Gratitude in Motion

by Colleen Kelly Alexander

  Spring rolled around, which was usually my time to garden. Since I wouldn’t be able to get down and dig in the dirt this year, Sean improvised. He created two wood mini-steps right out of the sliding glass doors of our bedroom because I couldn’t take the big step down to the deck anymore, and then just past the door, he put up a shelved greenhouse filled with rows of vegetable seed plantings.

  If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.

  He had such an enormous smile on his face when he showed me his work, and I was overwhelmed with love once again. This guy cared for me beyond reason or measure, and I just wanted to be the kind of wife who deserved him. I wanted to be out there planting with him and training together, taking spontaneous trips and snuggling up in bed without any weird tubes or stitches to care about. Setting aside the guilt was difficult, but I had to remind myself that who I was right now was enough.

  In my dreams, I still ran and biked. In my waking hours, I struggled to walk around the house. But I kept moving forward in my mind anyway—planning for the next thing, and the next.

  We should get a pipe-and-drum band for the Gaylord cycling tour, I thought. And for the after-party the next day. Of course we would have an after-party!

  Being stuck in the house all day at least yields some time for creative thought. And baking. I did lots of baking. I would toddle my walker right over to the counter and cook all day just to have an activity to do.

  On May 1, my surgeon finally gave me the green light to sit again.

  “Just don’t go all crazy and jump into a chair or try to hop on your bike and do a fifty-mile ride,” Dr. Reddy said. Pfft. You’d almost think he was reading my mind. Today, sitting. Tomorrow, biking to New Orleans.

  For thirty-six days I had not sat down without a special cushion, and I mostly had to lie down or stand up. But on May 1, I did some of the best sitting of my life. I couldn’t wait for Sean to come home so I could show him how well I could sit!

  “Notice anything different about me?” I’d say.

  “Your hair? Your lip gloss?” he’d reply.

  “No. My butt in this totally normal chair made for normal humans.”

  It didn’t get old the next day, either. I SAT in the car. I SAT in the chief trauma surgeon’s waiting room. I wanted to show off and sit on his table, too, but convention dictated that I was probably supposed to lie down for the exam. But there would be more sitting afterward, with selfies! Don’t get me wrong: It was still painful to sit, but at least it was progress.

  Riding this high made it a little difficult to hear what Dr. Reddy was telling me: that this was going to be a two-year recovery period. I was starting to have fantasies about running or cycling on one of my bikes again in the near future, but he forbade it.

  “You can walk all you want, though,” he said.

  Well, that was…something. Kind of anticlimactic, but at least one limit was being lifted. I was allowed to go outside and walk as far as my legs wanted to take me, and so I did. I started walking with a partner until I tired myself out every day. I wasn’t training so I could win a race or beat any personal best scores anymore. I wasn’t training for speed at all; now I was training for my next surgery.

  Doctors had consistently told me that the reason I had lived and healed so well to begin with was because I was an athlete, but now it had been months since I had done anything more active than walk down my block. How would I continue to heal if my greatest weapon was gone? I had at least six more planned surgeries to go, which meant a lot of anesthesia and new incisions. My body was going to be in the best shape it could be for each of those surgeries, even if I was fairly limited to walking and upper body exercises like push-ups, since the holes in my abdomen were just closing.

  So now I was training with a whole new purpose in mind, one that allowed me to see past the disappointment of not being a competitive athlete anymore. In my heart I was still a real athlete, just not someone who would set records anytime soon.

  May turned out to be a big month for me in other ways. I volunteered at a bike and pedestrian fair in town to encourage people to bike or walk to school and work, where I connected with lots of local cyclists and bike safety activists. It was a soul-affirming day, and I learned about plans to complete the Shoreline Greenway Trail so that people would have a safe place to commute to work, play, and get exercise. Thinking about the idea of commuting without any cars sharing the space all the way from East Haven to Madison made me giddy. I would never have been run over.

  The next week, I got on an adaptive recumbent trike for the first time, with Gail and the specialists from Gaylord’s adaptive sports clinic by my side. Amazingly, I was able to use the same Giro helmet and glasses that I was wearing when I was hit—the only evidence that anything had gone awry was a few scratches on the helmet. It had proven itself to be a very capable brain bucket, so I decided to keep it as a lucky charm—though I now know that once a bike helmet is in a crash, it should never be worn again. I was also wearing my new orange jersey that said DON’T RUN ME OVER with a helpful illustration on the back.

  My bike was low to the ground and they positioned my pelvis upward, with my upper body leaning back comfortably. The adaptive sports program ran out of pedal bikes, so Gail had to use a handcycle version—a bike you pedal with your arms instead of your legs.

  Only a few rotations into it, I felt the natural high of being on a bike out in nature on the Farmington Canal Heritage Trail. Surely it wasn’t the same as before, but oh! It was still wonderful.

  “Isn’t this great?” I said to Gail every five seconds throughout the ride.

  “Yeah, I guess,” she said. “Whatever makes you happy.” Her arms were killing her with the handcycle, but she kept her mouth shut about it because she hadn’t seen me so elated about anything since the trauma. Even though it might be a long time before I could get on a “real” bike again, this satisfied my need in a way I hadn’t expected it would.

  I thought of all the times I had biked or run past disabled athletes when I was in a race. I didn’t give them more than a passing thought in most cases. Riding on trails wasn’t high on my favorites list back then, either—I would have thought it was too slow and boring. Now here I was, one of those athletes riding that trail, and it was so freeing that I never wanted it to end.

  It was on those trails that I met people from the Achilles Track Club, now called Achilles International. Dick Traum, the first amputee to finish the New York City Marathon, started the club in 1983 to encourage other people with disabilities to run. He formed a group of disabled athletes and able-bodied volunteers to support their efforts in training and running races, and we had a branch right here in my hometown. It was joyful to meet others who were on the same path as I was, and I happily joined the club.

  I got so high from the experience that I decided to do the next crazy thing: the Superhero Half Marathon in New Jersey, in which everyone dresses as superheroes.

  About ten months after the trauma, I started out at 7:15 a.m. with my trusty walker and crossed the finish line in happy tears at 11:50, kind of jog-walking (don’t tell my physical therapist). Talk about a rush! I had no idea if I was going to be able to walk that far, and I had to stop at mile 5 to empty my colostomy bag in the back of an ambulance, but I accomplished it while wearing a Wonder Woman costume with a cape. How does life get better? I’ll tell you: It doesn’t.

  Afterward, I gave my race T-shirt to my physical therapist because without him, I never would have been as far in my recovery as I was.

  The next day I went for my next surgery, which was the really exciting one: to get rid of my colostomy. For ten months, a piece of my intestine had been sticking out of a hole where it attached to a bag, sort of like a detour for my digestive tract while my body healed. But now, the bag, the hole, and even the piece of intestine would go away. I wrote it a little goodbye note:

  Dearest “Little Buddy,”

  I can’t really lie…I haven’t dug getting to know you that mu
ch over the last ten months. I am sorry your home got wrecked from my seat post after that stupid freight truck ran us over. You certainly were good at making friends. I tried to keep you quiet in public places, but you were stubborn and always seemed to want to “chime in” at inopportune times to let people know you were sticking out of my stomach. We also had some bonding moments, like when I ignored you and ate all that kale and hot peppers anyway…you told me you would be angry, but I had to learn. Regardless, your home has been remodeled since October. I think you will find your newly improved accommodations quite comfortable and hope you settle in nicely. I’m not too sure I’ll miss you, but if I do, I know you’ll still talk to me, only your voice will exit through the proper end, so I can dismiss myself and we can have a conversation in private. Please don’t give the surgeons a hard time, just go back into your home without arguments. I promise, it will be OK. Hopefully we will never ever see each other again, but know I am always right here with you.

  Sincerely,

  Colleen, your landlord

  P.S. You have approximately one more hour to state your piece, so get it all out of your system. T minus 60 minutes until lockdown.

  Really, it was all fun and games until they took the darn piece of my intestine out and closed up the hole, and then holy potatoes, was it painful. Dr. Reddy had to put my intestines back together, remove five inches of abdominal scar tissue, and repair two hernias. I was back to pacing the floors two days later, though, and had the most unexpected celebration: I farted and the nurses applauded. Go, intestines, go.

  Many of the people around me were recovering from cancer-related surgeries, and I met women of extraordinary beauty and strength as we shuffled around together, some hanging on to IV poles. Every one of us had a story and a reason to fight. All different, yet all the same. We all bleed red.

  Before I was discharged, the attending physician examined me. He looked at my abdominal wound and the way it was healing and said, “Beautiful.”

  Beautiful?

  My first instinct was to say, No, my stomach used to be beautiful. I had a six-pack! It was a great stomach. Now it’s a mess of wounds and scars, and it kind of looks like I got run over by a freight truck, because I did.

  But then I just sat there for a few moments watching that abdomen rise and fall with my breaths. I felt the gurgling and creaking of a reawakened digestive tract. I saw the miraculous way my body had closed up gaping holes. And I thought, I’m alive. He’s right. This is beautiful.

  Chapter 14

  Stillness and Motion

  UPON ARRIVING BACK HOME, I was shocked by the news that I’d been turned down for Social Security disability benefits.

  The letter said, “Although your condition is severe, we expect it to improve. While it is clear you will be unable to perform work you have done in the past, you can perform work that is less demanding. We have determined your condition is not expected to remain severe enough for twelve months in a row to keep you from a full-time job.”

  I wondered how many of them had experienced being run over by a truck.

  Even if I had felt capable of finding a new job at that point, can you imagine who would have hired me in my condition?

  “Hi! Yes, I understand I’m hobbling around with a walker, but the good news is that I’m pooping on my own now. Oh, and also, I have at least five more major surgeries coming up in the next year and a half, and in between, I may not be able to walk at all. I’m told I’ll need a wheelchair and a home health aide after some of those surgeries, so you’ll need to know that I won’t be able to come into work for at least a couple of weeks each time. I also tend to throw up a lot and I have panic attacks, and I’m not cleared to drive for five more months. Have I showed you my wound vacuum yet?”

  “You’re hired! Start tomorrow?”

  “Great! I can be there right after my home health care nurse finishes my wound care.”

  It was depressing to not even be able to contribute a government-sponsored check to my household. If my trauma wasn’t good enough to qualify for a year of disability, whose was?

  By then I had nicknamed my wonderful home health care nurse “Angel Ali.” She had a soft, sweet voice and beautiful clear blue eyes, and was made for the nursing profession—she was so professional and respectful in the way she provided care, but also so nurturing that I felt like she was my sister.

  I knew all about her twin sons and her daughter, all about her Irish family and her background. And I learned about her animals: chickens, ducks, and partridges. She spoke about her chickens with such affection, as if they were all her children.

  It was the way I’d always felt about Sedona, who had come home in March, but who just seemed so lost now. The day she came back, she couldn’t seem to get a handle on what was going on and why I smelled different and moved so awkwardly. She was blind by then, and all the newness confused her. Now there was a walker, a cane, medical supplies, bedrails. It broke my heart to see her so unsettled, and I thought she would get used to it—but she didn’t.

  I longed to care for her the way I used to, but neither one of us was in good shape anymore. I was a broken-down person and she was an old, blind dog. It was unbearable that I couldn’t fix what ailed her.

  Ali could see that I needed something to care for. One day she told me, “I just had a few Silkie chicken eggs hatch and wondered if you might want two of them once they’re old enough to be on their own.”

  “What are Silkie chickens?” I asked.

  “Hang on, I’ll show you.”

  She pulled up photos on her phone of these crazy-looking chickens with white furry-type feathers, a fluffy pom-pom of feathers atop their heads, black faces, and huge five-toed purple feet. They looked like Dr. Seuss characters, and I couldn’t stop laughing. How could I not want them?

  When the time came for us to adopt them, she brought two young Silkies out and we were immediately in love. They were so much fun! They loved to follow us around the yard and garden. Sean could literally run along the shoreline and the chickens would run after him, staying right at his heels. Before long, we had five little chickens of different varieties and a big coop on the back deck. Having these adorable creatures nesting in my hands and peeping away at my feet was a form of therapy.

  I also started cognitive behavioral therapy around that time to work through my psychological trauma. Since I couldn’t drive, I hoped to find someone who would see me at home—even though I knew that was going to be a huge hurdle. It breaks a therapist/client boundary that’s not normally crossed. But given the circumstances, I hoped someone would be willing to come to me until I was stronger and able to drive myself.

  I also knew what type of therapist I was looking for, considering I’d taken psychology courses and seen therapists before. I didn’t want someone who would just parrot back the things I said and then ask, “So how did that make you feeeeel?” And I didn’t want someone overly analytical who would tie everything I was going through to something missing from my childhood. I wanted someone who would be willing to get down in the muck with me and truly help me get through all the depression, anxiety, anger, and doubt I felt, both now and about all the things I knew I would experience in the future: more surgeries, getting behind the wheel of a car again, a civil trial against the driver’s company, inability to have sex, inability to have a baby.

  I found Leslie Hyman through a friend’s referral, and felt a connection with her right away. She showed up at my house and said exactly the right thing: “I’m here to help you as you go through this hell.” In fact, that’s what she would say to start every session, though I didn’t know that yet.

  I sat in my big recliner, the place in the house I gravitated to the most because it was well-cushioned, adjustable, and made of leather—so it could be easily cleaned when fluids seeped out. It was my go-to spot; I could recline all the way back and fall asleep, or sit upright to do physical therapy arm and leg exercises.

  Leslie didn’t seem determined to �
��fix” me or label me with a diagnosis, which I appreciated. She was good at just being in the mess with me, meeting me where I was in my recovery and helping me cope.

  “I’m just so anxious,” I would tell her. “I’m forgetful, I’m jumpy…I don’t feel like I have a handle on any of it, and I don’t think I’m doing a good job of moving forward.”

  “It’s okay to not be okay,” she said.

  It took a minute for that to sink in. It was a simple statement, but profound. I was pressuring myself to hurry up and get better, but she taught me not to rush it. I had reasons to be anxious, and angry, and every other feeling that had cropped up. It was all normal and fine to own those feelings and sit with them rather than trying to get rid of them right away.

  “It’s just that I don’t know what to do with it all sometimes. This man who looked right at me and ran me over…he’s never made any effort to apologize to me or check on how I’m doing. I know nothing about him, but I wonder about him all the time. How he could do it. If he ever thinks about me. If he regrets.”

  “You should write him a letter.”

  “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t even know where…”

  “You should write him a letter and not send it.”

  Well, that made more sense. And so I did. Over and over, I wrote to this man and told him everything that had happened to me—all the things I was once able to do that I couldn’t anymore, all the things that were lost to me forever because of the bad decision he made. I asked him what his life was like and why he had kept driving.

  I wanted to believe there was something other than evil behind that decision, so I focused on fear. I imagined he must have panicked in that instant and I tried to believe that there was some explanation for why he was so scared beyond just the selfish fear of getting caught. In Connecticut, the penalties for hitting a cyclist were disturbingly light—literally a fine of ninety dollars for failing to exercise “due care” in avoiding a collision. Cycling associations had been fighting for tougher penalties for years, but even as of 2017, nothing has passed. So it couldn’t have been that, could it? He wouldn’t have risked letting me die on the pavement to save ninety dollars, right?