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.

Have voice, will travel

I am tempted to always wear my SANE name tag

in case there is doubt regarding my sanity.

I'm not a seasoned traveler yet. But I'm not bland anymore.

In the last four weeks I've been to Connecticut, Texas and Massachusetts to share my story and speak out against religious medical neglect of children. It's been a trip not only in terms of flying & driving, but in the amazing variety of wonderful people I've met every single place I've been.

October 19 was the Secular Assembly for the North East's first annual conference (SANE) at the University of New Haven, CT.  Speakers included Jessica Alquist, David Silverman, Sikivu Hutchinson, Dennis Himes, Barry Kosmin, David Niose...and (ahem) me. It was the first time I've launched into a solo speaking gig, printing out directions (yes I got lost, but it wasn't Map quest's fault) & heading out in my Nissan pickup fondly known as the Final Frontier.

I was excited and optimistic even before the bald eagle flew across the highway in front of me. I love coincidences that look like Signs. 


November 8 was the Child-Friendly Faith Project's first annual conference CFF in Austin, Texas. I was part of a  survivors panel discussion which included Bethany Brittain, Jaime Romo  and Joel Engelman, moderated by Steve Hassan.

With Sam Brower

Other speakers included Sam Brower (who sat next to me at supper & described his investigative work that led to Warren Jeffs' capture and conviction) and Rita Swan: my hero, mentor and friend who has led me into this world where my voice is increasingly heard as one of the ones who got away. 


With Rita Swan of CHILD Inc. My hero!




I also met Linda Martin the night her story broke on surviving the horrors of the Followers of Christ church.   KATU  This woman's strength and determination are amazing. Keep an eye on this reporter & KATU's coverage. This will be as big as the Warren Jeffs case.


With Steve Hassan, survivor of the
Moonies. (At the start of our
survivor panel discussion, I think
 he should have raised his hand
and said, "For immunity! Survivors
ready? GO!" ...like the TV show...)



I love my Sean Faircloth Fist of Emphasis


I admit I was a little...braced...about the Child-Friendly Faith conference: this is a mix of religious and secular activists seeking to protect children above all religious traditions. The conference's title was "Can Faith Be Made Child-friendly?"  (Before-hand, I honestly had my doubts as to whether we could even find common ground at the conference, let alone elsewhere.) I was wrong. This was another dynamic mix of the last group I'd have bet would inspire me, including a rabbi and a Baptist minister among others.

I did my part



With Austin Dacey in Austin Texas

Yes, there's a joke there somewhere. I think it was on me. Having been raised in an impractical and passively religious family, it was powerful to hear women and--especially--men form a verbal front line to protect kids. I was honored and humbled to be surprised.


Thirty-odd hours after I drove home from the airport (in the middle of the night) I was off to Massachusetts and the Greater Worcester Humanists. (It's pronounced Wuss-ta.) Worcester Another terrific group, a lot of great questions, and dinner with a childhood friend I hadn't seen since eighth grade when I stopped going to school because my leg was so painful. 

With a new friend in Worcester...and a childhood friend

I hadn't seen since before my bone disease. Love ya,

Laurie! 

It's been a bungee-jump of faith in myself and human beings, something like those South Pacific islanders who tie vines to their ankles & throw themselves off towers.  Telling my story is like stripping down to raw emotion and showing scars more graphic than the one from 31 staples where my left leg was. But my story isn't any more important than anyone's. And when I tell it, we can recognize this common history aand connect with each other.  


And this week? I'm speaking Thursday night, November 21, 2013 to the New York City Atheists. It happens to be the eve of the day that I call the last (possibly best) day of my childhood.  NYC Atheists I can't wait.

So remember: The lint roller is your friend. The grande margarita you order in Austin will be the size of a goldfish bowl. And only agree to let a flight attendant check your carry-on when they pry it from your cold dead fingers.


Greater Worcester Humanists, Massachusetts. (They are greater!)



Abby Normal

OK, kids. A Halloween story of sorts. I'm a skeptic of the atheist variety, right? Well, listen up. (Yeah, I know I've missed Halloween by x minutes. Just shut up & listen.)

When I was a kid, I loved ghost stories even though they were verboten.  Hey, I was a Christian Scientist. We believed real spiritual Life was eternal. But it was fun for me to believe in ghosts. I read stories, screamed at slumber-party tales, and imagined the "haunted" house down the road had sent a soul between-the-worlds to my own attic.

Flash-forward forty-odd years. (Believe me, those years were odd.) I became a skeptic of the atheist persuasion. I had (have) two daughters, the elder of whom was sixteen or seventeen when this series of incidents happened. We (my two daughters & I) lived in a new (= non-spooky) log cabin.

My elder daughter had always had a somewhat tumultuous relationship with her father. One afternoon when I was home alone, I heard a huge, deafening crash from my daughter's (empty) room. I thought Shit! her shelves collapsed!... because that was what it sounded like. I assumed her glass dolls & all were gone. I sighed & went to look.

Nothing. Her room was empty. Shelves intact.

Some time later (again when I was home alone) I heard another deafening crash--this time from the stairs that led to the basement.  Instinct said The shelves with all the canners & canned jars collapsed! Again I groaned & went to look.

...& again: nothing.

There were more incidents. My daughter had a party, and a bunch of her high school friends spent the night in our semi-finished basement. In the middle of the night there was a crash that shook the house and woke everyone. My daughter & her friends discussed it, then recreated the noise by lifting and dropping a heavy futon on which several kids had been sleeping. Yup: that was the sound.

Keep in mind that my daughter's relationship (and mine) with her dad was...uneasy...throughout this time.

Fast-forward to that summer. My daughter went to live with her dad for several months. There were upsetting developments.  Very upsetting. She moved home under less than happy circumstances. And then the noises started in earnest.

For several nights in a row, there was a terrific crashing and banging from the (empty) basement. I heard this. It stopped after I turned on all the lights on the first floor & prepared to go downstairs. Except no one was there. (I was not asleep or sleep-walking at the time. This happened.)

As a skeptic (which I've become very consciously in the half-dozen years since this took place) I would doubt someone heard those noises, had I not been the one (among others)who heard them. I have no explanation. I am not claiming a paranormal defense. But I heard them. So did my daughter. And so did close to a dozen of her friends.

Everything I've recounted here is true. I am willing to believe there is a logical explanation. But I have yet to hear one.

Sleep well, campers. Dammit! I don't care if it isn't Halloween anymore. Close enough.