by Scott Martin
I laughed. It was all I could do. The whole concept was absurd and yet here was this plastic surgeon who had accomplished it. When faced with the possibility of amputating everything below the knee, he instead chose to build me a foot from a medley of other body parts a la Dr. Frankenstein. Here stood my mad doctor.
After a moment of shared joviality – tinged with lunacy on my part – Dr. Mixter straightened from his wrapping and said somberly, ‘There’s no guarantee that it will work, Scott. You may still lose the lower leg.’
I was slower to return to a serious mindset, but eventually his words struck home and I let out the last of my laughter in a deflated huff. So the battle still wasn’t won. Well, that was the lesson to be taken from yesterday, wasn’t it? Don’t get comfortable; you’re not out of the woods yet. The fight isn’t over. Heaven knows when it will be.
Dr. Mixter left my room after mumbling something about how the foot looked good but I was barely aware of him anymore. What he had said rang far deeper and truer than he probably knew. It was the mantra of my new life: No guarantee. You may still lose.
9
Go Kick Some Ass!
Regardless of the progress I made in the weeks that followed, all I could think about was my team. Like chasing a rainbow, no matter how much ground I covered, they remained tantalizingly out of reach. Having designed it myself, I knew their schedule by heart and spent each match day anxiously awaiting news from the confines of my hospital bed. As thrilled as I was to know they were advancing in their season – we were at the top of our conference and ranked in the national top 20 – it killed me to be so far from the action. Nothing – not even the hooks – hurt my spirit more than the ache of perceived abandonment.
Kathy was my closest confidante at the hospital. Since my mother’s breakdown, I realized it was better to shelter my family from certain trying things. They didn’t deserve to bear any more of my pain than they already had. Besides, Kathy was better equipped to witness my darker moments. She was also the first person I wanted to share my lighter times with.
So when she asked me what was on my mind that morning, I divulged every detail, sharing my thoughts, my hurt and my hope with my most cherished partner in crime. The whole time I chattered on and on about the soccer program and my team, eating up our entire session time, she remained an attentive and enthusiastic listener.
‘Sorry,’ I said when my ranting and raving had come to an end.
‘For what? It sounds like you have a passion for what you do.’ I smiled at her and nodded, but the apology wasn’t as much for what I had just said as for what I was about to say. After a short pause, during which I reminded myself of how crucial feeling hope for my future was to my recovery, I spoke my final part.
‘Kathy,’ I said, meeting her eyes with slow determination. ‘I want to be transferred to the rehab unit at Sacred Heart Hospital in Eau Claire.’
Understanding slowly blossomed behind her eyes. I waited, agonizing over the thoughts she wasn’t sharing. I could see the emotions struggling for dominance: surprise, hurt, confusion, comprehension, and, finally, an inkling of sorrow.
Eau Claire was where my profession, my art, and my heart were. At that moment, I needed them– that constant reminder of what I was fighting for – more than anything. Watching matches and training sessions on video, as I’d been doing, and getting news second-hand from miles away wasn’t good enough. As much as I hated to admit it, I needed that team even more than I yearned to be with my family and with Kathy and the staff at Mercy Hospital.
After a long pause, she spoke.
‘Eau Claire.’
I pursed my lips and nodded slowly. She looked down at her hands and I felt the first throes of separation between us.
‘I mean, I –’ I started to say, not even sure where I was heading but knowing that I needed to say something, anything, to soften this blow for the both of us.
‘No,’ she cut me off with a wave of her hand and a smile of false bravado. ‘It’s a good idea. Just hearing you talk about soccer the way you do. . . I’ve never seen you that animated. Clearly your team means a lot to you and anything that can make you that excited deserves to have you close by. I’ll bring it up with Dr. Molin and see what can be done, okay?’
I opened my mouth then closed it; opened it again, and shut it with a sigh. What more could I say? I had watched the course of her expressions closely, and the last one I’d seen was resolve.
‘Thank you.
~~~
Only two days after Kathy and I discussed the possibility, Dr. Molin paid me a visit. I could tell from the moment he sauntered into my room that he had good news to share.
On cue he said, ‘Hey, man. I’ve got some good news for you.’
‘Oh yeah?’ I played along, even though I knew there was only one thing it could be. Well, unless he’s come to tell me we can make a bonfire out of the hooks. That’d be pretty good news, too.
‘Sacred Heart just called. They accepted.’ There was no holding back the surge of excitement I felt; a broad, uninhibited smile spread across my face.
‘Awesome! When do I transfer?’
‘Monday.’
‘Monday? This Monday?’ I had expected him to say in a couple weeks, next month maybe. Monday was only five days away.
‘You betcha.’
Five days, I mused. Five days until I could get back to my program. 120 hours until I wouldn’t need a VCR and thirteen-inch television to know what was going on with my team. 7,200 minutes to become Coach Martin again. Exalted, I wished I could have leapt to my feet for a victory dance but then perhaps it was best I couldn’t. Wouldn’t want to tarnish my upstanding reputation, I thought and grinned wolfishly at my private banter.
I was coming back! A deluge of renewed determination flooded over me. With only five days to go, I would conquer the hooks and any other obstacles that may stand between me and my team. Nothing could stop me now.
~~~
As the news of my transfer spread throughout the Rehab Unit, visitors started popping in to say their farewells. I hadn’t realized just how many friends I’d made during my month and a half at Mercy Hospital until they started filing into my room. Doctors, nurses, interns, and patients alike came to wish me well. With each new caller, the true depth of what I was losing became clearer. I had built a home here at Mercy, and not a half bad one at that.
When the good-byes slowed to a trickle, I realized one person had yet to give me a sendoff: Kathy. We had talked about it, naturally, but the conversation had stayed in the safer zones of technicalities and logistics regarding the move. When Monday rolled around and Kathy and I still hadn’t had our moment, I began to think consolingly that perhaps some good-byes were better left unsaid.
Until a tornado of bright blue and dark brown came spinning into my room. She twirled and whirled and wavered to a dizzying halt at the foot of my bed, looking over at me with her lustrous smile.
‘I want one hundred crunches and a fifteen-minute sit. Ready? Go!’
‘I’ll miss you, too.’
She sighed and dropped the guise. Walking to my left side, she wrapped her arms around my neck and squeezed. I hugged her in return, chuckles filling my ear.
‘My, my you have gotten strong, haven’t you? Don’t crack my ribs now, Mr. Hulk.’ One more squeeze and I let her go.
‘Take care of yourself, okay?’ I said. ‘Don’t pick on the patients too hard. They’re not all as tough as me.’
‘Don’t you worry about them. I rule this place with an iron fist.’
‘I know you do.’ Time hung there for a moment, hovering over us like a blanketing shroud, she with one hand on my shoulder and me watching the thoughts dance across her eyes. At last, she took a long breath and smiled another of her signature grins.
‘Go kick some ass!’ With that she turned, spun, and skipped all the way to my door and out into the hall. I watched her disappear from view with a sense of sad contentment at how things had gone. I didn’t t
hink this would be the last I’d see or hear of Kathy the Occupational Therapist. Perhaps Forrest Gump said it best: Kathy and me was like peas and carrots. She was my most special friend.
And that’s all I have to say about that.
10
My Hospital Office
Entering the Rehabilitation Unit at Sacred Heart Hospital in Eau Claire was far less dramatic than leaving Mercy Hospital had been. By that point in my recovery, I had spent so much time in the parts and parcels of a hospital that this Rehab Unit felt like just another element of just another hospital. It had all the standard hospital qualities: clean, organized, full of bustling people, glassy-eyed patients, and smiling nurses. Besides the people, the only real difference between Sacred Heart and Mercy was the shape of the Rehab Unit: at Sacred Heart it occupied one long hallway whereas at Mercy it had been in a square set-up with a centrally-located nurses’ station. Oh, and the fact that here I had access to my team. That was a pretty big difference.
Cindy Koperski, my assistant, was serving as the acting head coach in my stead. We had determined that I would focus on tactics with our senior goalkeeper, Diane Kelsch, who didn’t have any afternoon classes. Each weekday Diane came by my room around two in the afternoon, signed out a wheelchair, and loaded me into the seat of her little, yellow Toyota pickup. She’d drive me to the soccer field, retrieve the wheelchair from where it had been tossed in the bed of the truck, and spend the duration of the afternoon listening to me prod her from my seat on the edge of the field.
Sticking with my credo: “My mission is not to teach you, but to put you in a position to learn,” I peppered Diane with questions based on where she was on the field or the situation at hand, coaxing her into making her own realizations.
Being back out on the field and directly involved in the team’s training was the greatest reward I could receive. I felt more alive and clear-headed than I had in a long, long time. On the field, the emotional fog which accompanied much of my recovery and left me feeling detached and distant receded as if banished by the sun’s rays. In those precious moments, I felt whole again.
The other highlight of my days – second only to my time on the field – was getting to meet with prospective new players. To maintain our Top 20 ranking, Cindy and I also had to put a great deal of time into recruitment. While she and the admissions office gave potential student-athletes and their parents tours of the university campus, I played my part from within the walls of Sacred Heart.
The rehab staff set aside their conference room for my meetings with new recruits and even allowed me to juggle my rehabilitation schedule around my work. My days were packed with activity and I couldn’t have been happier.
That season, Diane earned First Team All-American honors and Cindy was named the conference Coach of the Year. The program was moving forward as planned.
~~~
Zenon Wojcik was a lanky man standing a couple inches over six feet with long, grey-streaked brown hair that brushed the top of his collar. I first met him a week after my transfer to Sacred Heart when he came striding into my room unannounced.
‘Hello there!’ he called as he sped through the door. He had a knack for moving at great speeds without appearing to do so – a skill I attributed to his long limbs. ‘Scott?’ he asked, making a sudden stop at the foot of my bed.
‘Ye-ah,’ I slowly replied, trying to orient myself around this unexpected and somewhat bizarre man.
‘I’m Zenon – Zenon Woj-ik from Winkley Prosthetics of Eau Claire. And if it’s all right with you, I’m going to take you on as a patient.’ He beamed at me and I blinked in return. Wha-? I thought and tried to replay what he had just said. I was pretty sure he was waiting for me to say or do something, but my mind was still in the get-a-grip-and-focus stage.
That was the other odd thing about Zenon: when he moved, he moved with strong purpose and at breakneck speeds, as if he were always in a hurry and yet never looked flustered. When he stood still, though, he could be the most patient person you ever met. It was as if whatever he did, he did it to the fullest – be it hustling from patient to patient or sitting by your side to discuss prosthetics.
Wojcik from Winkley Prosthetics … take you on as a patient, echoed across my mind in slow motion. Patient? Me, a patient for – Oh! Understanding finally dawning, I nodded my consent. I was already so many people’s patient, why not add one more?
‘Great! Now, I’m here to cast your arms so we can build you a pair of myoelecric hands.’
Myoelectric hands… The myos – the myos! A flutter of excitement danced in my chest. I was finally getting the myos? No more hooks? I grinned unabashedly. Looks like I might get to have that bonfire after all.
‘I’m sure you’ve been told about the myos by now,’ he continued as he set up his casting station. ‘A lot more sophisticated than those things.’ He gestured towards the hooks where they sat discarded on a bedside table with a clear look of disdain on his face. I laughed, a tad giddy at the prospect of my new arms and to have found a fellow hook-loather. As he went about his work, he told me about the myos, re-iterating what Dr. Molin had said and filling in gaps in my knowledge I hadn’t even been aware existed.
Talking with Zenon was like picking the brain of a top soccer coach over pints of beer. The man was nothing short of brilliant. The fact that he loved his work was apparent in his every word. His enthusiasm lent him an almost child-like excitement while his knowledge and wisdom compelled you to revere him.
To Zenon, being a prosthetist was an art. Although he had never seen anyone use two myos – he had primarily encountered unilateral amputees – he never told me I couldn’t do something. I think it was the innate problem-solver in him which prevented him from ever viewing a challenge as unconquerable. By the time the casting session was over, I could tell that as his patient great things were going to happen.
~~~
Almost before I could come down from my Zenon-induced high, he paid me a second visit the next day. This time he came bearing an even greater gift than his wealth of knowledge about the myos. It was a mechanism of his contrivance: a machine specifically designed to help patients prepare to use myoelectric prosthetics.
‘This little beauty should help you get a head start on learning to manipulate the muscle action needed to control the myos,’ he said as he began unpacking a meter the shape of an odometer with two wires and an electrical cable coming out of it. The wires each split partway down to form four total branches. At the end of each branch was a small white circle.
‘These are receptors,’ he said, holding up two of the four circles. ‘Two for each arm. We’ll tape one to the muscle group used for opening the hand –’ he touched the muscles on the outside of my forearm – ‘and the other to the muscle group used for closing the hand.’ He moved his finger to the inside of my forearm. ‘They connect to this meter, which then reads the voltage you generate. And that voltage correlates to the degree of which the myos will open or close. I’ll set you up and show you how it works.’
I readily held my arms out for the sensors, feeling like a technology fiend at Best Buy. All I wanted to do was play, play, play!
When I was strapped in, he instructed me to simply think of opening and closing my hands, one hand at a time. With my eyes on the meter, I focused on an action I had long since stopped using.
Whoa! The needle shot to the far right of the scale. I relaxed and watched it collapse back to its resting point on the left.
‘Cool, huh?’ Zenon said, smiling, I assume, at my expression. ‘So the key here is getting the finesse down. Try to focus on moving the meter in as small of increments as possible. That’s how you’ll learn more finite manipulation of the hands. Think of the different levels of force used in stroking a cat versus pulling a weed. You want to be able to approach both tasks confidently.’
I took a deep breath and tried again, thinking, Cat, thinking, Gentle. . The needle rocketed to the right.
‘That’s okay,’ Zenon as
sured me hastily. ‘Now try to lower it back to the starting point as slowly as possible.’
I concentrated, and imagined easing my hand shut. The needle plummeted to the left. Before it could hit home, I thought Open! and it flew back to the right.
This was going to be a lot harder than I’d anticipated.
‘Good! Good,’ Zenon said, clearly pleased at my fumbles. ‘It’s going to take time, but you’re doing the right thing. You’ll get better and better – trust me. I’ll leave this here with you and ask the nurses to set you up – mmm, three times a day. Does that sound good?’
I imagined my hectic schedule, thought about all the things I was already doing and how little time I had left in the day, then smiled broadly.
‘Sounds excellent.’
‘Super! Then I’ll leave you to it. Practice, practice, practice,’ he sang as he left. ‘Enjoy!’
Enjoy I did. The more I toyed with Zeonon’s little device, the more I found it similar to working with a soccer ball. The control and manipulation required to control the upper end of the meter was reminiscent of bending a ball around a wall of opponents. I loved it!
Working that meter became my artistic diversion – the sort of thing handling a soccer ball used to be. In the face of such a detail-oriented task, little room was left for thoughts of self-pity or the harsh realities of rehabilitation. Distractions became my morphine, and as far as distractions went, this one was right up there under soccer-related activities in terms of potency.
11
The Enduring Pain of Standing
As always, the recovery of my feet seemed to lag behind that of my arms. In the week following my introduction to Zenon’s gizmo, my primary physical therapist, a student assistant named Amy whose soft heart often disguised a rough and tough young woman, introduced me to a far less enjoyable apparatus: something I came to refer to simply as ‘The Vertical Table’ or ‘The Table of Pain,’ depending on my mood and the distance I was from it.