It has occurred to me that I have left a lot of loose ends in some of my blog posts. I am frequently asked questions relating to some of my past entries. I am going to try to answer many of the frequently asked questions.
By far, I am most asked about my nephew Jacob. Jake was struck by a car on November 12, 2009. I wrote about the accident and was overwhelmed by the support we received. Ironically, this was the first time I experienced the true cruelty of message boards which I wrote about a few days later.
I am happy to report that Jake has made a complete recovery. He is a strong and healthy little boy. He loves playing with his trains and his puppy. As I predicted, my sister's emotional scars are far deeper than anything Jacob endured. She is doing well but is still haunted by the incident.
Since my 5K debute I have been asked if I am still running. Yes, I am still running. I have to admit that my training schedule is not nearly as strict, and the imposing heat kept me indoors as well. I am planning another 5K in the fall, and I will keep everybody posted.
I would also love to field a team for next year's Susan G. Komen Race. I think team Amputee Mommy has a nice ring to it. Anybody interested in participating is more than welcome. Please contact me if you're interested and we'll try to get it together.
I wrote about wanting to take self-defense classes. While I would still like to learn to defend myself and gain confidence, I have not been able to move forward towards achieving this goal. I researched the classes and, at this time, they are beyond our budget. I am hoping to sign up for classes this fall, but this will have to be determined.
This winter I wrote numerous posts concerning Robby's poop phobia. I wish I could report that he is now completely potty trained. I dream of being done with diapers, but I wake up to a stack next to my bed. We are making progress but he remains terrified of poop in general. He still tries to withhold and we frequently find him hiding in the corner trying to "keep the poopy in my bum." It is a work in progress. I am still holding out hope that we will be out of diapers by the time he graduates from college, but some days I'm not sure!
Do I still love my Skechers Shape Ups? Yes, and I heartily recommend them to all of my amputee friends. I am not sure if they make my bum smaller, but the rocker heel certainly aids the fluidity of my walking. I walk taller and more comfortably because of the heel and I have no plans on reverting to a traditional walking shoe.
During the past few weeks my blog has received a lot of attention because of the issues I encountered with TSA. I have been in touch with TSA officials about the incident and I am satisfied with the result. I am also pleased to report that ACA will be meeting with officials from TSA to work towards achieving a stardardized approach to amputee screening protocols. I am hopeful that an improved screening system will be implemented and I remain proud to have been a part of this movement.
You may have noticed that I am now censoring comments on my blog. I felt it necessary to begin moderating comments to combat the mean-spirited slurs which were posted against me and my family. I was brought to tears too many times over the hateful messages which were posted on my blog, and I decided to be proactive.
I have concluded that my blog is a dictatorship, not a democracy. I get final say over what is posted because it is, after all, my blog. Rest assured that the majority of comments are put through and I apologize for the extra step. I do love receiving the comments, so please don't be disswayed. As always, thank you for taking time out of your day to read my blog!
About Me
- Peggy
- I am a below knee amputee. More importantly, I am also Mommy to two boys, a very active 10 year old (Robby) and an mischievous toddler (Timmy). I have learned that being a parent with a disability can create some unusual and sometimes humorous situations. This blogger is available for hire! Let's talk and learn how a blog can expand your business.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
More Than Everybody!
I have been waiting for Robby to "notice" that his Mommy has only one leg. He is four, but he has never questioned why I need to use a prosthetic, nor has he demonstrated any inkling that his Mommy is unusual. He seems oblivious to the fact that using a prosthetic is not the norm and phrases like "I want to get your leg" or "Do you have your running leg on" roll off his tongue naturally.
I have a variety of legs lined up against the wall, and he knows the specialized use of each device. Robby will retrieve my running leg, my biking leg or my Proprio without hesitation. He accepts that sometimes "Mommy's leg hurts" and I can't run with him. He also discovered that my prosthetic makes a great cave for his dinosaurs to attack from. For him, living with an amputee Mommy is normal.
I love that Robby does not consider my limb loss to be anything unusual. To him, I am simply Mommy. However, I know that this naivete will be short lived. Soon, he will realize that I am different. I have been contemplating how I am going to respond to his questions since he was born.
Most of my friends don't know that Scott is, technically, an amputee himself. He had an accident while working a construction job and suffered the loss of his big toe. Yes, in a strange twist of irony, Robby is the only one in the family who can count to 20 using all of his digits.
Scott is sensitive about the loss of his toe. He infrequently goes barefoot. Even in the hottest temperatures of summer he will wear socks and sneakers. He typically walks around barefoot only around the house.
Yesterday Robby and Scott were walking back from the kitchen when they stopped in the hallway. Robby was chatting up a storm and Scott's voice became serious. When they didn't immediately return to the bedroom I began to eavesdropping on their conversation.
Robby noticed Scott's missing toe before he noticed my missing leg! He asked his Daddy what happened to his toe, where it was now and if it hurt. He then sat in the middle of the hallway and showed his Daddy that he had all of his toes, pointing out again that Scott did not. Poor Scott was put through a full cross examination by our little inquisitor.
Deciding to give Scott a reprieve, I called Robby. He came running towards me to tell me about his discovery. He told me that Daddy didn't have a toe. He then counted his toes and showed me that he had 10. He proceeded to whip off my sock and counted my toes, proving that Mommy had five. He then looked at my stump. I readied myself for the questioning to resume.
Instead, Robby reached down and grabbed my prosthetic. He was frantically trying to remove the shoe from my Proprio. He pulled the sock off and counted the toes on my foot shell. Yes, there were five. He then removed the shoe from my running leg and counted. Then went down the line, counting the toes on my swim leg and my "beater" leg.
"Cool" he said. "Robby has 10 toes, Daddy only has 9. But Mommy has 25 toes. That's a whole lot of toes. Wow!"
I know that someday Robby will realize that "Mommy's 25 toes" are not all attached. But for now, I am happy to be deemed cool. After all, I have the "mostest toes of all!"
I have a variety of legs lined up against the wall, and he knows the specialized use of each device. Robby will retrieve my running leg, my biking leg or my Proprio without hesitation. He accepts that sometimes "Mommy's leg hurts" and I can't run with him. He also discovered that my prosthetic makes a great cave for his dinosaurs to attack from. For him, living with an amputee Mommy is normal.
I love that Robby does not consider my limb loss to be anything unusual. To him, I am simply Mommy. However, I know that this naivete will be short lived. Soon, he will realize that I am different. I have been contemplating how I am going to respond to his questions since he was born.
Most of my friends don't know that Scott is, technically, an amputee himself. He had an accident while working a construction job and suffered the loss of his big toe. Yes, in a strange twist of irony, Robby is the only one in the family who can count to 20 using all of his digits.
Scott is sensitive about the loss of his toe. He infrequently goes barefoot. Even in the hottest temperatures of summer he will wear socks and sneakers. He typically walks around barefoot only around the house.
Yesterday Robby and Scott were walking back from the kitchen when they stopped in the hallway. Robby was chatting up a storm and Scott's voice became serious. When they didn't immediately return to the bedroom I began to eavesdropping on their conversation.
Robby noticed Scott's missing toe before he noticed my missing leg! He asked his Daddy what happened to his toe, where it was now and if it hurt. He then sat in the middle of the hallway and showed his Daddy that he had all of his toes, pointing out again that Scott did not. Poor Scott was put through a full cross examination by our little inquisitor.
Deciding to give Scott a reprieve, I called Robby. He came running towards me to tell me about his discovery. He told me that Daddy didn't have a toe. He then counted his toes and showed me that he had 10. He proceeded to whip off my sock and counted my toes, proving that Mommy had five. He then looked at my stump. I readied myself for the questioning to resume.
Instead, Robby reached down and grabbed my prosthetic. He was frantically trying to remove the shoe from my Proprio. He pulled the sock off and counted the toes on my foot shell. Yes, there were five. He then removed the shoe from my running leg and counted. Then went down the line, counting the toes on my swim leg and my "beater" leg.
"Cool" he said. "Robby has 10 toes, Daddy only has 9. But Mommy has 25 toes. That's a whole lot of toes. Wow!"
I know that someday Robby will realize that "Mommy's 25 toes" are not all attached. But for now, I am happy to be deemed cool. After all, I have the "mostest toes of all!"
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Hot Hot Hot
Jeepers, it has been hot! The thermometer has been reaching past 100 and the humidity is thick. Everything, including our house, is beginning to reek of stale hot air. To join the chorus of everybody else, it has been miserable.
It has been too hot to use our stove or oven, so I have resorted to the grill for meal preparation. Tired of the hamburgers and hot dogs which have become our summer staples, I searched for more creative recipes. I quickly decided on "beer-in-the-butt chicken."
Scott likes beer, but he only drinks Corona. I was doubtful that the glass bottle would work, so I knew I was going to have to become creative. After some quick Google searches, I learned that any beverage in a can will work. I opted to make a more family-friendly version, which I dubbed "Ginger ale in the butt chicken."
With the bird fully prepped and the grill hot, I was ready to get started. I carefully placed the chicken, with the can strategically inserted for balance, on the hot grill. Satisfied with my placement, I was getting ready to close the lid. This is the moment when I learned that chickens are flammable. Actually, to be more precise, the skin is flammable. My poor little chicken had turned into a charred fireball, still balancing on a soda can despite his wings fully aflame.
I managed to put out the poultry fire and I evaluated the damage. The skin was ruined, but we don't typically eat that anyway. I was hoping that the meat could be salvaged, so I turned down the heat and proceeded with the grilling. It turned out delicious, albeit with an especially strong charbroiled flavor. I need to Google why it went ablaze before I attempt the recipe again.
We have been trying to stay cool inside, occupying our time with movies and games. I am so glad that I took the time to clean the downstairs family room. This area of the house is naturally cool and has been the most comfortable place to congregate. We have even begun "family picnics" downstairs so that we can stay cooler.
Unfortunately, a week of living downstairs has taken its toll on my neat and tidy room. The floor is now littered with assorted little cars, trains and dinosaurs and the coffee table is covered with cans and glasses. It won't take long to clean up the mess and as soon as the heat breaks and it is easier for me to walk. But for now, Scott and I just step over and around the toy piles.
Like so many others, I swell when the air is humid. To Scott's chagrin, I frequently take off my wedding ring in the summer months because my finger becomes so puffy the ring is uncomfortable. During the past few days I have noticed that my prosthetic is becoming tighter. I now have to lubricate the rings on my seal-in liner before donning my leg. Even with the added slickness, my stump is bulging over the top of my prosthetic and it feels extremely compressed inside my socket.
I have begun taking a mild diuretic in the morning in order to keep my residual limb from swelling. I hate resorting to pills, but I also know that it helps. I'm uncomfortable when it's hot, but it is absolutely miserable when I'm hot and my leg doesn't fit!
I have resorted to bringing out Robby's Christmas DVDs, partially to keep him entertained but also because it reminds me that cooler temperatures will eventually prevail. Unfortunately those songs quickly become stuck in my head. I am sure I was quite a sight at the grocery store, limping around in a sun dress singing "Let it Snow" with Robby. Oh well, at least I was feeling cooler!
It has been too hot to use our stove or oven, so I have resorted to the grill for meal preparation. Tired of the hamburgers and hot dogs which have become our summer staples, I searched for more creative recipes. I quickly decided on "beer-in-the-butt chicken."
Scott likes beer, but he only drinks Corona. I was doubtful that the glass bottle would work, so I knew I was going to have to become creative. After some quick Google searches, I learned that any beverage in a can will work. I opted to make a more family-friendly version, which I dubbed "Ginger ale in the butt chicken."
With the bird fully prepped and the grill hot, I was ready to get started. I carefully placed the chicken, with the can strategically inserted for balance, on the hot grill. Satisfied with my placement, I was getting ready to close the lid. This is the moment when I learned that chickens are flammable. Actually, to be more precise, the skin is flammable. My poor little chicken had turned into a charred fireball, still balancing on a soda can despite his wings fully aflame.
I managed to put out the poultry fire and I evaluated the damage. The skin was ruined, but we don't typically eat that anyway. I was hoping that the meat could be salvaged, so I turned down the heat and proceeded with the grilling. It turned out delicious, albeit with an especially strong charbroiled flavor. I need to Google why it went ablaze before I attempt the recipe again.
We have been trying to stay cool inside, occupying our time with movies and games. I am so glad that I took the time to clean the downstairs family room. This area of the house is naturally cool and has been the most comfortable place to congregate. We have even begun "family picnics" downstairs so that we can stay cooler.
Unfortunately, a week of living downstairs has taken its toll on my neat and tidy room. The floor is now littered with assorted little cars, trains and dinosaurs and the coffee table is covered with cans and glasses. It won't take long to clean up the mess and as soon as the heat breaks and it is easier for me to walk. But for now, Scott and I just step over and around the toy piles.
Like so many others, I swell when the air is humid. To Scott's chagrin, I frequently take off my wedding ring in the summer months because my finger becomes so puffy the ring is uncomfortable. During the past few days I have noticed that my prosthetic is becoming tighter. I now have to lubricate the rings on my seal-in liner before donning my leg. Even with the added slickness, my stump is bulging over the top of my prosthetic and it feels extremely compressed inside my socket.
I have begun taking a mild diuretic in the morning in order to keep my residual limb from swelling. I hate resorting to pills, but I also know that it helps. I'm uncomfortable when it's hot, but it is absolutely miserable when I'm hot and my leg doesn't fit!
I have resorted to bringing out Robby's Christmas DVDs, partially to keep him entertained but also because it reminds me that cooler temperatures will eventually prevail. Unfortunately those songs quickly become stuck in my head. I am sure I was quite a sight at the grocery store, limping around in a sun dress singing "Let it Snow" with Robby. Oh well, at least I was feeling cooler!
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
New Rule
I have noticed a disturbing trend during the past few weeks. I am at a loss as to how to stop it, nor do I know how to accept the inevitable with grace. It seems like just a few months ago I was respectfully referred to as "Miss" by store clerks and salespeople. During the past three weeks, the cordial "Miss" has been replaced by "Ma'am."
The first time it happened I didn't realize that the clerk was talking to me. I looked around trying to identify whom was being addressed. Then I was called Ma'am again, only louder, and I realized that he was talking to me. Apparently he thought that I was not only old but hard of hearing.
I am not a "Ma'am" yet, am I? I don't feel like a "Ma'am." That salutation is reserved for middle aged and elderly women. I don't feel middle age despite the fact that my driver's license taunts me by revealing that I am 36. I don't want to be a "Ma'am!"
The strange thing is that I have been feeling rather positive about my appearance. I've lost weight, I have a glowing tan and healthy pink looking cheeks. I've ridden over 200 miles in the past week, I've continued with my jogging and I am constantly in motion playing with Robby. I have been feeling more like a "MILF" than a "Ma'am." Yet I keep being referred to by the dreaded M word.
I am not sure what to do to combat the M word, but I'm going to keep trying. I've taken a fresh look at my hair and realized that my roots are visible. When did my hair start turning so grey? Now I have to search for hair color that covers grey hair.
I have noticed that I am spending more time perusing the skin care aisle, searching for something to stop the small little lines I noticed around my eyes when I smile. I have even googled botox on two occasions. It would be a lot cheaper not to smile.
My cute and frilly bras have been replaced by utilitarian looking under garments. I have noted an unfortunate correlation between my increasing age the the amount of support I require from my underwear. I never appreciated my "perky" breasts while I was young. Now I need wires and Lycra in order keep everything in place.
Perhaps I am becoming middle aged. I am not nearly as spontaneous as I was just a few years ago. I decided to make an impromptu visit to my Mom's. It took me 20 minutes to pack for one night. I used to just toss clothes into a bag and go. My overnight bag now bulges with anti-wrinkle products, vitamins, cords for my prosthetic, lotions for my stump and medications.
Even if I accept the fact that I am middle aged, I think that referring to me by the M word is premature. The only time I feel old is when I reminded of my age by well meaning pubescent teenagers calling me Ma'am. As a general rule, I think that women should be referred to as "Miss" until they are in their mid 40's. Of course, I reserve the right to amend that rule in another 10 years.
The first time it happened I didn't realize that the clerk was talking to me. I looked around trying to identify whom was being addressed. Then I was called Ma'am again, only louder, and I realized that he was talking to me. Apparently he thought that I was not only old but hard of hearing.
I am not a "Ma'am" yet, am I? I don't feel like a "Ma'am." That salutation is reserved for middle aged and elderly women. I don't feel middle age despite the fact that my driver's license taunts me by revealing that I am 36. I don't want to be a "Ma'am!"
The strange thing is that I have been feeling rather positive about my appearance. I've lost weight, I have a glowing tan and healthy pink looking cheeks. I've ridden over 200 miles in the past week, I've continued with my jogging and I am constantly in motion playing with Robby. I have been feeling more like a "MILF" than a "Ma'am." Yet I keep being referred to by the dreaded M word.
I am not sure what to do to combat the M word, but I'm going to keep trying. I've taken a fresh look at my hair and realized that my roots are visible. When did my hair start turning so grey? Now I have to search for hair color that covers grey hair.
I have noticed that I am spending more time perusing the skin care aisle, searching for something to stop the small little lines I noticed around my eyes when I smile. I have even googled botox on two occasions. It would be a lot cheaper not to smile.
My cute and frilly bras have been replaced by utilitarian looking under garments. I have noted an unfortunate correlation between my increasing age the the amount of support I require from my underwear. I never appreciated my "perky" breasts while I was young. Now I need wires and Lycra in order keep everything in place.
Perhaps I am becoming middle aged. I am not nearly as spontaneous as I was just a few years ago. I decided to make an impromptu visit to my Mom's. It took me 20 minutes to pack for one night. I used to just toss clothes into a bag and go. My overnight bag now bulges with anti-wrinkle products, vitamins, cords for my prosthetic, lotions for my stump and medications.
Even if I accept the fact that I am middle aged, I think that referring to me by the M word is premature. The only time I feel old is when I reminded of my age by well meaning pubescent teenagers calling me Ma'am. As a general rule, I think that women should be referred to as "Miss" until they are in their mid 40's. Of course, I reserve the right to amend that rule in another 10 years.
Monday, July 12, 2010
LiveStrong Lives
During the past week I have put well over 200 miles on my bike, pedaling along with the Tour de France. Yesterday, as the Tour entered the mountains, I rode for 50 miles. My legs were quaking and my heart was broken by the end of the stage.
It is a horrible feeling when you realize that your "Superhero" is, indeed, only a human. I remember the first time I had this revelation. I was eight years old and waiting for the school bus. It was 28 years ago, but the memory is so vivid it might as well have been yesterday.
Some neighborhood kids started to pick on me, taunting me by chanting that "their Daddy could beat up my Daddy". As much as I loved and idolized my Dad, I suspected that the kids were probably right. My Dad was overweight and the only exercise I ever witnessed was when he would try to walk to McDonald's for a Big Mac. I'd seen their Dads and any one of them would pummel my Dad should it come to fist-to-cuffs. This was the first time I saw my Dad through somebody else's eyes and realized that he might not be as mighty as I thought.
Instead of trying to defend my Dad based on physical prowess, an argument I would most certainly lose, I took another approach. I simply smiled and said that yes, their Dad's could probably beat my Dad up. However, my Dad was friends with Larry Holmes (at the time he was the heavy weight boxing champion and my father's drinking buddy) and that Larry Holmes would beat up everybody else. The argument was over, and I felt vindicated. On the playground, I had redeemed my Dad's honor.
Disappointments were easier to deal with at that tender age. Yesterday, I wobbled off the bike and made my way up the stairs. I closed the bathroom door under the guise of taking a shower. Truth be told, I sat in the shower and cried.
Lance Armstrong had a difficult day in the Tour. Actually, that is perhaps an understatement. He wrecked several times, one time hitting the asphalt while riding in excess of 60 mph. He finished the stage, but he was over 10 minutes behind his main competitors. This time gap is impossible for him to make up. For all intents and purposes, the dream of Lance wearing the coveted Yellow Jersey ended.
In reality, the chances of Lance winning The Tour were dismal. Always the eternal optimist, I believe in miracles. I suppose I wanted the fairy tale ending where the "over the hill" cyclist came back for one final victory in an effort to increase global awareness to eradicate the disease that nearly killed him. I should know by now that fairy tales do not come true.
At first, I was devastated. I am not a hard core sports fan. I've even written about my not understanding such passionate responses concerning a team performance. But yet there I was, cowering on my shower chair, weeping because my favorite cyclist had "bonked." My reaction felt surreal.
With Scott and Robby knocking on the door, I knew that I had to compose myself. I dried off in time to watch his interview. In this age when sports figures provide excuses and throw accusations when they do not win, Lance's response was refreshing.
He simply explained that he fell several times causing him to continually fight his way back with the group. He did not cast blame on others, nor did he make apologies. He said that he was disappointed, but that he will come back and work for his teammates. End of story. No anger, no tears. Just the affirmation that he is still going to work for his team. Wow! That is certainly not something which is said often by professional athletes. I am proud that he is a role model.
I remain, and always will be, a die-hard Lance Armstrong fan. He has done more for cancer survivors than any other professional athlete or celebrity. I admire his spirit, his tenacity and his strength.
He could have given up. After all, so many people gave up on him when he was diagnosed with a terminal illness. He could have given up today; many cyclists abandoned the stage to be picked up and driven home instead of finishing the course. Yet Lance continued pedaling, with blood dripping from his arms and legs and his clothes in tatters.
Although he wasn't going to win, he knew that he might be able to help his team in the future. He knew that cancer survivors and those currently in treatment were glued to their televisions, as I was, to see a hero in action. Winning the Tour seven times is an impressive feat, but I was more impressed with the way Lance Armstrong handled his defeat.
I continue to be a proud Lance Armstrong fan. No, he won't be wearing Yellow when the Tour ends in two weeks. He started a movement which transcends his cycling career. He had the fortitude and determination to finish what he started even when a victory was obviously out of his reach. My hero was only redefined today.
It is a horrible feeling when you realize that your "Superhero" is, indeed, only a human. I remember the first time I had this revelation. I was eight years old and waiting for the school bus. It was 28 years ago, but the memory is so vivid it might as well have been yesterday.
Some neighborhood kids started to pick on me, taunting me by chanting that "their Daddy could beat up my Daddy". As much as I loved and idolized my Dad, I suspected that the kids were probably right. My Dad was overweight and the only exercise I ever witnessed was when he would try to walk to McDonald's for a Big Mac. I'd seen their Dads and any one of them would pummel my Dad should it come to fist-to-cuffs. This was the first time I saw my Dad through somebody else's eyes and realized that he might not be as mighty as I thought.
Instead of trying to defend my Dad based on physical prowess, an argument I would most certainly lose, I took another approach. I simply smiled and said that yes, their Dad's could probably beat my Dad up. However, my Dad was friends with Larry Holmes (at the time he was the heavy weight boxing champion and my father's drinking buddy) and that Larry Holmes would beat up everybody else. The argument was over, and I felt vindicated. On the playground, I had redeemed my Dad's honor.
Disappointments were easier to deal with at that tender age. Yesterday, I wobbled off the bike and made my way up the stairs. I closed the bathroom door under the guise of taking a shower. Truth be told, I sat in the shower and cried.
Lance Armstrong had a difficult day in the Tour. Actually, that is perhaps an understatement. He wrecked several times, one time hitting the asphalt while riding in excess of 60 mph. He finished the stage, but he was over 10 minutes behind his main competitors. This time gap is impossible for him to make up. For all intents and purposes, the dream of Lance wearing the coveted Yellow Jersey ended.
In reality, the chances of Lance winning The Tour were dismal. Always the eternal optimist, I believe in miracles. I suppose I wanted the fairy tale ending where the "over the hill" cyclist came back for one final victory in an effort to increase global awareness to eradicate the disease that nearly killed him. I should know by now that fairy tales do not come true.
At first, I was devastated. I am not a hard core sports fan. I've even written about my not understanding such passionate responses concerning a team performance. But yet there I was, cowering on my shower chair, weeping because my favorite cyclist had "bonked." My reaction felt surreal.
With Scott and Robby knocking on the door, I knew that I had to compose myself. I dried off in time to watch his interview. In this age when sports figures provide excuses and throw accusations when they do not win, Lance's response was refreshing.
He simply explained that he fell several times causing him to continually fight his way back with the group. He did not cast blame on others, nor did he make apologies. He said that he was disappointed, but that he will come back and work for his teammates. End of story. No anger, no tears. Just the affirmation that he is still going to work for his team. Wow! That is certainly not something which is said often by professional athletes. I am proud that he is a role model.
I remain, and always will be, a die-hard Lance Armstrong fan. He has done more for cancer survivors than any other professional athlete or celebrity. I admire his spirit, his tenacity and his strength.
He could have given up. After all, so many people gave up on him when he was diagnosed with a terminal illness. He could have given up today; many cyclists abandoned the stage to be picked up and driven home instead of finishing the course. Yet Lance continued pedaling, with blood dripping from his arms and legs and his clothes in tatters.
Although he wasn't going to win, he knew that he might be able to help his team in the future. He knew that cancer survivors and those currently in treatment were glued to their televisions, as I was, to see a hero in action. Winning the Tour seven times is an impressive feat, but I was more impressed with the way Lance Armstrong handled his defeat.
I continue to be a proud Lance Armstrong fan. No, he won't be wearing Yellow when the Tour ends in two weeks. He started a movement which transcends his cycling career. He had the fortitude and determination to finish what he started even when a victory was obviously out of his reach. My hero was only redefined today.
Friday, July 09, 2010
I'm Here
The anniversary of my amputation was last week. It is hard to believe that it has been seven years. In many ways I am amazed with how far I have come, yet I find it odd how raw my emotions become when I remember that time. I have found my mind wandering to the time immediately following my amputation.
I have had several friends who have recently amputated a limb due to injury or disease. The emotions before the amputation, although expressed differently, are universal. I have written a lot about the struggles before my surgery. I realize now that I have been remiss in exploring the issues I encountered after my amputation.
It is easy for me to tell my friends, who are struggling with bandages or new prosthetics, that it is going to be okay. I have made the adjustment and, although I am still learning everyday, I have transitioned into a happy amputee woman. This was not an easy journey.
From a physical perspective, the hard part is over. The surgical pain will heal and, barring any complications, the limb will be ready for a prosthetic in a relatively short time. I anticipated my first prosthetic like a young child readies for Christmas. I was certain that my life would become "normal" as soon as I could walk. In retrospect, it is easy to see how my expectations could not possibly have been met.
After I received my leg and the celebration of my "walking day" subsided, I was smacked in the face with an uncomfortable reality. I was an amputee. Yes, I knew that I was going to have my leg amputated, and that I would need a prosthetic. For some reason, the gravity of living without my limb wasn't realized until after I had my leg.
I guess I just never realized how different everything was going to become. Each step was awkward and labored. Yes, I was happy to be mobile, but I never anticipated it being so hard.
Every aspect of my daily life seemed to be more difficult. From getting off the toilet to standing in line at the grocery store, simply living became a conscious effort. Nothing seemed natural, and I was cognizant of every movement. I faked a lot of smiles during this period of my life.
I remember actually thinking through whether or not I was going to get off the couch to get a drink of water. Was I really that thirsty, or could I wait until I had another reason to get up so that I didn't have to do it twice. I became discouraged and began to view myself as lazy. I was mentally and physically drained by the simplest of activities.
I was comparing myself to an unrealistic standard. I was looking at other amputees, seeing how much they were doing with their lives, and becoming frustrated that everything just seemed to hard for me. I assumed that I was a failure, and that I was doomed to live an uncomfortable and mediocre life. What I didn't realize at the time was that it takes years of experience before walking on a prosthetic becomes natural.
I wish that somebody had told me that it could take years to adjust to an amputation. I thought that once I was done with the surgical pain and fitted with my leg, I would be fine. I failed to realize that the events were merely milestones on a long journey.
With time and practice, walking on my prosthetic has become second nature. My improvement was not a drastic event which could be pinpointed. Rather, I made incremental improvements every day and, over time, I started to become more confident and comfortable.
I remember feeling alone and ashamed, thinking that I was a failure. I wish that I had known that surviving the surgery and receiving my first prosthetic was not the end of my journey but the beginning. I think I could have saved myself a lot of heartbreak had I known that each step was not going to feel like a celebration.
I tell my friends that they are going to be okay, but assurances sometimes have little value. Perhaps knowing that what they are feeling is natural, and letting them know that they are not alone in their prosthetic struggles can help ease the transitions. I have been through the battle and have emerged as a stronger and better person. Sometimes giving the pain a voice helps, and I'm always willing to listen.
I have had several friends who have recently amputated a limb due to injury or disease. The emotions before the amputation, although expressed differently, are universal. I have written a lot about the struggles before my surgery. I realize now that I have been remiss in exploring the issues I encountered after my amputation.
It is easy for me to tell my friends, who are struggling with bandages or new prosthetics, that it is going to be okay. I have made the adjustment and, although I am still learning everyday, I have transitioned into a happy amputee woman. This was not an easy journey.
From a physical perspective, the hard part is over. The surgical pain will heal and, barring any complications, the limb will be ready for a prosthetic in a relatively short time. I anticipated my first prosthetic like a young child readies for Christmas. I was certain that my life would become "normal" as soon as I could walk. In retrospect, it is easy to see how my expectations could not possibly have been met.
After I received my leg and the celebration of my "walking day" subsided, I was smacked in the face with an uncomfortable reality. I was an amputee. Yes, I knew that I was going to have my leg amputated, and that I would need a prosthetic. For some reason, the gravity of living without my limb wasn't realized until after I had my leg.
I guess I just never realized how different everything was going to become. Each step was awkward and labored. Yes, I was happy to be mobile, but I never anticipated it being so hard.
Every aspect of my daily life seemed to be more difficult. From getting off the toilet to standing in line at the grocery store, simply living became a conscious effort. Nothing seemed natural, and I was cognizant of every movement. I faked a lot of smiles during this period of my life.
I remember actually thinking through whether or not I was going to get off the couch to get a drink of water. Was I really that thirsty, or could I wait until I had another reason to get up so that I didn't have to do it twice. I became discouraged and began to view myself as lazy. I was mentally and physically drained by the simplest of activities.
I was comparing myself to an unrealistic standard. I was looking at other amputees, seeing how much they were doing with their lives, and becoming frustrated that everything just seemed to hard for me. I assumed that I was a failure, and that I was doomed to live an uncomfortable and mediocre life. What I didn't realize at the time was that it takes years of experience before walking on a prosthetic becomes natural.
I wish that somebody had told me that it could take years to adjust to an amputation. I thought that once I was done with the surgical pain and fitted with my leg, I would be fine. I failed to realize that the events were merely milestones on a long journey.
With time and practice, walking on my prosthetic has become second nature. My improvement was not a drastic event which could be pinpointed. Rather, I made incremental improvements every day and, over time, I started to become more confident and comfortable.
I remember feeling alone and ashamed, thinking that I was a failure. I wish that I had known that surviving the surgery and receiving my first prosthetic was not the end of my journey but the beginning. I think I could have saved myself a lot of heartbreak had I known that each step was not going to feel like a celebration.
I tell my friends that they are going to be okay, but assurances sometimes have little value. Perhaps knowing that what they are feeling is natural, and letting them know that they are not alone in their prosthetic struggles can help ease the transitions. I have been through the battle and have emerged as a stronger and better person. Sometimes giving the pain a voice helps, and I'm always willing to listen.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Dreaming of Yellow
Eleven months of the year, I would not never be described as a sports fanatic. I can appreciate the competition and the skills of the athletes. I can cheer and root on my team with as much passion and gusto as others in the stadium. I don't lament losses nor do I celebrate victories beyond the moment. I don't understand how a single game on Sunday can ruin an entire week.
For three weeks a year, this all changes. The television remote is mine. My friends and family know not to call me in the morning, and Scott begrudgingly changes all diapers and takes care of entertaining Robby. I am, by all intents and purposes, busy. Each July I become afflicted with Tour de France fever!
I am a passionate fan. I love the intricacies of the sport and the background stories of the cyclists. I become animated as I pull for my favorite riders to finish well. Yes, I have been know to let expletives, and the occasional Gatorade bottle, fly when an "enemy" cyclist gains time or wins a stage.
My sweet niece, under my supervision during the Tour when she was only two, returned home and proudly told her Mommy and Daddy that "Jean Ullrich is a fu*%ing pr*ck." I didn't enjoy the phone call that her comment prompted, but I have to admit that I was pleased that she was rooting for the same riders as I, but I am no longer asked to babysit during the month of July.
I have not always been a cycling fan. Recovering from my amputation seven years ago I found myself at the mercy of Scott's remote control. He quickly became bored with daytime television talk shows. There are a limited number of times you can watch outrageous people try to figure out the paternity of their children on the Maury Show before you begin seeking alternative entertainment. Scott loves sports and quickly discovered the Tour de France coverage on cable.
I hated the Tour during the first few days. I was bored watching cyclists with foreign and exotic names pedaling around the countryside in a pack. I didn't understand the strategies that come into play, nor did I comprehend the Herculean effort put forth by these men on a daily basis. As my pain medication consumption decreased and my understanding of the sport increased (albeit against my will) I stopped loathing the daily three hours of cycling.
As the Tour moved into the first set of mountains, the television commentators began to focus on Lance Armstrong. I was vaguely familiar with the man and his story. I knew that he was a cyclist and had battled cancer. I knew that he had one testicle. I knew that he went back to riding the bike and that he was from Texas. I never cared about cycling, so I never bothered to read about his plight.
That summer, as I was lying on the couch recovering from my amputation, I began to respect Armstrong. I learned that he was diagnosed with testicular cancer that had also invaded his brain, his abdomen and his lungs. Most people know that he is a proud cancer survivor. I don't think that most people appreciate that he was given a measly 30% chance of living beyond two years.
In an odd way, Armstrong became a symbol for me. I began to reflect on his accomplishments when I was feeling depressed or battling pain. When it was difficult for me to wear my IPOP, or my first leg, I thought about him and the adversity he overcame. He should, according to many expert opinions, be dead. Instead, he was climbing up the Alps and the Pyrenees Mountains on a bicycle. And, to make the story epic, he was winning!
If Lance could survive losing a testicle, brain surgery and chemotherapy, I could certainly learn to walk on my new prosthetic. If he could return to professional cycling stronger than his peers, I had no excuses. I heard him quoted as saying, "Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever." This has become my mantra that I repeat to myself when I feel defeated.
My interest in cycling sparked because of Armstrong, but now my passion for the event transcends him. I was saddened when he retired (the first time) but my interest in the Tour did not waiver. I learned to cheer on other riders, and root against a new batch of "young villains." I do have to admit that I cried when Lance came out of retirement to ride again.
For three weeks every July, I can be found on my bicycling trainer, pedaling along with The Tour. I set my course to mimic that of the Tour for the day, and I ride along. As silly as it sounds, I pedal harder when my favorite riders are in peril. I become consumed by the race, as if my riding at home somehow helps these men out half a world away.
Scott, accustomed to humoring me, even assumes the role of the team car when I'm in the mountain stages. I ring my bell and he will bring me drinks and bananas. He doesn't complain when I toss the peels over my shoulder like the cyclists on TV, but he has requested that from now on I try to aim away from his head. He rarely complains when I am on the bike for the entire three hour coverage. He is a good sport when it comes to dealing with this Tour fanatic!
I'm dreaming of yellow this year. I know that the pundits think that Lance is too old and that he doesn't have the same magic. I still believe and I will be pedaling the entire Tour to help him stamp out a record eight victories in The Tour de France. Go Lance Go!
For three weeks a year, this all changes. The television remote is mine. My friends and family know not to call me in the morning, and Scott begrudgingly changes all diapers and takes care of entertaining Robby. I am, by all intents and purposes, busy. Each July I become afflicted with Tour de France fever!
I am a passionate fan. I love the intricacies of the sport and the background stories of the cyclists. I become animated as I pull for my favorite riders to finish well. Yes, I have been know to let expletives, and the occasional Gatorade bottle, fly when an "enemy" cyclist gains time or wins a stage.
My sweet niece, under my supervision during the Tour when she was only two, returned home and proudly told her Mommy and Daddy that "Jean Ullrich is a fu*%ing pr*ck." I didn't enjoy the phone call that her comment prompted, but I have to admit that I was pleased that she was rooting for the same riders as I, but I am no longer asked to babysit during the month of July.
I have not always been a cycling fan. Recovering from my amputation seven years ago I found myself at the mercy of Scott's remote control. He quickly became bored with daytime television talk shows. There are a limited number of times you can watch outrageous people try to figure out the paternity of their children on the Maury Show before you begin seeking alternative entertainment. Scott loves sports and quickly discovered the Tour de France coverage on cable.
I hated the Tour during the first few days. I was bored watching cyclists with foreign and exotic names pedaling around the countryside in a pack. I didn't understand the strategies that come into play, nor did I comprehend the Herculean effort put forth by these men on a daily basis. As my pain medication consumption decreased and my understanding of the sport increased (albeit against my will) I stopped loathing the daily three hours of cycling.
As the Tour moved into the first set of mountains, the television commentators began to focus on Lance Armstrong. I was vaguely familiar with the man and his story. I knew that he was a cyclist and had battled cancer. I knew that he had one testicle. I knew that he went back to riding the bike and that he was from Texas. I never cared about cycling, so I never bothered to read about his plight.
That summer, as I was lying on the couch recovering from my amputation, I began to respect Armstrong. I learned that he was diagnosed with testicular cancer that had also invaded his brain, his abdomen and his lungs. Most people know that he is a proud cancer survivor. I don't think that most people appreciate that he was given a measly 30% chance of living beyond two years.
In an odd way, Armstrong became a symbol for me. I began to reflect on his accomplishments when I was feeling depressed or battling pain. When it was difficult for me to wear my IPOP, or my first leg, I thought about him and the adversity he overcame. He should, according to many expert opinions, be dead. Instead, he was climbing up the Alps and the Pyrenees Mountains on a bicycle. And, to make the story epic, he was winning!
If Lance could survive losing a testicle, brain surgery and chemotherapy, I could certainly learn to walk on my new prosthetic. If he could return to professional cycling stronger than his peers, I had no excuses. I heard him quoted as saying, "Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever." This has become my mantra that I repeat to myself when I feel defeated.
My interest in cycling sparked because of Armstrong, but now my passion for the event transcends him. I was saddened when he retired (the first time) but my interest in the Tour did not waiver. I learned to cheer on other riders, and root against a new batch of "young villains." I do have to admit that I cried when Lance came out of retirement to ride again.
For three weeks every July, I can be found on my bicycling trainer, pedaling along with The Tour. I set my course to mimic that of the Tour for the day, and I ride along. As silly as it sounds, I pedal harder when my favorite riders are in peril. I become consumed by the race, as if my riding at home somehow helps these men out half a world away.
Scott, accustomed to humoring me, even assumes the role of the team car when I'm in the mountain stages. I ring my bell and he will bring me drinks and bananas. He doesn't complain when I toss the peels over my shoulder like the cyclists on TV, but he has requested that from now on I try to aim away from his head. He rarely complains when I am on the bike for the entire three hour coverage. He is a good sport when it comes to dealing with this Tour fanatic!
I'm dreaming of yellow this year. I know that the pundits think that Lance is too old and that he doesn't have the same magic. I still believe and I will be pedaling the entire Tour to help him stamp out a record eight victories in The Tour de France. Go Lance Go!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)