Grinding It Out: Two Years Later

Grinding It Out: Two Years Later

“Let’s go for a drive.”

I stifled a laugh at how absurd that sounded. I hadn’t been behind the wheel of a car since July 2015, when my legs started to succumb to the pressure of the tumor in my spine.

But there I was, behind the wheel and getting ready for a driver’s evaluation, just like when I was 16. I had an instructor with a clipboard and an extra brake pedal. The difference this time is that I was about to drive with hand controls. I had about 5 minutes of instruction on how to use them and I was terrified—way more than I was at 16. But off we went from the Shepherd Center parking deck into Buckhead. On a Friday. In the rain.

Today marks two years since my surgery, and like the “terrible twos” of toddlerhood, it’s been a tough but rewarding year of overcoming challenges to become more independent. There have also been a few tears and tantrums.

Life supposedly “begins at 40.” For me, the 40s have been more of a reboot.

Crawling

Remember crawling? I learned how to do that again this year during therapy. Just like the first time around, you have to learn to crawl before you can walk. It was weird to have to think about crawling, but my brain had to tell my legs, “hey, remember this?" My left leg said, “Great!” My right leg said, “Screw you!”

Standing

In January, I was able to stand for a full 30 minutes with a walker. This was a milestone I had promised my therapists before the next round of therapy.  It took weeks of standing every day next to bed in case I fell backward.  When I reached the 30-minute milestone, there were no triumphant yells or fist bumps. I said, “Well, this is boring” and made a mental note to tell the therapists I had reached my goal. The most exciting part of this recovery was letting go of the walker long enough to set the timer on my watch without collapsing in a heap.    

Bathing

In February, I finally took a shower on my own. I was home alone, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I mentally prepared myself for the potential chaos of falling off the shower bench and calling 911 naked except for the Apple Watch on my wrist (hot). The whole showering process took about 90 minutes. Today it takes about 30. I eventually added shaving to the routine. That can be up to 30 extra minutes, depending on how curious Ollie is about the wonders of shaving cream.

Walking

This spring, I started taking a few unsupervised steps with a walker. We’re talking three steps away from the bed—just enough to feel dangerous and exciting. Little by little, I’ve been adding steps. Across the room. Down a hall. During my last round of therapy, I was walking across the entire length of the gym at Shepherd and I heard a therapist say, “Is that Marc? He’s walking!”

Damn right. 

Not fast, but steady and going farther each time. My left leg says, “Great!” My right leg says, “Remember when you ran half marathons? LOL!”

Part of my progress is due to a nifty device called the Bioness L300. It retails for $10,000 but I got it for $900. Thanks, Obama!  It’s basically a brace that sits under my knee and zaps the muscles in my right leg when it’s time to raise my foot. My right leg says, “I’m tired!” The Bioness says “BZZZT. Keep moving, wuss.” And it appears to be working. I can raise my right foot a little without the device and I’m taking steps without it, too. I was also able to climb a small flight of stairs with the device, although I look like I've had six beers.

  

Playing With Others

This spring, I acted in my first sketch show in nearly four years. I wasn’t sure I was ready. Committing to writing sessions and rehearsals takes a lot more time and energy, and I felt pretty tapped out with therapy. And to be honest, I was self-conscious about being in a wheelchair. But then our amazing new artistic director Ryan Archibald said something that stuck: “We’re not going to apologize for it.” I got out of my head and ended up having a blast. Since then, I’ve acted in a second show and directed a third. My stamina is back and I feel like a different person than I did in January. I have smoothing to focus on besides therapy. I have a purpose.

Tears and Tantrums

Despite all my accomplishments this year, the demons of fear, depression and self-doubt whisper in my ears from time to time. I’ve found that they’re less frequent than year one, but when they hit, they hit hard. I wrestle with my life being “less than” it was before. I have a terrible habit of undercutting good experiences in my life with “too bad I’m in a wheelchair.” I still grieve for things I can’t do anymore.  The worst of all is doubting how much more I’ll actually regain physically. I can usually handle day to day inconveniences/indignities of wheelchair living with humor and grace, but there have been times when I shout to the heavens and ask what’s the point of living when the best parts of my life have been stripped away. 

The right leg says, “Wow, this got dark!”

Growing Pains

But after a few hours, or sometimes a few days of wallowing, I’m back to the grind. And it is a grind. 

Slow. Exhausting. Endless. 

I met with my surgeon last week and he reminded me that I had major surgery on the part of the body that’s the slowest to heal. I’ve accomplished a lot, but there’s obviously much more to do. I’m up for it. I have a lot of catching up to do.

I pulled into the Shepherd parking deck exhilarated and exhausted after completing the driving evaluation. 

I passed. 

A toddler going on 16. Driving before walking.

I hope to be driving on my own with hand controls soon, but first I need to somehow buy a car that’s more reliable than my Chevy Cobalt POS. Seriously, it’s more handicapped than I am.

Thank you for reading this and for all of your support. 

Who knows what I’ll accomplish next year.

Marc