Amputee on a Ski, Part 3 of 3: the Eye-opening Stuff

These adaptive skiing posts started out being about my five days as an amputee in the Greek Peak 2014 Winter Challenge program, but it's really about my whole winter's skiing. And bruises. And self-discovery.

I expected it to be challenging, sure. I figured it would be physically difficult. But I didn't expect it to be my new form of therapy. Wasn't expecting to find so many left over emotional pockets of panic and powerlessness. I thought I'd pretty much purged my psyche with all the therapy, meds, time and self-knowledge. Wrong again. 

The most rewarding part of skiing this winter was how I learned to accept both my fear (the panic that still ambushes me) and my trust of the incredibly supportive skiers who helped me. You may not have noticed, but I have a slight (ahem) tendency to charge at life determined to conquer everything on my own. I carried this attitude into amputee-hood. It's important to be stubborn and independent. But it's just as important to value people who want to help. 

When I shut up and listened, I began to trust. I stopped feeling overwhelmed and started to progress, slowly, but surely. It took a month for my bruises and pulled muscles to settle down, but then I went back every Sunday I could the rest of this season. March 16 was the final day of the adaptive program and we celebrated with a dish-to-pass  lunch and a very moving awards ceremony. 

That was also the day I began putting some turns together with more confidence and reliability. I 'm still on Alpha, the beginner slope, but I'm gaining tools and confidence. I can imagine the day I'll venture onto another slope--with my entourage, of course. Scott, one of my instructors (who masquerades as a para in a wheelchair but is actually a maniac on a monoski) told me, "Pretty soon you'll be off to the top of the mountain! You'll see!" He also told me, during one of my mild but recurring panic attacks, it took him two years to work through the panic.

This sense of community has opened my eyes. Admitting I need help opens up opportunities. After my above-knee amputation seven years ago, I climbed back on my horse and sort of battled at riding. One-legged-ness wasn't going to slow me down! Except it had, along with being middle-aged. To ride safely, I need help. And guess what I'm not good about asking for?

But skiing has limbered up that part of my brain. My friends at the barn where my mare lives want me to ride. They are supportive. I don't have to feel limited by not being able to charge out into the woods or over the biggest jumps. I'm looking forward to getting back in the saddle. I wasn't expecting this gift from my adventures on a monoski.

Amputee on a Ski, Part 2 of 3: the Amazing Stuff

If it takes a village to raise a child, it takes almost that many to teach an amputee to ski. (Especially that raise part: two or three designated picker-uppers is standard for us beginner mono skiers.)

From the moment I drove into Greek Peak and passed the DO NOT ENTER sign as I'd been directed (which sets the wonderful tone for the whole thing) and saw the banner on the adaptive ski center (THINK THE SLOPES ARE OUT OF REACH FOR YOU? WE DON'T THINK SO!) my hopes sky-rocketed the way they had when I was a little kid on my way to riding lessons. Walking through the door was like coming home to a place I'd never been.

Of the dozens and dozens, these are only the instructors, staff and volunteers present on the Thursday of the Winter Challenge ski week program. There are plenty more who come on the regular adaptive-ski weekends all through the season.

Of the four chairs down front, only two are campers like me; the other two wheelies are instructors, including one who started in  Winter Challenge four years ago. In this mob are other former program skiers who've become devoted to the slopes, including a couple who met at last year's Challenge and plan  to get married at Greek Peak this fall. 

Every day was a roller coaster of literal highs and lows: altitude, temperatures and fears overcome. Every night we trooped off to push tables together in a different restaurant and celebrate in rowdy style. When crutches clattered to the floor, I wasn't the only one who looked to see if they were mine. 

Once, in our casual convoy of vehicles shuttling from resort to hotel, we forgot to plan ahead and found ourselves in a unique situation. Stacy couldn't transfer to her wheelchair and we'd forgotten to bring someone to help. Tracy had one arm; Andrew was blind; I have one leg. Hell, we couldn't even get Stacy's chair out of the back and put the wheels on...We stood there in the middle of wonderfully politically incorrect (DO NOT ENTER!) joke. How many adaptive skiers does it take to _____? Someone went off to find a guy from the hotel. It wasn't the only time.

One night an instructor in chair tried to recruit a guy he didn't know (also in a wheelchair) into the program. In the past this has been known to work. Robyn, who runs Winter Challenge, bragged of one amputee tri-tracker, "It took me three years, but I got him in! Now you can't keep him off skis!"  A random stranger on crutches in a restaurant was challenged to a race by One-legged John. (He declined. His loss.)

People like these take my breath away. They restore my faith in humanity that I can too easily lose just listening to the news. I count myself unbelievably lucky to live close enough to this community that is so eager to help me rediscover a sport I thought I'd lost. 

Gotta get me a sign for my door: Gone Skiing!

*****

Next time: Amputee on a Ski Part 3 of 3 (The Fun Stuff!)

My Seventh Ampu-versary

Today marks seven years since I left the ranks of the "ten-toed freaks," as my gimp friends from ski-camp taught me to say. (smiley face!)

I didn't have a bonfire this year, or a Leg Party to commemorate the original spontaneous celebration with a few close friends. (No party, and I mean NONE, is as insane as carousing while burning your leg in effigy two nights before your above-knee amputation. 

The surgery in 2007 was the culmination of six months of lobbying doctors to cut off my fused, worn-out leg, ten years of increasing pain and decreasing mobility, and a grand total of thirty-one years fearing what would happen to my weird stiff knee. It was agony to tackle the decision; it was cathartic to have to tell my story over and over and over in a medical setting:

Osteomyelitis, a gruesome and excruciating bone infection at age thirteen in 1975 and 1976, untreated because my parents were Christian Scientists; an auto-fused knee I could limp on,  denial of the whole nightmare, and a mindset that made me tackle every challenge that came my way, from race horses to my own riding stable in a barn I built myself. And finally, after intensive therapy, supportive friendships, and time, the self-knowledge to make this choice. 

It was a hard sell to the specialists, but they came around. It's a decision I've never regretted.

My goal for this next year of amputee-hood is to be more active. The ski week in January was the first time I hung out with other amps and folks legally blind or in wheelchairs. We traveled in a pack of 'chairs and crutches, made terrible jokes and got raucous in restaurants.  I felt like a horse finally running with the herd. 

It made me realize that, from all those years when I was so determined not to let my stiff leg prevent me from trying ANYTHING, I sailed into amputee-world with the same attitude: Dammit, I'll do it myself!!   ...But it's limited me. It's stopped me short from some activities.

At what I continue to think of as "ski camp" last month--and at Greek Peak every weekend--adaptive skiing is a whole culture of wonderful people working together. It is assumed you (I) need help; it is offered generously and matter-of-factly, along with encouragement and praise. It turned on a light in my head; it softened me up and helped me relax. Reminded me to trust. Ask. And reach out.

I want to ski. This summer I want to try an adaptive bicycle, a recumbent hand-powered one, to see if I like it. There are programs out there, opportunities I want to try. And I'm going to start riding my horse again this spring. It's been a few years, but now Laredo's at a local barn where there are rings, pens--and friends who want me to doff my leg, climb up on the fence and hop on my mare. 

It's taken me a few years. But I'm starting to hit my one-legged stride. 

Amputee on a Ski, Part 1 of 3: the Hard Stuff

I had the privilege of spending most of the last week in January learning to ski at Greek Peak in Virgil, New York in an adaptive ski program. Sunday through Thursday, all expenses paid including equipment rentals, instruction, meals & a room at the Cortland Hampton, it was called Winter Challenge, separate from the VERY REASONABLY PRICED weekend adaptive skiing which runs most of Greek Peak's season and includes many of the same volunteers.

I first heard about it around seven years ago when I was talking to prosthetists ahead of my above-knee amputation. (My ampu-versary is tomorrow.) I meant to sign up for it sooner, but with a kid at home, animals & chores (oh yeah, and a job here and there) I didn't get around. Until this year. 

It was incredible. But the funny thing about those damn challenges? You don't get to choose the part that's hard. And the hard part, whatever it is, is HARD.

I posted a lot of pictures on  facebook including the one above. It was taken on Monday afternoon at the top of the "Boardwalk" slope (named for the conveyor belt lift thingy) and not nearly as exciting as "Alpha" (which I called the bunny slope until I was reprimanded) though it IS a step up from "Magic Carpet" which looks damn near flat until you're at the top of it, strapped in a monoski, realizing that while you might have been a crazy-ass daredevil back in The Day, it's getting late for an old dog to learn new tricks...

The guy in the orange jacket is Frank, my instructor. Within ten minutes of working with him, I knew he was an outstanding teacher. Remember, I started teaching riding at age ten and I've given and received hundreds of lessons since. My standards are high. Frank is five-star solid-gold quality. Nevertheless.

What you can't tell from the photo is that I'm having a panic attack. 

Somewhere mid-afternoon, my old terror of powerlessness grabbed hold of my ageing, right-side-dominant motor skills and hijacked my enthusiasm straight off the mental deep end. Suddenly, faced with the ski-slope equivalent of a tough Shetland pony, I froze. My enthusiasm vanished. I started to cry. I said very clearly (since it wasn't my first rodeo, though it's been a while since I had a melt-down) "I'm having a panic attack--I need to sit here. I'm OK. I just need to cry." 

So I did.  I knew I was in good hands. To a wo/man, my crew was wonderful. These volunteers & instructors run Wounded Warrior ski programs. They've seen a hell of a lot of PTSD. And that's only part of my entourage in the photo. Newbie monoskiers are labor-intensive, volunteer-wise. 
Every morning Robin and One-legged John (more on them later) were assigning volunteers to each of the five of us in the program when we came down for breakfast. It never failed to remind me of when I was a riding camp instructor deciding who would ride what every morning, circa. 1981...don't put her on Corky--how about Goblin?... = Robin: "OK, for Liz we've got Frank, and I need three picker-uppers, and a couple more..."

See, a new monoskier falls a lot and needs to be righted. A new monoskier tends to fall on the downhill side, leaving her (not experienced, coordinated or strong enough to swivel around and push upright once the slope is helping) to flail around. This is called a Mousetrap. As opposed to a Yard Sale (two-legged skiers shedding equipment as they wreck) or a Scorpion (a snowboarder falling on her stomach to hit her helmet with her board, as my daughters know only too well).

On that Monday afternoon, I felt my body resist my effort to relax. My fear of falling yet again on my already-bruised shoulder went exponential.  My fear was like something solid in my way; it had a kind of substance; I could see it. And so I surrendered for the day.

I went back to the adaptive room. For the rest of the afternoon I watched out the window and  wept steadily, not hard, but for a long time. I explained to anyone who expressed concern. I had several wonderful talks comparing shades of panic and depression. It was an amazing, safe place.

But I didn't sleep much that night. Like the Grinch, I puzzled and puzzled till my puzzler was sore. I realized:

a) Frank was a terrific, skilled and experienced instructor whom I trusted. He would have a plan the next day to boost my confidence just as I would have had (& had had) for a frightened rider.

b) There was nothing I could do, other than wait until tomorrow and follow Frank's directions. 

c) If all else failed, if I truly proved I could not ski, I would not have failed.

d) Hello? This was way WAY more freakin' challenging than I'd planned!

Next morning I told Frank and my Entourage, "I trust you guys completely. Tell me what to do."

Frank strapped me into the bi-ski. It was like a monoski but with two skis underneath. It could still easily fall over, and the skis' edges could cut nicely in a sharp turn, but it had a frame: sort of like a dogsled with no dog. Frank could control the ski within reason when need be, then back off and ski behind with me on tether. I still had to follow directions, or it could "get ugly."

We hopped on the quad lift and went to the top of the mountain. Never mind it was -15 F. The wind was gone, I had a facemask and all that was exposed was the tip of my nose.

The top of the mountain was stunning: ice-blue sky and that unique whoosh of skis on snow. There was nowhere else I wanted to be.

Me with Frank Martinez, Adaptive Ski Instructor

We skied down a slope called Karyotis Way for two days. I started looking for my turns, reaching with an outrigger pole, lowering a hip while keeping my shoulder up.  When Frank told me I was on-tether I remembered of all the kids I taught to canter on a pony named Cupcake as I rode beside. Frank called directions and cheered whenever I found an edge. When I put several turns together I shouted "YEAH! YEAH!" as everyone whooped.

Thursday--the last day--I was back on a monoski, back on Alpha, nervous, sore and tired. It wasn't perfect--it wasn't easy--but I made several decent runs with a minimum of falls. 

At lunch I was exhausted, too tired to eat. I told Frank I thought I was done for the day. He said, "I'd rather see you ski for the rest of your life than this afternoon."

Damn you, Winter Challenge. You got to my hard old survivor's heart in a way I never expected.

*****

Stay tuned. Tomorrow: One-leg Liz's 7th Ampuversary

And very soon: Amputee on a ski Part 2: of 3 The Amazing Stuff

Mid-winter gallop

OK, everyone off the couch. Catch that virtual winter hoss & find a bridle. I don't care if that pony's face is buried in the hay pile. Buckle your helmet & hop on. Yes, you can mount from the fence if you have to. Even if you have two legs.

In honor of our surviving the damn Polar Vortex this week, we're going for a ride on  the horses of our individual imaginations. Bareback, of course. Climb aboard & fire up the music link below.

This comes to you courtesy of the Penguin Cafe Orchestra, my best find of 2013 just under the wire a few weeks ago. 

To me this is a piano narrative of a January thaw excursion on a shaggy, barefoot critter with lots of mane to hang on to. You intend to just take a little sane cruise around the field, but the horse wants to trot, and then run, and what the heck. The snow is soft if any sudden gusts of gravity kick up. 

And it feels great to gallop.

Have at it.

"Harry Piers" Penguin Cafe Orchestra
T

Frightening the faithful

I follow various amputee groups on facebook. Sometimes the posts drift into territory that can be taken religiously, or that causes people to proclaim their faith. The other day  I saw this: 

Well, I've found my brain functions better since I stopped believing the more bizarre out-of-control events of my life (or ALL the events of my life) are Meant to Be and more Wtf-Random, like the bone infection I got at age thirteen which was treated with only prayer and led eventually to my becoming an amputee. 

And while people on the amputee facebook page commented things like "God leads those who love Him and do His will," I thought I'd stick up for the secular folks and mention that His business of being unwilling to heal amputees (or even take care of kids forced to pray for their lives) really sucks. No, not even that strong.

I said this:

"Since religious "treatment" in childhood led to my amputation, I'm happier with Chance instead of fate. The odds are actually in our favor." (Smiley face.)

A friend made a supportive comment.

Other than that, the conversation stepped over my smiley-faced, wrecked-by-religion body and walked on. Amen!

Well, speaking for myself, my sanity started to return twenty years ago when I grasped the idea that my family's blind faith put my brain and body in this predicament, and that Nature/Chance/human grit and will were what got me through. Yes, it's true: I started thumbing my nose at the idea of "God." And guess what? I haven't been struck by lightning. 

But I thought about this. I realized the effect I have on people sometimes. I understand that I am scary.

I don't mean this in my usual fear-inducing way. Yes, I made "happy" faces at a baby in a diner a few years ago and frightened her into a screaming, crying lather which brought my daughters to tears as well. That was probably my 'do-rag, the thousand-yard stare I come by honestly, and all the wear & tear on my face from too many years of clean living when I drove tractors in the sun. I have to watch it when I try to charm babies now. My charisma is often mistaken for fiendish, diabolical plans. (Sad face.)

I scare faithful people in a different way. Here I am, an amputee: Someone MISSING A LIMB FOR GOD'S SAKE!!! What can POSSIBLY BE WORSE in this life??? NOTHING!!!

Right? An amputee...and I don't believe in god. Don't believe there is a Plan. Don't believe in an afterlife when I could get my leg back and frolic with the other faithful...

It makes me like a horse with no fear of the whip. (I don't subscribe to training horses based on that standard anymore, but it's a good analogy.) I've seen everything religion has to offer. I staked my life on it as a young teenager. I survived because humans are tough. So there.

Now I strip my emotional life naked in my talks. I walk audiences with me through that pain, despair and excruciating growth to this place of fearlessness. I claim it. What have you got, religion? God? Hell? Damnation?

I understand why they step over me in those conversations, talk to each other, don't break eye contact. I would too if I were still religious. If I lived by the Rules.

Alas. Screw that. I'm not afraid anymore. 

What else you got?  (Smiley face.)

Happy Solstice, Merry Christmas, Joyous Festivus. Thank Zeus the days are getting longer, my YA novel is almost done, and I've discovered the Penguin Cafe Orchestra. If you're curious, try the sample below. Tell them Liz sent you. (Winky face.)

Penguin Cafe Orchestra: Organum 

Revisiting rebellion

The more I change, the more I stay the same. I still have dreams some nights that I'm back in high school (sometimes a teenager, sometimes an adult) arguing that I cannot jump through the hoops necessary to graduate. Back then, the hoops were represented by gym credits. (I didn't even take gym at the time because of my fused knee.)

Beware. Life is full of hidden gym credits.

I was laid off my part-time office job at a local small business a couple months ago. This was no surprise, as the friends I worked for had told me about upcoming changes. They knew I was doing more traveling & writing, a time-investment in future paid work. Plus I'd be eligible for unemployment benefits.

However.

I drove to Workforce first thing Ithaca Friday morning as part of The Deal to keep receiving my $91/week.  The similarities to certain trips to guidance counselors when the ship of my high school education was sinking were not lost on me. But I felt much more able to handle it. 

I was supposed to bring a resume. Ahem. I've never had a resume. I almost made one for the sheer entertainment value of listing my jobs: movie theatre ticket & candy sales, McDonalds fryer, boarding stable manager, riding camp counselor, cleaner-of-barns-full of cows, horses, goats, sheep, & all types of poultry. Exercise rider at a small time track. Standardbred groom at ditto. Barista, nursery worker (potting plants), bookkeeper at a feed mill. Owner-operator of a riding lesson/horse training stable. 

There's more, but enough time wasted. Which was my point: I've wanted to be a published writer since I was approximately six years old, and thanks to life's little curiosities, a mere forty-something years later I'm closer than I've ever been--as well as closing in on a career as a speaker. I have something of a "platform" online, which is critical as well as being the equivalent of a writer's & speaker's resume. All I was hoping for was a few months of my ninety-one dollars a week benefits to go with the rest of my scrimping & saving & child support.

Alas. The hoops are still with me. And I jump through them no better than back in Lexington High in 1979. These took the form of faithfully-kept job search records and applications for full-time minimum wage ($7.25/hr) jobs I  1) didn't want  2) couldn't keep due to my brain's resistance & claustrophobia  3) probably couldn't do physically for an 8-hr shift without falling down a time or two (I did clean a dozen stalls this weekend, but in a couple hours, and not without falling, though softly)  and 4) couldn't make a real living at.

And in the case of the aspiring entrepreneur hoping to soon be self-employed, who declines to job- and/or tail-chase in favor of full-time self-investment?

Forget it. Working on a career of self-employment that doesn't include a certain list of programs, education, courses and boxes-checked is a no-no. Rack up those hours looking for work, or forget unemployment.

Hello attitude, my old friend. You've come to save me once again.

I was polite. I expressed civil dismay (and my counselor privately agreed with me, which was more support than I ever found back in school) and took my leave.

Lately, I've felt that my inner teenager is disgusted with who I've become in middle age:  hesitant to ride, slower, weaker, OLDER...  But driving home on Friday, she was fist-bumping me and cheering me on. It's good to know I'm still living up to her expectations. 

Onwards. And may the hoops be ever in your favor, which is to say, bypassed altogether.