by Dave Liniger
The next milestone in my pursuit of mobility was learning to do a pivot turn. I knew that simple turn on my feet held the key to the kingdom. One day my doctor came into my room and said he wanted to get me from my bed to my chair so he could examine me. He was busy reading my chart when I suddenly swung my feet over the side of my bed, stood up and pivoted before sitting down. I had visualized the move over and over, believing I could do it—and I did.
The doctor caught my unexpected move out of the corner of his eye. “You can’t do that!” he said with about as much authority as he could muster up.
“Oh, really?” I responded before standing up, pivoting and sitting back down on my bed again. I pulled the sheets up over my legs as if to say, “Says who?”
“You see that board on your wall? That says you still need a sliding board to get out of bed. Until it says otherwise, that’s what you’re supposed to do.”
“I don’t like the sliding board. It hurts my butt.” And it did. My backside was still very sore from my flap surgery and I wasn’t allowed to wear underwear yet because it rubbed against the backside area they repaired. My bare skin on the slide board made it very challenging to gracefully, let alone gingerly, get out of bed. I needed to grab onto something to tug myself up off the board, which made the move much harder than it needed to be. I had learned to pivot by using the Lokomat and knew I finally had the leg strength to pull it off. I had spent three weeks practicing until I had it down.
“As long as these instructions are on your wall, that is what we will follow.”
“Aw, Doc. C’mon. That’s written way up there and I can’t see a damn thing without my glasses.”
He just shook his head in disgust. “You’re going to do whatever you damned well want to do, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I am.” I knew what I was capable of doing and what my limitations were. I wasn’t being defiant so much as determined. I had fought full contact karate for five years. I wasn’t afraid of hitting the ground. The doctors, nurses, therapists and technicians want to make sure their patient doesn’t get hurt during the healing process. The last thing I needed was to stumble or fall, break a leg, twist my ankle or hit my head and risk another staph infection. Falling is their number one concern. Not trying harder was mine.
Every doctor, specialist, nurse, physical and occupational therapist, tech and others at Craig kept telling me I was working too hard. Hell, I’ve been hearing that my whole life, so why stop now? Besides, is there such a thing? So I asked one of my doctors how much exercise is too much.
“Dave, I know you. You’re committed and are always going to the wall with whatever you do. Screw anybody who is going to tell you not to do something. Do as much as you can tolerate. Be real with how you feel before, during and after. One morning, you’ll wake up and say you don’t feel like exercising that day. When that happens, don’t. It’s your body telling you it needs a break. I know it will be totally against your goals and the expectations you’ve set up for yourself, but it’s your body’s way of saying time out. That’s when you’ll know it’s time to take a day or two off. Knowing you the way I do, those two days will make you angry and upset, but use that time to reset your goals and go back at it with a vengeance. Listen to your body. Don’t listen to anyone else.”
This advice came at the perfect time. I knew I could be a frustrating person to work with because I always wanted more than my therapists were going to let me have. By doing this, I also accomplished more than they believed I could. I never missed a single therapy session and always wanted to do more than they scheduled. If we were doing something twice a week, I wanted to do it three times a week. If they asked me to do ten reps of an exercise, I did twenty. If they had me lift twenty pounds, I told them to make it thirty. I wanted the reputation that I tried harder than anyone else, and did everything I could to earn it. In this case, more was definitely more.
Once my balance was stabilized and my backside was finally healed to the doctor’s satisfaction, they suggested it was time for me to try out my power chair. Up until this point, I had been pushed around in a regular wheelchair by one of nurses, therapists or techs. When I heard the words, “power chair,” I conjured up an image of one of those scooters I’ve seen elderly people moving around in. I thought, “Cool, a little power chair to zip around in, because I’m going to be walking any day now.”
No one had given me false hope. I was the one dreaming big. I was the only person convinced I would walk out the front door of Craig all on my own. When we got to the power chair, I tried to keep the smile on my face, but I couldn’t, because I realized it was just a sped-up motorized wheelchair. My whole body sagged at the sight of it. Until that very moment, it had never occurred to me that I might be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. The thought never even crossed my mind because my well-cultivated, step-by-step attitude had kept me so positive. First I’d be on crutches, then I’d be walking and before you knew it, I would be hunting and fishing again just like I used to. No one ever said I might actually be confined to a wheelchair. Ever.
I was devastated.
Why didn’t someone tell me this? I had been daydreaming of running around a track like Carl Lewis or Usain Bolt, the fastest man in the world, just to prove to everyone they were wrong. I thought my wheelchair was just a temporary but necessary step I had to accept until I could walk again. A horrible feeling of fear and defeat took over my entire body. And they knew it. They kept trying to talk to me in a cheerful and pleasant manner.
“We don’t like to refer to this as an electric chair, you know, for obvious reasons. It’s a power chair, Dave,” someone said. I think they were trying to be light, but I wasn’t amused.
They placed me in the chair and began to take measurements, from the width of my behind to the depth of my seat so they could customize my power chair. Woo Hoo—not. It might as well have been an electric chair, because at that moment I thought I could die.
When I got back to my room, one of the nurses asked me why I was so down.
“No one ever said the word wheelchair to me. Does this mean I’m going to be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life?”
“Dave, we don’t know. Every injury is different. We can’t be certain if you will take one step or you’ll walk a mile. But this is how you’re going to learn to survive.” She was doing her best to be honest, but I wasn’t happy with what I was hearing. I wished she had said something like, “Your rehab is going to take you months and maybe even years. In the meantime, you need to get from spot to spot and because of the paralysis on your right side. You don’t have the ability to use your arms to push yourself along. You’ll have to maneuver around this hospital for months, and this is your chariot. We’d give you a car if we could, but we can’t. This is the closest thing we can offer until you take that next step toward walking with crutches or using braces.”
I don’t know why my version felt more positive and full of hope to me, but it did. The reality is I could have spent the next several months daydreaming that I would move my legs and take one step at a time, and then ten steps, and then, miraculously, I’d be walking that mile. If you look at goals from a long distance, they can appear hard, if not impossible to achieve. But, inch-by-inch, it is a cinch. You accomplish one thing, and then another. You still have weakness, but you’ve worked hard every day to get stronger. I’m not saying that sheer will and fierce determination is all it takes to heal. Sometimes, you won’t heal. But your frame of mind certainly matters. If I had let the power chair take over my emotions for more than a moment, it could have proven to be a damaging setback. But I didn’t have time for setbacks. I had to keep looking and moving forward.
To be certain, the power chair was a rude awakening, but it was something I eventually came to love.
I know, surprising, right?
My power chair actually made getting around the hospital a lot easier for me throughout the rest of my stay. My physical therapy sessions were in various buildings, win
gs and floors around the facility. Each session lasted anywhere from a half hour to an hour. I always wanted to work right up to the very last minute, which meant I needed to leave like a bat out of hell to my next appointment. My chair made it so I could get to and from those sessions quicker without giving up any of my time with the therapists.
By the beginning of June, it was clear I would not be going home by the goal date I had set of June 27th. The doctors assured me I was making giant strides in my recovery, and if I would agree to give them three additional weeks, I’d be that much stronger when I left Craig. They reasoned that if I stayed three extra weeks, I would likely have a much better long-term response to the rehab. I still couldn’t walk, sit on the toilet or even turn over in bed without help. I was determined to get there, but I wasn’t there yet.
“Dave, you can do anything you want. You are not a prisoner here. But if you’ll give us three more weeks, we can take you so much further and you will be safer, more comfortable and less of a burden on people at home.” The doctor’s logic made perfect sense to me.
I wasn’t happy about it at first, but I agreed that I was making very positive progress. If three weeks meant I would be more stable, less reliant on others and able to leave as a stronger man, I was willing to reset my going-home goal date to July 17th.
As a condition of the additional three-week stay at Craig, I negotiated six one-day passes so I could go home for six-hour visits each weekend during my remaining time there. Luckily, my house had already been built to accommodate Gail and her mobility challenges. The hallways were wide enough for a wheelchair, the shower in her master bathroom had bars on the walls and was big enough for a shower chair and our house staff was already well acquainted with the proper way of helping Gail around the house. As for me, the men on our staff are strong and well built. They had no issue picking me up out of my power chair and placing me wherever I needed to go, whether it was an armchair in the living room or my bed. Even though the team of professionals didn’t approve of the way the guys moved me around at first, I was fine with it. I’ve never had an issue being handled, especially after spending so much time in the very capable hands of my caregivers at Craig. One of my nurses was adamant that Mary and Junior learn to do certain things before she could feel good about my decision to be home on the weekends. I was ok with Mary feeding me, and Junior helping if I had a bladder accident. But I was also struggling with the idea of casting my children in the role of caregiver. I didn’t want them to have to do anything for me. I wanted to do things for myself. I certainly had no desire to become an added responsibility in their already busy lives. As it was, they’d given up six months of their free time to be by my side. Learning to accept help of any kind was a hard lesson for me. My fear of becoming dependent kept me motivated enough to keep working harder, but it didn’t make it any easier to ask for help when I needed it.
All throughout my stay at Craig, Dr. Gary Maerz, my lead doctor, came to see me early in the mornings at least five or six days a week. He listened to my heart, thumped my chest and used his stethoscope to check my breathing. He had read the nightly report, talked to the nurses and kept up with my day-to-day progress. He has a terrific bedside manner. He is the kind of doctor who isn’t afraid to show compassion or affection. He’d often hold my hand and ask, “Are you ok? Is the pain management working? Are you comfortable?” He showed great concern for me throughout my time there. The last question he asked before leaving my room each day was, “Do you have any questions?”
One morning, I looked him square in the eyes and said, “Yes. I have a question. I’ve been here for fourteen weeks and I haven’t heard anyone talk to me about the Twelve-step program or having to give up drinking the rest of my life.”
Dr. Maerz looked confused. “Dave, you’re in a spinal cord and head injury rehab center. This isn’t an alcohol or drug rehab.” I had to dig my fingernails into my thighs to keep from laughing. I looked at him with a straight face and said, “Really?” And then put my head down and pretended to go to sleep.
Concerned, Dr. Maerz went to the nurse’s station and repeated what transpired.
“Is he serious?” he asked one of the nurses.
The nurses all started laughing. “He plays jokes like that on everyone. He’s yanking your chain, doctor.” And of course I was. I knew exactly where I was. But, as they say, laughter is the best medicine!
I spent the next three weeks working harder than ever. I didn’t want to move my going-home date for a second time. I felt I had made enough progress to attend our annual company barbecue that was being held at Sanctuary Golf Club. I didn’t tell anyone I was planning to go except a couple of the nurses and therapists at Craig. I had them arrange for a special wheelchair-friendly van to pick me up and drive me to the club.
MARGARET KELLY
I had no idea Dave was coming to the barbecue. No one did. It’s always a great event, but his surprise appearance would make 2012 simply unforgettable. We set up a lot of outdoor games and activities, so most of the festivities are held outdoors. I looked over and saw a van pulling into the driveway. Just then, I received a text from Dave that read, “Surprise! I am here.”
I saw him getting out of the van in his wheelchair as he made his way over to see everyone. It blew me away. I grabbed the microphone and called everyone back into the pavilion.
“Can I get everyone’s attention please? I have one additional announcement to make. I forgot to tell you that we have a surprise visitor.” Dave rolled in on his wheelchair, smiling from ear to ear. Everyone there gave him a standing ovation. He got tears in his eyes, just as we all did. It was just so emotional. What a treat to have him come and see everyone.
I was extremely happy to see everyone at Sanctuary and was overwhelmed by the response they all had when they saw me. For most of the people there, it was the first time they had seen me since I’d fallen ill. I wasn’t physically the same, but I’m certain they could all see I was mentally as strong as ever. Being there that day was a very important step in my journey. Although I knew Margaret had done her best to quash rumors and keep membership informed of my progress, I was worried about what the people in our company might be thinking. There was no better way to show everyone my progress than to be at the barbecue. Some of my caregivers were worried I wasn’t up to the trip. Others thought it was the best motivation to keep me inspired. The latter folks were right. I came back feeling better, stronger and more eager to keep taking those baby steps toward healing.
FROM THE DESK OF MARGARET KELLY
6/21/12
Hello everyone,
Many of you have asked or wondered about the condition of Dave Liniger, who’s been hospitalized in Denver for several months.
I’m pleased to report that Dave made an appearance at Sanctuary Golf Course yesterday during the annual RE/MAX Headquarters summer barbecue. It was a real treat for HQ employees to see him, and when he spoke to the group it was quite a moment. Everyone had a chance to say hi to him, and we all had a wonderful afternoon. He looked great and was thrilled to be there.
Dave continues to progress in his recovery from a staph infection and several resulting surgeries on his back and neck. He’s doing physical therapy exercises for several hours a day, and though he’ll remain in the hospital for another month or so, he’s able to make weekend visits home now. He’s really happy about that.
Dave is dealing with a lot of physical challenges, and the healing process will take time. But he’s very much the Dave we all know - sharp, optimistic, pushing himself, refusing to quit, and eager to tell a story. He’s hopeful about the days ahead, and committed to doing whatever it takes to get better.
Gail is doing fine, surrounded by family and support, and all the Linigers continue to thank everyone for their concern and prayers. As I’ve noted before, please don’t send flowers, cards or other gifts. They know how much you care.
If there’s anything you need from the team in Denver, please let us know.
> Sincerely,
Margaret Kelly
Chief Executive Officer
RE/MAX World Headquarters
On July 16th, the day before I left Craig Hospital as an inpatient, I sat down with my physical therapist to have a real heart-to-heart conversation.
“Privately and confidentially, what are your thoughts about when you think I might walk again? I know the doctors won’t promise anything and I’m aware there’s a chance I might never walk on my own, but you know how hard I’ve been working. I have worked harder than anyone you have ever met, so please tell me the truth.”
Before I allowed her to answer, I thought about what I was asking her to do. Most people think they want to know the truth, but sometimes the truth can hurt. I learned a thousand lessons from my days in the military, but one of the biggest occurred when I got passed over for a promotion. I went in and sat down with the Major and asked his permission to speak freely.
“I’ve made every promotion before this one. What did I do to make you pass me over this time?” I was sincere and curious.
“Dave, you’re not part of the team here. You don’t play on the softball team. You don’t come to the Friday afternoon cocktail hour for a beer and you show no interest in being around the other guys in your troop.”
I was stunned by his response because in addition to being in the service, I was taking college courses and was holding down three part-time jobs so I could buy and sell real estate on the side. I worked at a gas station, a movie theater and delivered newspapers to 7-11 and Circle K every morning between 2:00 and 6:00 AM. I wasn’t like the other twenty year olds who were partying and having a good time. I was trying to build something with my life.
