My blog has moved

I have moved my blog to the following address.  I'd love for you to visit me there.
http://mymilewalk.wordpress.com

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 Story 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

I Don't Blend In

Every year the day comes when I need to don my shorts. Today was that day.

I have mixed feelings about the first day I wear shorts. On the one hand it means the weather has finally warmed up enough to warrant shorts and I love warm weather. I simply hate being hot. A sweaty leg is icky to me. Really icky. The weather warmed up for my walk today and I knew my leg (yes, my long one) would overheat in jeans. So it was time to put on the shorts.

On the other hand, wearing shorts takes away all of my anonymity. I need to brace myself for the stares. It's human nature to be curious, especially now that I wear the techno C-Leg. All of my previous legs before this were shaped like my other calf and painted to resemble my skin color. Not the C-Leg. This thing is gray and looks like something from Star Wars. Yea, it's the kind of leg that draws attention. With my previous legs, they looked fake enough to make people stare, really stare until they figured out that, OH, it's fake. Now people take notice and look away more quickly. It's obvious I'm wearing a prosthetic leg.

I'm used to the looks and stares. I appreciate that, regardless of people's personal feelings about my body, they usually always smile at me. I just wish I could blend in. Since I was 17, I've never blended in. As a child I always considered myself a wall flower. After my accident the attention took a lot of getting used to. Every year on my first "shorts day" the little girl in me is still just as uncomfortable being noticed.

What's hardest about the looks and stares is that I assume with each one a judgment is attached. Anything from "Oh, isn't she amazing" to "Ew, icky." I'm not like just anyone walking down the street. I don't remember most people I walk by and, unless they are trying hard to get my attention by how they dress or pierce or tattoo, I don't notice most people who cross my path. But when I walk down the street in shorts, I see a lot of people look at me. I know I'll be forgotten soon, but I've been noticed.

They say the grass is always greener. I realize, now that I stick out like a sore thumb, how my anonymity has been taken from me. I'm grateful for the days when no one noticed me at all - or so I thought. I blended in with the crowd and didn't stick out.

Today wasn't so bad, really. Lots of people looked; I didn't notice anyone who stared.

Quiet Success

Today was my 90th mile. I have just ten miles to go!

I am proud of myself for walking everyday. When I look back at myself and my abilities six months ago, I couldn't have imagined doing this.

But this success isn't like the physical successes I've had in the past. When I scaled a rock face or hiked five miles with a backpack on my back or kayaked in really rough waters, there was an exhilaration that came with those experiences. Not walking. I may produce a few endorphins to make my emotions perk up a bit, but I don't get a natural high from my daily walks.

My daily walks are my quiet successes. My walks don't deserve any fancy fanfare. They are more like a quiet nod to life.

When I was pregnant with Luke, my oldest, I was working at an AIDS hospice in Seattle. The residents were mostly people who were marginalized in our society and with them came a lot of drama to the house. After Luke was born, I felt caught in my own drama of my newly imposed disability - pregnancy wracked havoc on my leg, making me quite immobile. I decided that I couldn't have drama at work and drama at home. In order for me to quit working, Mark and I sold our beautiful north Seattle home and downsized to a smaller house in south Seattle. Over the years I've learned that I get to decide how much drama is in my life. Stuff happens in life, it always will. It's my reaction that creates drama or not. I've decided that I don't want to invite drama into my life anymore.

In a way, my adventures in my twenties were a way of ensuring that I had drama in my life. They gave me some really high highs and then the subsequent really low lows. Walking is like saying no to drama and yes to an average life. Without drama, my life is stable. I used to be so scared that stability would be boring. Not so. Without drama I have so much more energy. Without drama, I am able to be more creative. Without drama my life has expanded in ways unimaginable.

So I give a quiet nod to life, my perfectly ordinary, average life, every day when I take my mile walk.

A Two Block Reminder

Yesterday, on the way home from my walk, the battery in my leg died. I must have forgotten to charge it the night before. When the battery dies, the leg walks stiff-legged. Thank goodness I was just two blocks from home and didn't have to walk stiff-legged for too long. Just those two blocks, though, reminded me how difficult it was when I was pregnant with my second child.

I learned from my first pregnancy that constantly adjusting the socket of my prosthetic leg was too time consuming and ineffective, so instead, for my second pregnancy, my prosthetist made me a big socket and we attached it to a peg leg, a long metal tube with a rubber foot at the end. This was a stiff-legged contraption, like Peg Leg Pete, the pirate. That's how I walked for over a year during and after my second pregnancy.

When I was seven months pregnant, Luke, my nearly three year old, and I went to swim lessons twice a week. Being in the water with him was so easy. The water displaced the weight of the baby inside me and allowed me to easily maneuver my body. I held Luke's chubby, soft body in my hands, face down so he could practice blowing bubbles and kicking. I threw him in the air and caught him as he hit the water. Belly laughs from both of us echoed around the pool.

One day, after we had showered and changed, we were walking to the car. I was weighed down by a bag full of wet towels and toiletries. Luke carried his pool toy. Suddenly, I crash landed onto the floor, scattering the bag's contents all over. My hands immediately rushed to my stomach. Everything felt okay with the baby. A gasp of air, a sob, abrupt tears assaulted me all at once. I looked down to realize that the metal pylon had broken off my socket. I was afraid Luke was scared, but he was still playing with his pool toy.

I hefted my body off the floor awkwardly, picked up the now filled-up tote and the remaining part of my leg. Taking a deep breath, I fought back the tears and scanned the area. Another mom, with her young child, was walking down the hall. With watery, pleading, embarrassed eyes, I asked her for help.

I showed her how to hold her arm so I could use it as a support as I hopped the hundred feet to my car. When we arrived home I had to hop twenty more feet to the house, using the fence for support. When I was younger, hopping up and down a flight of 13 stairs a few times in a row might make me breathless, but wasn’t difficult. After three years of inactivity and a six month baby in my belly, I fell onto the couch exhausted.

When I look back on my second pregnancy, I'm amazed that I made it through. I'm even more amazed that I've bounced back. Well, okay, bounced is a stretch. I've struggled to get back to walking a mile a day.

Even though I had to walk stiff-legged for a couple of blocks yesterday, I'm glad I did. It reminded me to be grateful for my imperfect body and how far it has come.

Summer Days

This week I have been simmering in the energy of the Summer Solstice.

I prefer to follow the Celtic wheel of the year which claims Summer Solstice as not the beginning of summer, but the height of summer. The longest day of the year marks the time of year when the earth is resplendent in her glory. Many flowers have shown their true colors and those that are blooming now appear to be showing off.

This point on the wheel is directly opposite the Winter Solstice, the time when the earth is sleeping, gathering up her energy. The Summer Solstice is like the earth is having one big belly laugh.

I like to liken my life to the cycles of the earth. In winter I follow the earth's example and slow down, conserving my energy. In summer, especially this summer, I am completely groovin on what life has to offer. I have a job, The Spirit of a Woman (which contains my first published essay!) just came out, I am still soaking in the love I received on my birthday a few months ago (yes, it was that big!), I am on day 83 of my walk and am blown away by the many donations that have come in, my children are starting summer camps and it's even been sunny! My life couldn't be more full.

Mixed with my incredible joy, there's a tinge of sadness. We're still at neap tide with the sun, but soon the days will shorten, confirming that the apex has been passed and we are moving, as slowly as reluctant children, back to nap time.

But for now I'll keep simmering in the goodness of life.

Fathers

It's Father's Day. My family spent the day together just being a family. I think that's what I love most about birthdays and Mother's Day and Father's Day. We reserve the day just for the four of us. Today we took a walk on Sehome hill and went and saw Toy Story 3. I cried and cried. Of course I did. Most things make me cry. I don't care anymore, nor do I apologize.

So it was a nice day just being us.

I've thought about my own Dad today. He died suddenly when I was thirteen, the age my son is now. I try to put Luke in my shoes and I can't begin to imagine what it would be like for Luke to lose his father at this age. I can't believe I did. As one of two children, Luke has had so much one on one time with his dad. I was the fourth of six children and I have maybe two memories of being alone with my father. I kept expecting that to happen. The memories I have of Dad are wonderful. He was simply an amazing guy. I know I would have really liked him if I had been fortunate enough to have been an adult and known him.

But I got lucky. Mom married another man ten years after Dad died, when I was 23 years old. Larry is one of the gentlest souls I'll ever know. This man can read a Pooh Bear story and make you weep from the tenderness in which he tells the story. He's smart, funny and doesn't think badly of anyone. He's taught me to give everyone a chance, no matter what my first impressions are. He's loyal and forgiving. Larry is fortunate in that he's now lived a long life and the tendrils of his love has reached through generations. He has a wide circle of friends and an even wider circle of family.

I haven't run to Larry in times of distress like I would have had he been my biological father. And the fact that I didn't has been even better. I have always known Larry is there for me, no matter what. I've had countless conversations with him over the years, all in my own head. What would Larry say? His wise council has given me advice over and over. He just never knew it. He's been a father in the truest sense of the word: I've learned how to figure it out for myself, often using him as my example.

I think what I treasure most about Larry and what I've learned most from him is that he's happy with who he is. He's comfortable in his own skin. He's been a family man, he's had great success working at the Seattle Times, and he's had a quiet impact on his world since he's retired. Through it all Larry is Larry. Just being who he is. I marvel at how easy he is with himself.

I've spent my adult life questioning who I really am, so shaken was my foundation at the vulnerable age of seventeen, an age when one's self-identity is developing. Now I'm fifty and it's time to forgo the angst. Now it's time to be like Larry, like Pooh Bear and just be who I am, in all my glory.

My Whole Self

I'll never forget a party I went to about ten years ago, just after I stopped answering all those questions from the kids at the park. It was an evening party in late June and the weather was beautiful. I knew the beginning of the party would be warm, sitting on the west-facing deck, but that the air would cool down after the sun set.

But the weather wasn't the reason I chose to wear pants to the party. I was finally sick of my prosthetic leg defining me. I knew that other people looked at my prosthesis and couldn't help but immediately have a bunch of assumptions about me. Anything from "She must have been through hell. What a survivor" to "Oh, gross. Decent face, but I'd never date her." I know what it's like to see a piece of someone and assume that it's a huge part of their identity.

Trouble was, with me, I used that to my advantage. I didn't purposely flaunt my leg, but if it came up in normal conversation, I didn't hide it, either. I wore the shorts instead of the pants. I assumed that people would think more highly of me if they knew I was an amputee. If they didn't know about my leg, I didn't trust that they would like me, that I would be enough. Ironically, I felt more whole in other people's eyes if they knew a part of me was missing.

Once I stopped answering questions about my leg from strangers and realized I didn't have to be the Amputee Role Model of the Universe, I could see that there was probably more to who I was than just being an amputee. Fortunately for me, I had a fallback identity. I was a new mom, a stay-at-home mom, and I was relishing in this role.

Motherhood is an equalizer. I could easily keep up with the other moms at play groups, singing groups or just comparing notes about poop and teeth and first steps. That I was an amputee in those groups was a non-issue. We were all just being moms together. For the first time in my life I had acquaintances that didn't even know I was an amputee. At first this was very uncomfortable for me, so afraid was I that I wouldn't be accepted or liked. But I was. I was learning not only how to be myself with people, but who that self was.

Motherhood was a perfect segue for me to leave my Amputee identity behind. Now I am expanding, perhaps realizing for the first time, how much more there is to me than just an amputee or just a mom. I've even realized the past few months (I love being 50!) that I can be full of contradictions and paradox and even that's okay. Uncomfortable? Absolutely. But it's all good.

Now when I go to a party, I wear what I want and bring my whole self to the party, not just the piece of me that's missing.

A full head and a grateful heart

Last Thursday I met Tim Shride who recently visited Sierra Leone with the Prosthetics Outreach Foundation. He is a prothetist who was there to provide service to the Sierra Leonians. I was amazed that in a town with hardly any running water or electricity they are able to do this work. He showed me pictures of the clinic and the accommodations they use to ensure that amputees in this country are able to become mobile again. I was amazed.

Then on Friday I visited Ray Pye, the Director of Programs at the Prosthetics Outreach Foundation. As an industrial designer, he explained his role in the production of the Seattle Foot which come onto the market in 1986. The Seattle Foot was revolutionary in its design in that a keel in embedded into the core of the rubber foot made of material that is able to store energy. This stored energy is then used as a spring when one walks off the toe of the prosthetic foot.
His experience working on the Seattle Foot laid a foundation for his work with the POF. Ray painted many visual pictures for me as he explained how the Vietnamese manufacture every piece of the prosthetic legs they make. I learned how rubber is made, how a mold is formed, what "vulcanized" means. He explained all the steps the POF has taken with the Vietnamese to ensure that every part of the legs made in Vietnam are made in Vietnam - down to the small hardware. I left with a full head.

I was barraged with the myriad of luxuries we have in America when I thought about all the basic needs that are so hard to access in developing countries. This lack requires dedication, ingenuity and tenacity by all the folks who produce prosthetic limbs these countries.

Each country is so different in its needs and cultures, but one fact seems to thread its way through each one: amputees are undervalued members of society unless they are mobile and able to contribute to the basic day to day functioning. All it takes is $300.

A New Leg

In my lifetime it feels like I've had more legs than a Broadway chorus line. Every four or five years I have a new leg made. People are often surprised that prosthetic legs are replaced this often, but our bodies change constantly, plastic and wood wear out and technology advances.

I don't like getting new legs made. The process is always challenging for me. Most prosthetic legs are made in about a month or two, but not mine. Making a leg for me takes about four to six months. I don't know why, but I've always been hard to fit - which requires that I keep going back to the prosthetist, usually weekly, to adjust the socket or the alignment to get it just right. I grow to dread these appointments and get sick of taking my leg on and off. Toward the end of the process I avoid them like the plague, so tired do I get of "wasting my time."

It's surprising how different each leg is. Everything is different, especially the small things from getting in and out of the car to sitting on the toilet to how my clothes fit. No two legs are alike and it takes time for my brain to make all the new pathways a new leg requires.

Each time I get a new leg, letting go of the previous one is hard. Even though it's time to retire the old leg, usually because it doesn't fit well anymore, saying goodbye is reminiscent of losing my real leg. Grief bubbles to the surface in its myriad of ways: sadness, anger, and finally acceptance.

After a particularly adventurous five years in my late twenties, before I tucked a retiring leg that carried me through those adventures into the back of my closet, I got out my markers and my calendar. I reviewed all the fun times I had with that leg and drew pictures all over it: kayak trips, backpacking trips, skiing, and all the other landmarks that punctuated my steps with that leg. The pictures eventually wore off, but the memories remained.

Getting my current leg made took two years because Tom, my prosthetist at Cornerstone Prosthetics, was sure that my hip and lower back pain would be alleviated if I changed to the new style of socket. In his attempt to make it fit correctly, Tom made two or three different sockets to fit my residual limb. He was so accommodating to my needs, always making adjustments, twice a week if he had to. Fitting a socket is an art, and for my residual limb any socket is a masterpiece. He waited for me to give up on the new socket before he made me a yet another(the fourth!)in the style of socket I am used to.

I went in for another adjustment today because my residual limb has changed even more because of my daily mile walks. As I rode the elevator up to his office, I thought of the folks in developing countries and how grateful they likely are to be fitted for a leg. A prosthetic limb makes the difference between going to school or not, having a job or not, being an active, contributing member of one's community or not. Today, when I went to see Tom, I didn't do filled with dread at the process; I went in grateful that he's there, he's present, and so incredibly accommodating.

Sometimes I just need perspective. Then I quit whining.

Boundaries

When my firstborn Luke was a toddler I took him to the various wading pools in the Seattle area. I'd put on my bathing suit and peg leg (the leg I use in the water), pack a lunch and look forward to a day at the park with my son.

Inevitably we'd be swarmed by other young children. I was like a flower full of pollen and they were the bees. Questions galore were thrown at me: "What happened to your leg?" "Hey, what is that thing?" "Did it hurt?"

I felt compelled to answer their questions. I already felt like a freak to them. If I took the time to be a nice-kind-mommy lady, then I'd help break down any stereotypes of disabled people. I knew kids may not have developed those stereotypes yet, but if I ignored them or didn't answer their questions, then I was afraid that I, perhaps the first disabled person they had ever encountered, would lodge that stereotype deep into their psyche forever. Yea, I took on a lot of responsibility.

It didn't take me long to recognize that I was putting the needs of the children unknown to me ahead of the needs of my own child. This is how my son found out about how I lost my leg. Not a sweet mom-to-son chat, but by me telling strangers my story.

I also took on this duty with adults. At least children are naive, usually sweet and simply curious. With adults I knew I had a stereotype to break down, but the strangers I encountered were appalling. I didn't understand how it helped them to hear a 30 second sound bite of my story. And when they asked THE question, "Did it come off right away?", I was always too shocked to do anything but whisper "yes". My day shifted after these encounters. It was hard to go on after re-telling, yet again, the worst day of my life.

During the second summer of this, Luke said, "Mommy, will you stop talking to those kids at the park?" I had felt caught in a merry-go-round of responsibility and he gave me the out I needed. I spoke my therapist and asked her how to stop. "Why do you answer their questions?" she asked?
"Because they asked!" I said, feeling like I was stating the obvious.
"They have parents, you know, who are perfectly capable of telling their child what happened to you."
Clearly she wasn't getting it. "But those parents don't know what happened to me."
She gave a little laugh. "All the parents need to tell their child is that you lost your leg and wear a prosthetic leg to get around. End of story."

Huh. Really? Wow.

For the next week I practiced my answers to the children. Armed with an arsenal of responses, I packed another lunch for Luke and I and drove to the park. I was so excited to use my new skill, to set my new boundary. I got out of the car, took Luke from his car seat and grabbed our picnic basket. Come on, World, give it to me, I can take it, I thought.

Do you know what happened? Nothing. Barely a stare. Nary a question. Seriously. I have to admit, I was disappointed. And then it dawned on me. I got what I wanted. A peaceful day at the park with Luke.

It's still rare that total strangers ask me what happened, children or adults. I'm fine if acquaintances or friends ask me about it, that feels appropriate. But a stranger at the grocery store line? No. Once I became clear about where my boundaries were, that's what I sent out to the world and it's what I received back.

It's a good thing for me to realize in all parts of my life - Know my boundaries and kindly let other people know what they are. People won't hate me if I honor myself.

I'm on TV!

A few days ago KOMO 4 News did a story on my walking campaign. They aired the story on three or four different news programs. Lots of people have talked to me about seeing me on TV. Truth be told, being on TV is terrifying to me because my voice sounds three levels too low and, worst of all, I see myself limp. I'm embarrassed when I think of everyone seeing me limp until I realize that people see me limp all the time. It's me that doesn't see my limp. It's always a shock to see it. When I walk, I don't feel my limp; walking this way has become normal. More than once I've seen myself on film and wondered, "Who is that gal with the limp?" It's quite sobering to realize that it's me.

I don't mind showing people my C-Leg and, in the context of a news story, I don't mind talking about my leg or my amputation. Just like when the article came out in the Bellingham Herald, I'm clear that I am doing this for other amputees around the world.

So take a look, if you haven't already seen it, and hear more about my story and why I'm walking 100 miles.

Oh, and look for the ducks.

Honoring our Veterans

Memorial day is a day to recognize and honor those who have died while serving in the military. I want to expand that recognition and honor those who have lost a limb while serving our country.

My first prosthetist informed me that many Vietnam vets lost their legs during their time in the service. Because of them, prosthetic technology had come a long way. When I was getting a leg in the mid eighties, the Seattle Foot, the newest prosthetic foot, made its debut, boasting its ability to help amputees run. By having a newly designed spring action foot made from carbon fiber, the technology offered amputees an alternative to the previous clunky foot.

I've written previously about how far that technology has come; I now have the newest technology with the "C-Leg" that I wear and plug in every night. The microchip in this leg reads what my foot and ankle are doing - about 50 times a second - and adjusts the knee accordingly. It's really kind of amazing.

From what I can tell on Google, nearly 1,000 people have lost a limb in the Irag war. Many of them have defied limitations and have gone on to continue in the service. I know a lot of advances have been made because so many people have made the sacrifice and paid a price to serve our country.

I give thanks to the many amputee vets, past and present, who have given not only to their country but have helped the advances in prosthetic technology.

Trusting it's Good for Me

A number of people have asked me lately if I can feel a physical difference now that I've been walking everyday for a number of months.

After my first month of walking, at the beginning of the year, the muscles in my body felt looser and I had a spring to my step. Taking two stairs at a time was much easier. But after a few months, I plateaued. I've grown accustomed to my new normal and now I don't feel any physical benefits from my daily walk.

If I were able to walk a longer distance each day I would likely find the benefits increase, but a mile is about as far as I can comfortably walk on a daily basis. On those days when I walk further than a mile, I usually pay for it the next day with a blister on my residual limb.

Just because I don't feel any positive side effects from my daily walk doesn't mean I will give it up. I walk becuase I am committed to my cause: the Prosthetics Outreach Foundation. I walk because I said I would. And, most important, I walk because I trust that my body needs it.

Since I lost my leg, I've never been one to "honor" my body, in fact I've had a love/hate relationship with my body. I love that it kept me alive and I've often hated what it looks like and feels like. The natural aging process has given me pause, though, and as I feel aches and pains that weren't there three years ago and see wrinkles emerge, I realize how finite this body is. I escaped death once, but there will come a day when it's my turn and this body will cease to breathe.

So I remember that walking is good for my heart, my lungs, and my muscles. I'm counting on my daily walk to be a source of stability and strength. But mostly, I just trust that it's good for me.

Gratitude

A friend recently asked if I would change the way my life turned out. Would I rather have not lost my leg at seventeen years old and lived my life with two legs?

Absolutely not.

I don't love being an amputee. There are days when I hate it; there are days when it's an annoyance; and there are days when I don't really think about it. But every day is informed by what I have learned over the past thirty two years of being an amputee. I understand life in a completely different way than I would have had I not lost my leg. I have learned innumerable lessons about people and life that I wouldn't have had otherwise.

Life for me is about learning and growing. It's my obligation to myself. Just a few months after my accident I played the Three Wishes game: If I had three wishes, what would I ask for? My first thought was to ask for my leg back, but I immediately discounted that idea. Something deep inside me told me that This Was It. Being an amputee was my classroom and I was here to learn something from it.

I'm hell-bent on finding the good in every situation. Especially the really hard situations. Admittedly it's hard for me to find something good about running late in the morning or smashing my finger or burning the cookies. But the Big, Life-Altering events in life cannot pass by without understanding something deeper about them. My amputation is no exception.

One thing I have learned is gratitude. For life itself. For people. For the simple joys in life. Even for those heart-breaking moments that change the world as I know it. Eventually, I am able to open my arms and embrace whatever I can learn.

Being Seen

Being just 17 years old when I lost my leg, I was at the height of my sensitivity to being singled out. But there I was, on a daily basis, being ogled at, stared at and pointed at, all because of how different I was.

I remember when I first started college just nine months later. There were so many cute boys. Occasionally, as we were approaching each other walking down the side walk, I'd catch a cute guy looking at me. I'd get excited. Does he think I'm cute, I wondered? As we got closer to each other, I could see that he wasn't looking at me, he was looking at my prosthetic leg or my limp. He wasn't thinking I was pretty; he was noticing my difference. Then he'd walk by without even looking me in the eyes. My heart sank. That story happened more times than I care to admit.

When I started skiing, backpacking and kayaking, people would stare, only then it was in admiration. Strangers often came up to me and asked questions about my prosthetic leg and about how I lost my leg. I indulged their questions, not understanding how to set any boundaries.

I could feel eyes on me before I could see them. I knew when a child was pointing at me by the whispers from the parents to stop. I was used to being seen for the part of me that was missing.

I spent a number of years shifting how I see myself: from being a survivor and defining myself through my amputation to exploring all of who I am, warts and all. I am more than a gimp. I am more than someone to be admired for doing daring or physical things. Being a mom has helped immensely with taking the focus off of my leg and putting it right where I wanted: on my motherhood.

I was on the front page of the Bellingham Herald this week in an article about my 100 mile walking campaign. I haven't been in the paper before and I wasn't prepared for the attention. I'll admit, it's been uncomfortable and has pushed me outside my comfort zone. After years of trying to take the focus off my leg, it's ironic that I've come full circle and I'm talking about losing my leg on the front page.

Only this time, it's not about me. Now the issue is about people in developing countries who may be singled out in ways I can't imagine, who may be ostracized from their communities. Now it's about equality and basic human dignity. It's about allowing people in developing countries to see themselves in a new light, to see themselves as contributing members of their communities. Now it's about getting other people walking, even if it's just for a mile.