A Soldier's Inspiration

The other day, feeling defeated after therapy, I sent my physician an email; it was brief explaining how it felt to stand on my very sore and weak ankles.  Therapy was taking its toll on my psyche, and I wanted to voice my frustration.  Dr. Bernard replied back to me and shared an inspiring story about one of his VA patients: a soldier.  My surgeon's soldier story displayed tremendous ethics in listening and care, as I can only imagine how many voices of those who suffer he must listen to. Recognizing my own fears and frustrations, his heartfelt patient story helped reshape my own perceptions about the challenges I now face in therapy. This soldier endured great pain, disfigurement, transformation and survived a horrific explosion.  How truly fortunate I am to be inspired by a courageous human being and physician. 

When your doctor cares...

Gina,

It sounds like you are progressing at a predictable rate. I know you are frustrated and eager to be "cured" and get your life back. Unfortunately this will take some time and "sweat equity" before you get where you want to be. I would not focus on the drop foot since I feel it's a small residual of your previous condition. It will work its way out once your regain some muscle strength on your extensors. My job was easy compared to what you need to do now. This is a battle for you and I would probably be correct in saying one of the more difficult challenges you have dealt with.

I have to share a most touching story with you about one of my VA patients. His name is Joel and he is a 21 year who was severely injured in Afghanistan  one year ago.  He was blown out of a HumVee by a roadside bomb. He lost one leg and suffered a severe concussion and was burned over 90% of his entire body. His hands were burnt to a crisp and most of his fingers basically were cooked. To date he has had over 50 operations mostly skin grafts. His remaining foot was burnt and fractured from the explosion so when I first saw him last year he was basically in a coma, unresponsive to any commands and had no strength to his foot. I could have stuck a knife in his foot and he would not have felt it. We basically set his foot in a cast thinking he would never walk again or even be able to get out of bed. He was sent to San Antonio for several months of additional  plastic surgery and recently came back to our VA for more rehab. Joel is now walking unassisted with a prosthesis  and able to speak and use what remains of his stumps for fingers. He can  now partially see out of one eye. He can almost crack a smile through his charred skeleton face. But his will to live and overcome this immense tragedy prevailed and I am grateful to have met a human who has been to hell and back and won. I will never complain about anything in my life ever again.

You can beat this and regain your function and return to a level of activity and quality of life which you once had. Keep fighting or fight harder but you will win this fight if you want to. 

My money is on you. You are blessed with a wonderful husband and daughter and it doesn't get much better then that. 

Put your boxing gloves on  because this is a fight for your freedom and your life back.

Josh 

Embodied Vulnerabilty in Therapy



Leonardo Da Vinci

 Like any good mystery story, we cannot predict the ending, yet we know there will be a resolution.  I admit, I want a clear resolution to the when I will be up and mobile from my wheelchair, but this, too, must come with time.   I write and think this with a determined mindset and a mixed bag of emotions:anger, frustration, fear, impatience, enthusiasm, weariness; while acknowledging an embodied vulnerability to the recovery process ahead.  These feelings were represented in my painting called Morning Glory, which I wrote about in a previous posting, Art and the Spectacle of a Foot where I link art and its suggestive narrative of the human experience and physical loss of function to my left foot (painting an incorrect anatomical deformity) to its emotional effect on me and the viewer. After all, this was my aim--to underscore my own vulnerability through art.  As the English Romantic Painter, John Constable wrote, "Painting is another word for feeling."  But I also believe there is a Divine order, and I can't interfere with this process either, while visualizing this resolution.  Rebuilding should yield a return on my investment of time in therapy. There is a steadfast commitment on my part: work hard at physical therapy, eat right, take my nutritional supplements, watch my weight, and sleep--sounds like a stick-to-it plan.

This narrative is the rewriting of my outcome, a solving the "mystery" if you will.  Yet, this mystery, once scripted quite differently by other physicians, casted a much darker demise: a portrait of illness not wellness.  Progression had another connotation, a meaning of backwards not forwards.  I prefer its meaning I hear today, a word that signifies strength, improvement, vitality, and where I now control the edits.  There is no contingency of dis-ease, nor an acceptance of it.

This rewrite is a process where I move through the physicality of pain with therapy.  The pain I invite, along with the steady signs of improvement.  The predominance of the physical is at the expense of both my mental and spiritual self.  My mind and body wants more--those signs that show progress is happening now.  I want to be able to let go of the devices that keep me standing, balanced and stabilized.  It's difficult to let go and escape the fears that enter my head; they weigh more than the weight I now carry.  With each exercise, I struggle to lift and push and pull my legs to reintroduce patterns of movement once done without thought.  My heart pounds inside my chest and my palms sweat fearing any fall that would set me back.

My therapist has loaded me up with exercises at home, and I easily become frustrated because I'm more tired than eager to do them.  It's still early in the rebuilding, but I remain committed to process and outcome--a mystery still yet to reveal itself completely...