My friend John stood up and took his first steps in nearly a year. It was a short stroll between two support rails, but he could have kept on going. (You can watch John walk here: https://www.facebook.com/search/top/?q=john%20a.%20oswald) If you follow this blog, you will remember that John’s leg was amputated below the knee in March due to a rare bone condition known as Charcot Joint. But the last time he walked had been in June. His hospital recovery was marked by a buoyant cheerfulness as he greeted visitors with a waggle of his bandaged stump while holding court with friends. That upbeat mood masked a struggle to stay optimistic as he dealt with the loss of his leg as well as mundane issues like work and rent. During this time, John and I have been a mini support group for each other, applauding each other for enduring as he dealt with his leg and I with cancer. John had been uncertain about this day. It had been a long time since he was upright. Anticipation kept him awake the night before. But then he killed it. He made the walk look easy. At the end, John took his hands off the side rails. “All right, show off,” the therapist said and told John to put his hands back on the rails. John obeyed, briefly, and stood on his own again. Sitting in his wheelchair later, John said he wished he could have walked a few more times. He even eyed the practice stairs and wished he could have tried them too. His handlers, however, said many patients don’t take any steps on the day they first put on the prosthesis. But since his stump had changed and slimmed down since it was originally made, they didn’t want him walking in an ill-fitting socket and called it day for walking. They promptly made a mold for a new and better fitting prosthesis. Later, as he moved easily from the wheelchair into a taxi, John was clearly triumphant. He knew he could do this now. But he was also still dogged at moments by the self-critical thought, “How did I get to this place.” But “this place” is a remarkable milestone of perseverance. There was another surprise feeling for John. After having a point of view of a five-footer for much of the last year since he was seated all that time, being suddenly elevated to six-foot-two was disorienting. “Everything down there seems so far away….It’s almost like having vertigo,” he said. “You look so small,” he said seriously, looking at me. I’ve been told that before, I replied.
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