actually survive this ordeal. I changed positions, I panted, I prayed and I never could seem to find relief. For the first time in my life I had to dig deep. Very deep.

I closed my eyes and went to a place deep inside. I imagined the numbers we were chanting to get us through contractions, each in psychedelic colors, rushing toward me as I chanted them along with Jeff, much like the scene from Sesame Street when the Count is doing his thing. It was just enough of a distraction that I could survive that one contraction.

After a quick breath, another one would come and we’d start over. Closed eyes, going somewhere else, concentrating on only that moment in time until I could come up for air once again.

And despite my beliefs otherwise, she finally did arrive. We had our first baby, I’d survived giving birth to her, and even better, I’d learned a new life skill.
Unbelievably the same scene played out three more times, which explains the four tall kids who roam my house and spill juice on my couch. Soon I learned to use my labor skills for other hard things that life threw my way.

Six months after my leg surgery, when I was finally fitted with a great bionic limb, I made a bee line to the local gym. I was determined to get my strength back and see what this new limb could do. Every day I mounted a stationary bike, plugged in my headphones, and pedaled for almost an hour.

At first it was hard. Years of disability had left me with weak muscles. But soon I saw that every day I dug deep, and pushed myself on that machine, made me one tiny bit stronger. The pay off was worth it.

Now I am just a regular person on the bikes. Trying to get in better shape before my son makes me honor the promise I made to ride the bike in a triathlon he wants us to do this summer. Even though it’s easier now, with this leg I’ve had for over six years, there are days I just don’t feel like doing it. And those are the days I have to dig deep again.

The pep talks I give myself have similar themes these days. Mostly I think about my sister-in-law. She’s the woman my husband’s brother was smart enough to marry. She’s the nicest person you’ll ever meet. She lights up a room with her positive energy and thousand watt smile. And she inspires me in big ways when it comes to being fit.

Some people come to running easily. I have a son and a couple of brothers in law who fall into that category. But Terry fights for every ounce of her fitness level. Tooth and nail scrapes ahead, day by day, determined to reach the amazing goals she’s set for herself.

Because of a health condition, she has a limited diet I would not survive on for two days. She also battles asthma and has her fair share of wheezing and panting spells. She has every excuse in the world to sit on the couch and whine about what life has dealt. But she has no time for couches. She’s too busy hiking the mountain trails near her house and running long stretches of road to train for races.

Races like the Boston Marathon, which she completed last month. This is a person who knows what it means to dig deep.

So as I plug away on my simple exercise bike, trying to come up with any reason why I need to end my work out early or skip it entirely, I think of Terry and know I don’t have a choice.

If Terry can burrow into that amazing inner core she has, and pull off a marathon, I can pedal for a few extra minutes on a bike in an air conditioned gym. I don’t struggle to breathe. I have lungs that will easily take me where I need to go.

All I have to do is count my blessings, dig deep, and start pedaling.

Wishful Thinking

It didn’t start out as a day of relaxation or revelation. Sure, it was Mother’s Day, but a more pressing concern was the appraiser who would be showing up on our doorstep first thing Monday morning. The house needed to look its very best, which translated into a holiday packed full of work.

After a yummy breakfast in bed, made by my finally capable children, we crawled out of the cocoon of covers and rallied up the forces. Floors needed to be swept and vacuumed, laundry was piled high, clutter had to find its rightful home. The jobs seemed to never end. By mid day we needed some kind of goal, some encouragement to keep the day from becoming a day of complete work and no fun. We had to do something to mark the one day a year that everyone thinks about where they came from and who they call ‘mama’.

A pay per view movie did the trick. One of the kids mentioned Avatar had recently been released. I had always wanted to see the movie with the tall blue people. It seemed to be the perfect answer. Some pizza that I didn’t have to make and a movie appropriate for the many ages that would be gathering on the sofa. We finished the day full of chores knowing there was good on the horizon.

I popped the popcorn. Sam gathered the blankets. Everyone claimed their seats. In our sparkling clean house, with piles of clean laundry in every dresser drawer (which in itself was a wonderful gift to me, once Monday morning rolled around) , we turned off all the lights in the house and hunkered down for a show. And boy was it a show. I finally know what all the hype was about.

Even in our living room, with sound coming out of TV speakers, not surround sound in a theater, the movie was a joy to look at. The scripted story didn’t speak to me nearly as strongly as the visual story. It was just a beautiful movie to watch. It was creative and colorful and full of new images. I am awed by huge imagination and I was awed by scene after scene in this film. But one in particular almost moved me to tears.

It wasn’t the one you might expect either. Yes, the scene where the tree blows up is startling. Yes, the visual image of so many people, in such a tight cultural quilt, bonding together under a sparkling tree, trying to save a life, was breath taking. But the scene I was most moved by might have slipped right by you.

The main character, a young man who’s lost the use of his legs, is given an opportunity to revisit the world of the able bodied. He climbs into a machine and within minutes is transferred into the body of an avatar. An avatar who is in excellent physical condition. It takes him a while to acclimate to his new body. He struggles to sit up but eventually escapes out the back door of the lab, to try out his new abilities.

And this is where it got emotional for me. His first steps were tentative but soon he was skipping, then jogging, then full on sprinting across a field. I could practically feel his excitement.

I’ve never known what it feels like to run. I lost the ability about the same time I began having memories in life. I spent my entire childhood trying to hide the fact my left foot lacked the range of motion needed to create a running gait. I have watched runners, on TV and in my own family, with awe and respect. It looks so amazing, so fluid, when practiced by the well trained. I can be mesmerized by their motion but I can never truly comprehend how it feels.

So the idea that a person who had been confined to a wheelchair, desperately missing the use of his lower limbs, could get the chance to stand up and walk again, even run again, was almost overwhelming to me.

In our dark living room, caught up in the images on the big TV screen, I could almost imagine what it might feel like to have two good feet. To take tiny steps, trying them out, seeing what they can do, and end up in a full running gait, each foot hitting the ground solid and strong. The sound effects in the movie were amazing. The thump of his feet, his breath heavy with exertion. It seemed so very real to me.

To be given the chance to start over. Not just the way I did, replacing a worn out foot of flesh and bone with a metal one made of titanium steel. But to be instantly morphed into a wholly capable body and have the chance to try it out, to run and jump and push the limits of physical capability. Seeing it play out on the screen was very moving, almost magical to me. It could definitely be described as a gift.

So my Mother’s Day turned out just fine after all. I got to curl up on the couch with a bunch of my favorite people on the planet and watch a most remarkable movie. I got to escape into another world and expand my imagination. When the lights came up and it was time to go to bed, heading into a brand new week, it felt like we’d had a very special day.

Who knew that chores and a Hollywood film could mix so well?

No Picture Needed

It’s been a while since I wrote about life with this bionic leg. My day to day is very similar to most moms, and the parts that aren’t the same I forget are not ‘normal’.

I go in periodically for leg adjustments. I have a leg guy (Yes, I assume he’s a ‘leg man’, in case you were wondering). He puts pads in my socket or adjusts the way my foot sits on my metal ankle. With a few turns of the screwdriver he can give me a more comfortable gait.

But those visits are squeezed in between trips to the grocery store and treks to the pediatrician. My kids think nothing of me saying, “Today I’m getting the oil in the car changed and going to get a leg adjustment.” It’s been a part of their lives for six years now. Nothing odd about the fact mom has a leg guy, and sees him a few times a month.

But some days I definitely feel the disparity between me and you two legged people. I had one of those days on Saturday.

My oldest son is on the Varsity track team. Some meets are after school and some are on the weekends. Most of them are very long. Saturday was no different. We were at the high school track for most of the afternoon. After sucking down a few bottles of water it was eventually time to find the ladies room.

I stood in line with a handful of young, athletic female track stars in their tiny uniforms that they filled out perfectly, and no, it did not make me feel old or fat (okay, maybe a little).

We stood with our backs to a chain link fence, eyeing the small wooden door that led to our refuge. I had never been to this specific school’s track so this restroom was a new one for me. I assumed there were more than a couple of stalls for the female gender’s needs, since it was such a big school and such a large track meet.

But I was wrong. Very wrong. When it was finally my turn and my bladder was more than ready for relief, I heard a flush that signaled it was my turn. As the girl who had just finished washed her hands, I pushed open the creaky wooden door to make my way inside. And then I saw what I’d been so patiently waiting for. Indeed there were only two stalls. Two VERY SMALL stalls. And when I opened the door to the empty one I got my next surprise.

The architect of this particular restroom must have been a man. A man who was angry about women even getting stalls, while men had to relieve themselves right next to complete strangers into large impersonal urinals. And boy did he get his vengeance.

The stall was so small that the door practically hit the front of the toilet bowl when fully closed.

Now I am not a small person. I am tall and I am big boned (that’s what I’m calling it now). And I am not exaggerating to say that not only was the act of pulling down my jeans difficult, in such cramped quarters, actually sitting down brought its own challenges. My knees pushed against the door, straining the tiny metal lock. With my back fully resting on the tank, and my knees firmly pressed against the door, I finally, oh finally was able to do my business.

I think we can skip the next part. I am hoping you can imagine, without too much detail, what I looked like crammed in that tiny toilet. Now just imagine trying to wipe.

Like I said, you can use your imagination on this one. Let’s just say it was something close to a circus trick.

But the worst was yet to come. I am sure you are wondering why I started this post talking about my metal leg and segued into a horrible potty story. Well here’s where it got tricky.

When you have a metal leg, standing up from a seated position is a different kind of affair. You two legged people just stand up. You have two sets of muscles that work together and push you out of that chair, or in our case, toilet seat.

But most amputees I know cannot do that motion. It’s not a big deal. We just have to lean forward more, and usually push off of something to get momentum. In church I grab the pew in front of me. On the couch I scoot to the front of the cushion then lean forward to take off.

But suddenly I was half naked, wedged into a small wooden box, pants on the ground, realizing I could not physically stand up again. I mean not at all. I was stuck, jammed into place. There was no space to lean forward. There was nothing to grab on to. All my tricks would not work here.

Knowing there was a growing line right outside the big door, and many impatient young ladies were mentally keeping track of how quickly people came and went, I knew I had little time to spare. And knowing there was a stall right next to me, possibly occupied by one of my son’s female friends, I knew grunting was out of the question.

So here’s what I did. I leaned forward and smashed my cheek against the rough wooden door. Then with both hands spider walking up the walls on each side, cinder block on the right, knotty pine on the left, I inched my way up. Praying I didn’t get a splinter in my cheek I slid my face up the back of that bathroom stall door.

It was not pretty and it could not be described as comfortable. But in the end I was upright again. (although I just about threw my back out trying to reach down for the waistband of my jeans…)

But I did it. When the odds were not in my favor, I succeeded. There was no way I was unlocking that stall door and leaning out into the bathroom, just to stand up. When it seemed to be impossible I made it possible. Little victories, my friend. Little victories.

The glitches of this bionic leg have pretty much been worked out by now. Or at least, most of them have. Then, out of the blue, another one surprises me.

Who knew this round would involve a microscopic bathroom stall with a very rough pine door?

Get Outta That Spot!

For the past four weeks my son has attended a once a week after school enrichment program. Every Tuesday I eagerly watch for his school bus and when he doesn’t get off, I suddenly remember that I’m supposed to be picking him up. It’s a great system for a forgetful mom.

So I wait until four o’clock and I get in the minivan to drive the four minutes to his school. If we didn’t live next to a very busy street he could walk home almost as quickly as I could drive him.

And because about fifty other moms are making the same trek, our small elementary school parking lot is totally packed for the eight minutes it takes all of us to park, walk in the doors, take our child’s hand, and walk back out to our vans. We are all there for the exact same five minute window of time that these enrichment classes let out.

Ten minutes before that time the parking lot is empty. Ten minutes after it is empty again.

Every week I see something that drives me insane. And if a blog is for nothing else, it is for venting about things that drive you insane, even if no one else might care. So I am going to take my chance and air my grievances.

Every week, and I mean EVERY week, there are one or two moms who park in the two handicapped spaces right in front of the school. They are not always the same two moms and I have rarely actually seen the faces of said moms, but I am highly suspicious that they are not handicapped.

For one thing, there are no hang tags in the windows of these vans. For another, I have seen a few of the drivers actually get out and sprint to the doors, with that hurry in their step that says, “I’ll just be a minute….”

Now I hesitate to confront. I know firsthand that some disabilities are invisible to the naked eye. My metal leg tends to scream out validity, especially on the days I wear shorts. But I am sympathetic to the stares and judgment that some drivers must face when they live with things like weak hearts or lung conditions.

But the kicker of the story is that I DO own a handicap tag and I purposefully don’t park in those spaces. I am fully capable of finding a farther spot and making my way across the parking lot like the rest of the moms and dads. Occasionally I do have a bad leg day, so I dig out my hang tag and take a spot. But that is such a rare event I generally have to dig for five minutes to even find my tag in the bottom of the stack of maps.

So it makes me very protective of those bright blue wheelchair logos painted on the pavement. I am probably not the only parent or grandparent that doesn’t need it every day, but might need it some day. And if a selfish, lazy, running late parent tries to justify their use of the space, it personally offends me.

The rest of us are ‘just going to be a minute…” but we don’t use those spaces. The rest of us are busy and would love to shave five minutes off our errands by not trekking across the large parking lot. But we don’t. We either get there early enough for a closer space or we deal with the fact we might get a little bit of much needed exercise.

I’ve called the school. They have been very sympathetic and put notices in the school newsletters. Maybe the offending drivers see it, but I’m sure not all of them take the time to read the newsletter. So in the meantime they continue to use those sacred spaces for their personal running-late spots.

And it continues to bug me.

That’s all. I’ve said my peace. Now let’s return to your regularly scheduled program.

Side Effects

If I'm going to post more about life with one leg I have to tell you a quirky little fact about being sick. It took me a while to figure it out but I finally realized that almost every time my body is sick, with a bad cold, bladder infection, and recently, strep throat, my leg aches.

More specifically my stump aches. I used to go in to see my leg guy, thinking I needed an adjustment of some kind. But anything he did just had to be adjusted back once I felt better. Then it dawned on me.

When my body is low, fighting off some illness or infection, it somehow translates into the nerves in my stump. Like getting a headache when you're sick. Instead, I get a leg ache.

It doesn't help the situation, of course, because not only do I feel yukky in my body, but on top of that my leg hurts when I walk too. Just another way my body forces me to get the rest I probably needed anyway.

Okay, that's it. Quirk of the day. My strep throat from last week is gone so my leg is feeling good again. Off to the races of normal life....

Ups and Downs of Plastic and Titanium

I have recently realized that I don't write much about being an amputee on this blog. It is so much a part of my life, yet so little of it, since I generally get around pretty well.

But it occurred to me that I have a unique experience, living this life as a mom with one leg, so I am going to make more of an effort to share with you the little quirks that you might not experience, if you are living with two legs.

I like to dwell on the positive things in life but sometimes I need to share more of the struggles too. Just so you can understand a bit more what an amputee life is all about.

For instance, I use a shower chair, which makes the tub pretty crowded for my two legged family members. So not only do we have the usual 'discussions' in our house, about which way the toilet paper should roll, and whose job it is to put the toilet seat down, but we also have never really agreed about who should put the chair back when it's getting in the way of regular bathroom traffic. The person who stumbled over it? The person who last used it? (me). Just like the other issues, it usually just comes down to mom caving in and doing it. (I have to give him credit, Jeff is also good about moving it back, it's mainly the kids who think it's invisible, even if they've just tripped over it)

I only take off my leg at night, when I'm getting ready for bed. So I have to be strategic in the bedtime hours. I can't just 'hop up' to do some last minute chore that didn't come to mind until I was perched in bed. I either con one of the kids into it, hint like crazy until Jeff does it, or let it wait until morning. (most likely)

Putting my leg on is easy, and doesnt take that long, but it's just not convenient for a quick errand. I would equate it, in time and effort, to putting on your tennis shoes. So imagine that you are in bed and you remember you forgot to write that appointment on the calendar so you want to just pop over to the office and jot it down. Before you can do that, you have to put both shoes on, then tie them. (then untie them and take them both off when you get back to bed) Not a problem, just not worth the effort for a small chore.

Even getting up to go to the bathroom in the night is a gamble. When you wake up and realize you 'kinda' need to go, but are not desperate, if you knew you'd have to put on both shoes then tie them, would you do it?

One of the truly negative consequences of my limb situation happened this morning. At 5:30 a.m. I'd had yet another night with no sleep. On my third night of dealing with a nasty case of strep throat, I had hoped I could finally get a good nights sleep, since I'd started antibiotics the previous afternoon. No such luck. Another endless night of waking up every time I had to swallow. Another night of rolling around, never finding a comfortable spot, watching the numbers on the clock click by.

By 5 a.m. I realized I needed to go to the bathroom. Might as well, I thought, since I was awake anyway. I sat up, tried to moan quietly so I wouldn't disturb poor hubby's last minutes of sleep, then sat for a few minutes with my head in my hands, so frustrated that I still felt so crappy.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, went through the motions of putting on my leg, then stumbled through the room to the bathroom. More quiet moaning with head in hands, as I did my business.

I stumbled back to bed, trying to be optimistic that I could get at least a half hour more of sleep before the day began. I reached down and pushed the button that, in normal situations, would release my leg out of the socket. Nothing moved. My leg was stuck on my body.

Having no energy or patience to deal with it, my first response was to just fall back on my pillows and sob. All I'd wanted to do was go potty and get back to bed. Ten steps, max, to the toilet and back. Not a big deal for most people. And on most days, not a big deal for me.

But for some reason, this morning, it became a big deal, because I could not get my leg off.

You might wonder why I didn't just sleep in my leg. I could have. And in my mental state, I probably should have. But it feels really confining when I'm in bed, not to mention it has a shoe on my fake foot so it catches the covers in an awful way. It's like you going to bed in hiking boots.

I hated to bother Jeff. I'd disturbed him enough in the past days of moaning and illness and although he's a very patient man, I don't like to bother him if I don't have to.

Of course he woke up and saw me struggling. Without one complaint he got up and came around to help me fix the problem. In the dark. At 5:30 a.m., on a cold NY winter morning.

I have to be honest. When he traipsed off through the living room to get my purse (which contains my leg repair tools) I let myself cry. Quietly sob a few times, then wipe my tears before he came back in the room. I knew it was just frustration. I was so tired. Bone tired. I was so irritated with being sick. I was so mad about not being able to eat for days on end, or feed my family, for that matter. The one night I had hoped to finally sleep had not come to fruition. Oh, and I am pretty confident I've been having what my doc calls 'pre-premenopausal' symptoms, so some hormones could have been playing a role.

But I have to be honest, it was one of the few times I got frustrated about having an artificial leg. I wanted, for just one day, to be able to get up and go to the bathroom without having to worry about my leg getting stuck.

The problem resolved itself pretty quickly but I'm afraid Jeff lost his last hour of sleep. He's a gem. He never complained. It's a part of his life as much as it's a part of mine. He deals with the consequences as much as I do at times.

So there you have it. One of the glitches I live with because I have an artificial leg. The next time you get up to take a quick tinkle in the night, and pad back to bed in your easy, sock covered tootsies, think of me. And appreciate the gift of having two feet.

It's Hard to Swallow.

It must be pretty obvious that a woman who only has one foot understands a thing or two about appreciating the little things in life. I see pictures in my amputee association magazines and posters on my prosthetist's wall and I am reminded how lucky I am.

I have two knees. The knee joint is hard to replicate in metal and in fluid gate. There is great stuff out there, new technologies are being introduced every year, but I feel very blessed that I have two real knees.

I have two arms and two hands. The intricate motions that fingers can make are even more difficult to replicate than the whole knee joint issue. Bend down and tie your shoe. Watch all the different ways your fingers have to move. It's so simple yet mind boggling. I'm thankful for my two increasingly wrinkled hands and how they never fail me in the tasks of my every day life.

So generally I walk around pretty thankful for life and parts that work. My leg guy is great and has provided me with a plastic leg and metal foot that keep up with me much better than my old flesh and bone set up ever did. I feel like I'm pretty in tune with gratitude.

Then this week happens. My arms still work, all ten fingers are great. My legs have given me no problems, they've been there when I've called on them for service. But sometime in the mid morning part of Tuesday I started to lose my ability to swallow.

That soreness and tightening in my throat seemed familiar enough. It meant a cold was coming on. I swear by a simple remedy. (ask my kids, I've drilled it into them) Start chewing up some Vitamin C tablets and get extra sleep. That's it. I swear by it. Sometimes it keeps my cold from coming on at all and the rest of the time I am convinced it turns a ten day cold into no more than three or four days of sniffling and sneezing.

So Tuesday I chewed up some Vitamin C and made an effort to get to bed on time. As soon as Leno was over I rolled over and turned out the light...no 'just one more half hour show', I was fighting off a potential cold.

But the cold never came.

Wednesday I woke up feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. No, I take that back. Tuesday night I never really went to sleep. Me, the one in our union who sleeps like a rock for eight hours every night, was awake just about every hour. The aching crept in and no matter how I turned, I hurt.

Wednesday was awful. Sam had an appointment with a lung specialist that would take six months to reschedule. I had to go. I convinced my kind daughter to be our driver because I was in so much pain I could hardly concentrate on our conversation, much less traffic rules.

We made it through the appointment, gleaned valuable info from a great doc about keeping my boys' lungs clear, and I went home to collapse in bed.

Finally, on Thursday, there was time for mom to see a medical professional. I got the kids off to school, called in sick to work, then laid in bed moaning until my one o'clock appointment time. I almost burst into tears as our doctor, who is also a great friend of mine, took one look at me, put her arm around my shoulder, and said, 'You should've come to see me DAYS ago.." Just that little bit of mothering almost put me over the edge.

She did the culture and made the diagnosis. "Your tonsils look TERRIBLE!" Classic case of strep. The kind that makes you feel like you've been hit by a mac truck. The kind that closes off your throat and rewards you with stabbing knives if you dare to even take one sip of water with a tylenol.

For four days I could not swallow. There was nothing wrong with my stomach. I was hungry. Very hungry. There just wasn't a way to get food down there. I smelled the meals that Jeff and the kids made, I just couldn't eat them. I craved a tylenol, just to see if it would take the edge off, but it was hardly worth trying to pass one through the knives. I didn't sleep for three straight nights because every time I'd doze off, I'd have to swallow, which involved clutching my throat, making a horrific face, and then saying "OwOwOwOwOw..." about sixteen times when it was all over.

Today, at 11 am, I started to feel a little bit better. Meaning I could stand up and walk around without moaning. The aches were almost totally gone by mid afternoon. I love the science of antibiotics. My throat is still sore but I have had a meal. It was hot and it was good and I only winced slightly every time I had to swallow. I am confident by tomorrow I will be feeling even more back to normal. Or as Sam said, when he walked through the kitchen and saw me upright, actually making dinner, 'Mom! You're back in business!"

So put swallowing on my list. That list of things you never think to appreciate. Gathering spit in your mouth, or savoring a perfectly seasoned bite of food, and letting it slide down your throat. Without fighting off the urge to scream out in pain.

The simplicity of swallowing. Let's give it the respect it deserves.

Now I'm off to go dig up a cool bowl of creamy strawberry yogurt...

Just Two Words

It happened at a random moment, in a sunny stairwell, on a generic week day, the spring of my sophomore year in college. Morning classes were over, the turkey sandwich had been scarfed down quickly in the cafeteria, and I was hustling my way up to my friend’s dorm room to work on an almost over due group project.

I had a tight grip on the stair rail, my silent way of compensating for a left foot that was a bit deformed (although hidden well in a trendy high top tennis shoe) and generally uncooperative in most situations involving stairs.

I had paused for a second, scanning the courtyard below through the wide windows that bordered the stair well, looking for one of our other friends, who was supposed to be on her way back from lunch also.

A person of the male variety scooted by me. He easily cruised up each level, almost as if floating his way to the top. But as he passed me he caught my eye and said two words I will never forget. Two words that pierced through me and left me speechless.

“Nice legs.”

I cannot explain his boldness and was baffled by his comment until way past the point of having a cute or clever answer. I never saw him again and sometimes wonder if he ever really even existed.

But the memory is so clear. I know he was real.

Maybe he was feeling especially generous that day and made sassy comments to every girl he passed. Maybe he had been challenged by roommates in some dorm initiation ritual. But whatever his story, he said the words. To me.

I was not a pretty girl but not an ugly one either. I had been extremely successful at hiding my twisted foot from everyone at college, even my own roommates. My left leg was pretty skinny, worn out from numerous surgeries I’d had in elementary school and junior high. But my right leg was in decent shape. Having to pull the weight for a weak partner had made my right thigh long and lean and my right calf round and strong.

After years of occasionally analyzing that comment, I have come to believe this is what happened. The way I was standing blocked his view of my left leg and what he saw was just half of the picture - my stronger right half. But no matter what the reason, what the motivation, what the intention, the outcome was the same. Those words stuck in my brain.

To a girl who spent most of her childhood hiding an ugly foot and looking for reasons to avoid running because it never worked right, this boy’s comment was a miracle. To a youngest sister, growing up behind two older, gorgeous sisters with amazing abilities to pull off the latest styles, feeling mostly lost behind their brilliance, a comment like that pierced my being.

I walked taller for weeks after that moment. I thought of those two words when I was riding my bike, trying to keep both of my legs strong enough to keep up with college life. It changed how I saw my own body. Being away from home, out from under the umbrella of being ‘one of the Johnson girls”, had been liberating in many ways. But there were still pockets of insecurity and physical fitness was one of them.

Suddenly I realized that I could be seen as attractive too. Not just a leftover, the extra sister, but someone with my own positive points to offer.

Two words. Just two words. And I remember them clearly, over twenty years later. I remember the stairwell, I remember the moment. I remember his blonde hair and the surprise that was like an aftershock of an earthquake, rendering me paralyzed for at least a full minute. Nice legs. My legs. (or at least as far as he knew, seeing one and assuming the other would match)

It makes me think about the power of words. They can so easily hurt and tear down. Senseless comments that are not well thought out.

“Too bad you couldn’t get an A in that class.”

“Wow, your friend is so thin and beautiful.”

“Aunt Jesse’s always been the loony one.”

But in the same way, the simplicity of simple words can move mountains. Change self perceptions. Be bundled up and carried in someone’s heart for years and years afterward, taken out and revisited when the need arose.

To a shy child, “I love to hear your laugh, it makes me smile.”

To a friend with the four week old baby, “Wow! You look amazing!”

To the tired girl in the checkout line at the grocery store, “You have the nicest smile.”

It doesn’t take that much. Just slowing down long enough to see outside the bubble of your own busy life. Challenging yourself to pick two people a day and imagining what they are feeling and which handful of words might do them the most good.

Because you never know. Those eight words, or five words, or even two words, could change a person’s day. Heck, it might even make their week. Or maybe, just maybe, those words will travel with them for decades to come.

Six Quick Years

What you see here is a foot cake. Like a cupcake but different. This is how my family celebrated on Tuesday, as the sixth anniversary of my leg surgery rolled around. We celebrate every year, because that one day, that one surgery, changed not just my life, but the lives of every one of the members of my immediate family. It's the day mommy started over, so we eat cake and celebrate.



As we were making the feet, my son Isaac picked up a scrap cookie and said, "This one should be the before foot...this is what your foot looked like before you got the cool one!" So what you see in this picture is my before foot and my after foot.



And here is the full platter of feet cakes we enjoyed, followed by the picture of our lovely waiter, Isaac, who was waiting for the perfect excuse to break out the leftover fake New Years wine. It was quite the celebration indeed.

Full Time Life

We had a big transformation in our household last week. I’m not sure the kids noticed it, but I felt it intensely. After over a year of being a full time employee I let go of the job I truly loved to be dropped down to the part time roster. I was fortunate that it was my choice. I am aware that unemployment rates are rising and a full time job in a great environment is a gold mine. Several friends immediately asked, ‘your choice?’ when I shared the news of my drop in hours. I understand their confusion. The decision was not made in haste.

I gave up the gold mine for something much more valuable.

Since the day I gave birth to my oldest child I have been at home. Several times through the years I held part time jobs, working a few hours at nights and on weekends, to help make ends meet. It gave me some great social time outside the house and gave my husband a chance to be a full charge dad when I was gone. But I have never worked full time, never been away from our house when kids were still in it.

I know many moms who work full time. I have a much deeper appreciation for what they are pulling off, now that I have spent a year juggling those balls. I can’t even comprehend how the single moms do it. It’s a feat that should have some reward, some recognition, some trophy that is presented after a big banquet.

The catalyst for my decision was a health struggle. For a few weeks in October I had issues with my leg. We were at the end of a long process to recast my leg, to make one that fit me better, and along the way I had several days where the only remedy was sitting on the couch, with my leg off. I worried about using up sick days, knowing the flu season was just around the corner. I worried about not pulling my weight at work, making co-workers cover for me time after time.

During a conference with my bosses, where we discussed how I could make up lost work time once my leg was better, it was suggested I think about taking a part time position that had just come open. I resisted. I loved my job. The people I worked with, the interaction with great patrons, and the helpful paycheck that landed in my account each month. But then more time on the couch opened my eyes.

For those few days that I was stranded on the couch I saw all four of my kids. A lot. As they passed back and forth, going about their busy daily lives, they stopped and chatted with me. We laughed together. Sam and I read more picture books together than we’d read all month. Isaac helped me as I hobbled around the kitchen on crutches and we turned out some pretty decent dinners. Dinners that found six people gathered around a table, sharing the events of their days and lingering long after plates were cleaned.

On one of my days of confinement I reviewed our family finances. The desperate financial situation that drove me to work full time had eased some. Some juggling of the bills and some changes in hubby’s income made it just about possible to live on just his paycheck. It dawned on me that we technically could live on a paycheck and a half. The idea began to grow.

It is now five weeks later and the process is complete. Someone else now holds my old job and I am finally home more than I am at work. I walked around last week, my first week back home, with a gratitude so deep it made me emotional. All of the things that were so ordinary in my old stay at home days have become downright magical.

I hum as I switch the laundry in the middle of the day, because I am so deeply aware that I am not switching laundry late at night or on a sacred weekend. I dig through cookbooks and find new things to make for dinner, aware that my children are no longer living on canned ravioli. Spending an hour in the kitchen, cleaning up, chopping vegetables, popping a batch of brownies in the oven, and creating yet another dinner is now a joy, not a chore.

Each day, each moment of each day, is now sacred. No matter what I’m doing I make a conscious effort to stop, turn, and face my children, as they trickle home from school and are ripe to tell me about their days. Each hug from my little guy, each high five from my biggest boy, fills me with joy and gratitude.

Because I am here to see it, here to do it, here to experience it. No longer feeling pulled in too many directions. No longer losing sleep at night, tight with worry about limited sick days and how to dole them out. The imminent future, the one where my oldest two children are off on their own, out making their own lives, is so close. My desire is to be here, memorizing every ordinary, common, challenging moment that presents itself while I still have them close.

I picked up my new leg last week. A pretty fitting event to occur, a new leg on the first week of my new life. I gave up the bigger paycheck. I gave up the gold mine. But I bought back time. A new leg, a new chance to know my kids better, an opportunity to be the mom and wife I want to be.

I feel rich indeed.

Life Through a Movie Lens

This past weekend life came to a grinding halt. Medical issues forced me to live without my bionic leg for three and a half days. I have not been without my leg for that long since my original surgery recovery time. It was brutal.

Not pain wise. Fortunately there was no physical pain, only mental pain. For seventeen years I have been the mom. The one who tries to make life comfortable and clean and healthy for our family. Jeff has always been a full time parent with me but there are just some things I feel better doing myself. It makes me feel like I’m doing my job. It isn’t fun to sit back and watch the household tick along without me.

When the dust bunnies began to form colonies on the edges of our floorboards and threatened to jump out at passers-by, I looked the other way. When school papers began to pile up and take over the small bookcase in our home office, I tried not to feel claustrophobic. When a bag tie from the sandwich bread sat tucked in the corner of the kitchen floor for three, going on four days, I tried to block it out.

I hopped along on one leg, doing what I could. The crock pot saw good use. Sam got his exercise as I ran him around the house, taking clutter to its rightful home. I found a way to balance on the one good leg just long enough to fluff the comforter so the bed looked made.

The only thing I didn’t master was teaching the dog that when she saw crutches coming through, she should get out of the way, not hover over me, trying to take care of her master. There is no worse obstacle when you are on crutches than a large, randomly moving animal.

By the weekend I was just at the brink of stir crazy and Jeff came up with a plan. Our oldest son had a track meet just a bit north of Saratoga and it was a great day to drive around upstate New York. I hobbled out to the car and clicked into the front seat for a soul cleansing ride.

The trees are not fully turning but there is enough color to hint at the beauty that’s on its way. The sun was brilliant, the breezes refreshing. It was a perfect prescription for a case of cabin fever.

After the track meet we stopped at a quiet school soccer field for a picnic lunch. Jeff and the boys kicked a ball around and I soaked up the sun. It felt good to be normal, healthy and content, even without a second leg to support me.

On the way home we dropped by the downtown area and lucked into arriving just as a car chase scene was being filmed for the movie shoot that’s in town. I stayed in the car as Jeff and the boys raced down the block to get a closer view.

When they got back to the van, the whole conversation on the ride home was about Hollywood, and movie production and the empire that entertains us at movie theaters. It all seems so big and exciting and exotic.

It makes me wonder if moments like these are sparking things deep in my younger boys’ souls and if their life paths may take them in a film direction some day. I am very aware that every experience we give them builds onto the person they will become. It shows them options and choices for their future and helps them understand what makes them tick.

Soon we were back home and I was back on the couch. Sam had to bring me a glass of ice water, since carrying liquid in an open glass is not recommended when one is balanced on crutches. Back to everyday life. We left the fun and glamour of Hollywood downtown.

But I have to think that even the everyday stuff, like mom being on one leg for a bit of time, also forms who my kids are becoming. I used to feel bad that I asked more of my children when I had leg issues. Then a wise friend pointed out that children growing up in homes where compassion is taught become compassionate adults. And children who are taught to minister to others become the kind of people we need in this crazy world. I choose to believe she was right.

Soon I’ll be back to full time on two legs and will rush through my days, again trying to make a comfortable nest for my chickies. But this latest spell on the couch brought back some really healthy reminders. That life is not Hollywood or scripted scenes. It is taking every day as a gift and appreciating the heck out of any part of it you can.

On one leg or two, on an abandoned picnic field or a movie set.

Life is the lens you look through.

You Know You've Had "The Talk"...

I have been on crutches for the past three days. It is probably the longest I have been on crutches since my surgery, almost six years ago, and it is maddening. There is a significant sore on my stump that will only heal with exposure to air so the only answer is no wearing of the bionic leg. It makes cooking, cleaning, and even getting dressed, a real pain. (although I am finally all caught up on TV shows taped)

So this morning we were headed out for an adventure. I needed to get out of the house and our sixteen year old had a cross country meet way up north. Perfect excuse to drive some gorgeous upstate roads at a gorgeous time of year.

But before we could go I had to dress in normal, leaving the house kind of clothes. Sam (my eight year old) was my helper, digging through my dresser drawers as I balanced nearby on crutches, analyzing what he was finding. We finally found some appropriate apparel and I sat down on the edge of the bed to put it on. Sam began to dash out of the room, which confused me at first.

"Where ya goin'?" I asked.

"Well, you're gettin' dressed, right? Taking off your clothes? I'm not like dad....I don't really enjoy that..."

Ahhhh...the joys of having all 'older' kids.....

Them's Fightin' Words

So after we had hiked up a long trail, rappelled down a short slope, crossed two rushing streams next to small waterfalls, huffed it over jagged rocks and were almost to the spot where I would perch myself to watch my kids jump off cliffs into the cold waters below, adorable hubby and I look up to see some college kids coming through the woods from the other direction.

He turns to me and without missing a beat, says, "They must have used the stairs."

In the split second before I realized he was kidding, the word divorce suddenly flashed before my eyes....

When People Look

Sometime in the middle of last winter Sam went to the ER two times in three weeks. Once was a fall on the school playground. The suspended bridge on said playground is not very forgiving when eight year old skulls smack into it. His explanation - "I didn't duck enough." Dad dashed him to medical attention and he got off with a few well placed butterfly bandages.

The second incident happened at home. My boy who skis expert hills, skateboards with his teen aged brothers and could bunny hop his bike in his sleep (and never gets hurt) was running through the living room and tripped. A sturdy bookcase and his forehead had a quick encounter and within seconds our tan living room rug was covered in red. This one was a doozy. We packed a washcloth into it (did I mention it was deep?) and made the familiar drive. Later that night we walked out of the ER with ten fresh new stitches marching across his head.

For the healing weeks he diligently covered them with a big Band-Aid. Soon it was time to lay on that paper covered table and let Dr. Karen snip out the remaining threads. He was left with a tender, red scar that would eventually fade but on that afternoon, it was pretty sensitive. We had to quickly run by the grocery store on the way home and I didn't realize until halfway down the middle aisles that my boy was quiet. Suspiciously quiet.

When I asked him if anything was wrong he looked up at me with sad puppy eyes and said, "Everybody's lookin' at me." He then pointed aggressively at his new branded forehead.

After giving him the automatic mom hug I pulled my digital camera out of my purse and took a picture of his forehead. Turning the viewfinder around, I showed him just how un-obvious his injury really was. It seemed to appease him, although he did insist on wearing his bangs down, 'long in front', for the next few weeks.

I am no stranger to feeling like 'people are looking'. For most of my walking life I have had reasons for people to look. I hid it well through childhood but the cumulative deterioration of my deformed foot made my limp much more noticeable in my twenties.

By the third decade of my life I was wearing a leg brace every day and limping too much to hide. Finally getting my artificial leg gave me the chance to blend in more, as my gait on some days can be almost normal. But in summer months, when I live in shorts, all bets are off.

My kids love to play a game that we have yet to name. They walk about twenty feet behind me, when we are in public places, and count how many people stare at my leg after I have walked by. It's an innocent, humorous game in our family, because it is inevitable that people will look.

To me it's expected.

I have metal where my ankle should be. My calf is made of plastic.That's not something you see every day.

I have to admit I look twice when I see someone with an artificial arm or leg. Not because I'm in their club, but because it's different.

My first prosthetist told me, 'your brain expects certain things. People have two arms and two legs that look a certain way. When someone deviates from the expected norm, your brain wants to figure it out. So you look again.' I like that explanation.

Some of my amputee friends struggle with wearing shorts. They cringe at the second looks or the children who downright stare. I tell them I have no problem showing off my leg because I understand why they are looking.

It's not because I'm weird. It's because I'm different. Not at all the same thing.

I often watch people as I stand in Wal-Mart waiting for a checkout line. There are a lot of people out there who limp a lot more than I do. Many of them have injuries that keep them sidelined. I might limp, but I'm doing what I need to every day and immobility is not holding me back. I feel luckier than many of them.

In fact, I figured out a long time ago that I will never know the actual thoughts of 99% of the people who give my bionic leg a second look. They'll walk away and I'll never know what they were really thinking.

So I get to pick. I get to pick what I think they were thinking.

And if I choose to assign them positive thoughts, it's much better for my mental health. So I choose to think they were admiring my leg. They were intrigued and fascinated with it. They thought it was really cool and wished they could find out more about it. Who cares if that's not what they were really thinking. I get to pick my assumptions, and those work for me.

Someone once told me that whenever you feel insecure in social situations, remember that most people are thinking about themselves, and how they are being perceived, not about you and whatever hang ups you happen to have.

We assume way too much about how much other people are judging us.

So when a boo boo forehead is troubling my boy, I can say with authority, "Sweetie, no one's staring at you. And if they happen to notice your stitches scar, they're probably thinking about how much it hurt you and how brave you must have been."

There are going to be plenty of times in his life where he has legitimate excuses to feel insecure.

Teaching him a healthy way to cope with those feelings is one of my most important jobs.

Overly Optimistic

My 16 year old was with me as we ran errands the other day. We passed a couple of guys in a parking lot who were mounting their very shiny, pretty motorcycles.

"That's what I'm going to get some day..," my boy proclaimed.

I gave him the stink eye and said,"Oh, please don't..."

"Look how cool they are, and you can get a really great one for not much money."

"But sweetie, they are so dangerous. The money won't matter when you have a head injury or lose a leg."

"No worries," he replied,"I'll wear a helmet so I won't get a head injury and if I lose a leg, no big deal. You get around fine."

Oh great. You try to show your kids how to overcome adversity and instead it warps their sense of reality.

I reallyreallyreallyreally hope he was kidding.

It's What You Do

Sometimes people ask me how I coped so well when I had my leg amputated. How I picked up and went on with life, adapting where I needed to and remaining optimistic about the future. The quick answer that rattled around in my head was "It's wathcha do."

It's what you do when life hands you a deformed leg that slows you down and makes keeping up with your young kids impossible. It was really the only choice once I saw what great options were available in prosthetics. I geared up mentally and tackled the problem head on. The alternative was to whine and fuss about how I was handed a bum limb and make everyone in my life suffer as much as I did. That didn't seem like an option I'd want to choose. Living life to the fullest with a new bionic leg seemed like more fun and reworking my daily life didn't seem like that big of a deal once my leg was gone. So it all boiled down to," It's watcha do".

It's not uncommon for people to ask me how in the world Jeff and I balance life with two full time working parents and four kids, three of them teenagers. How we keep everyone fed and clothed and delivered to their respective activities. How we keep them all up to date on shots and yearly physicals and dental appointments and thank you notes to the grandparents. Again my answer is "It's whatcha do."

Fortunately our children joined the family one at a time and with each one we adapted life to make room for one more. Even though having four sounded scary when we had three, by the time our tail end baby was six months old we couldn't remember life with only three. You watch their personalities unfold and adapt your parenting practices accordingly. You stay organized, you stay in tune and in contact with each of them, and you do your best to raise them one day at a time. Whether you choose to have one child or five, tackling each day as it comes is a natural coping mechanism. It's whatcha do.

I have several friends who have had major health setbacks. Head injuries and debilitating issues with organs that failed and bodies that broke down. Each of them has amazed me with their bravery and determination. I love talking to them about how they adapt their lives and keep going. They make plans for the future and remain optimistic about what's ahead. I have no doubt that if I asked any of them how they do it, how they keep moving forward and keep the smiles on their faces, they would give me similar answers. And it would all come down to, "It's whatcha do."

You hear the diagnosis and you hope and pray for the best case scenario. You cling to the idea that you will be the one in a hundred who recover fully or end up with a normal life span. It doesn't seem unreasonable to believe new cures will come down the pipe and new medicines are being developed every day. You take the endless pills, endure the painful tests, show up for daily rehab appointments and take each day as it comes, feeling lucky you got to wake up again. It's not a hard choice to make because it's just whatcha do.

I recently read a book about a child who survived the Nazi concentration camps. He was a spoiled child with wealthy parents and had not a care in the world. Then in one sweeping day his life changed. His family was stripped of all their worldly possessions and became wandering refugees hiding in barns to avoid capture. He spent the next three years enduring the camps, the starvation, the abuse and the frost bite. And he kept going. He kept hoping it would all end some day. He held tight to the hope he'd see his parents again. He had very little to live for and yet he did. He clung to every shred of life he could muster up. I am sure I could not be as brave or strong. But I think I can predict his answer if you asked this man, now sitting in a law office in Washington D.C., how he did it, how he never lost hope and never gave up. When he forgot what milk and hot food tasted like, what made him keep plugging away? I know what he'd say. If you're lucky enough to wake up in the morning you do all you can to live. To survive another day and hope the future will be better. It's human nature. It's whatcha do.

No matter what life hands you, no matter how painful or sad, you cry the tears, you punch the bed pillows, you scream at God if you have to, and then you keep going. You plug away and do what needs to be done. No matter how hard it is, you take each day as it comes and you hope with all your heart that this is just a small chapter of your life and things will be better in a few months, or a few years. You go on and tackle life. You don't give up because it's not really an option. Surviving and thriving sounds like the better way to go. So the new day arrives and you greet it with new hope.

It's just whatcha do.