by Scott Martin
I was not only growing more comfortable in my old roles as Coach and Assistant Hall Director, but also with the alterations my daily routine had had to undergo. I finally managed to dress in an hour and was becoming more adept at using the myos in real-world settings with each passing day. More importantly, I was learning to cope more effectively with the obstacles that arose – of which there were many. I looked upon each hurdle with a Zenon-like voracity, taking up the challenge as one of intellect and creativity.
Just like my final months in the hospital, I had no time for grief, anxiety, or insecurity. Emotions so detrimental to physical progress were best left tucked behind the thick curtains of the darker alcoves of my mind.
My routine was my savior, and I began to follow it with blind contentment. Perhaps that was my downfall. Perhaps had I opened my eyes to the reality around me, I would have been able to prevent our collision.
As it was, walking down the hall just before nine in the morning, I was too absorbed in the security of planning my day to react fast enough to the two girls who came sashaying around the corner ahead of me. And they, in turn, were too caught up in their conversation to notice me.
All I caught was a glimpse of bleached-blonde hair and colorful makeup in my path. I stumbled to my right in an effort to avoid a collision; too little too late. Our shoulders jostled and I staggered sideways even further, ricocheting off the wall like a Ping-Pong ball. I twisted quickly to prevent yet another impact.
‘Excuse me,’ I called, angling my head over my shoulder as I righted myself and continued past. The girl I had bumped gasped and lifted one pink-manicured hand towards her friend for balance.
‘Ew!’ A voice cried from behind me. I started to turn, curious what had caused her disgust.
‘That man with no hands touched me!’
I froze.
Her words seemed to reverberate towards me, through me. It was me. She was disgusted by me.
Shrinking in on myself, I put my head down and subconsciously pulled the myoelectric hands towards my stomach. My emotions shut down. A familiar cold sweat began to break out across my forehead. Fight or flight? Fight or flight?
I felt my heart race and dove for the sanctity of my Hall Director office. The door was locked. Of course it was; I’d locked it the night before. I fumbled with the keys – damn robotic hands! It took too many tries and too much concentration to single out the correct one. A screech like the yowling of a cat emanated from the hands with every motion of the fingers. I shied away from the sound, recoiling at the way it seemed to resonate across the hallway.
The key finally pinched between two fingers, I fought to navigate it into the keyhole, turn the lock. Without the use of a wrist, it was a trying feat on the best of days. And today was not the best of days.
I felt deflated and traumatized by what had just happened. I could sense the eyes of the other students on me, staring at the mannequin-like hands, judging me for my incompetence and handicap. I felt utterly inept and completely isolated.
The key finally slid home and I managed to turn the latch. I rammed my shoulder into the door with unnecessary force and stumbled across the threshold. I hastily pushed the door shut behind me – locking everyone else out.
My arms were shaking as I set the key on the edge of the desk. My legs wobbled as I lowered myself into the chair. The only sounds were my panting and the creek of the hands as I lay them flat across my legs.
In one fell swoop, she had managed to cast away the sheltering façade I’d hidden behind. All that false bravado and purported self-confidence vanished in the blink of an eye. Hearing her words forced me to glimpse the very thing I’d been avoiding: to look headlong into the mirror reflecting my shattered self-image. The broken figure I saw there revolted me.
Maybe this is the new “normal”, I thought as I stared at the white, concrete wall before me. The rest of your life is going to be spent as the object of other people’s ridicule. Might as well get used to it, Buddy. No one likes a handicapped person. Children gawk at you, adults avoid you, teens scorn you.
I lowered my chin to my chest and closed my eyes against reality. From a successful collegiate soccer coach and player to this: Could life take any larger a turn for the worse? Before the illness, I would have gone out to the soccer field to kick the ball around after a traumatic experience. Now I couldn’t even take the ball for a walk like I showed the kids who attended my camps to do.
Everything was so wrong. Irrevocably and irreparably broken. It was all fake: everything I had felt, everything I pretended to be. I had been doing the best imitation of myself. Nothing more.
~~~
A few weeks later I’d convinced myself not to fear the people in the halls. But I also told myself that shuffling alongside the walls like a dog slinking around a room wasn’t a sign of deep-set, unresolved issues. I couldn’t hide from the fact that I only felt truly present when I was on the field or talking with Cindy or the players. The rest of my days were spent hovering in a hazy fog that isolated and distanced me emotionally. I was still there, still functional, but it was like living with cotton balls stuffed in your ears and dark goggles on: everything muffled and unclear – surreal.
The Fog began rolling in each morning when it came time for me to don my prosthetics. I was much quicker at the process, and could complete it almost subconsciously now. Of course, I didn’t really have a choice because the central part of my brain seemed to check out every time I looked at the prosthetics. Repudiating of that part of my life though I was, I still made a point of being thorough with my care of the amputations.
I had never been able to fully shake what Dr. Mixter had said about my right foot; the fact that there was no guarantee and I might still lose my entire lower leg haunted me incessantly. So every morning I made a point of examining the foot before putting the first sock on.
The primary concern was blood flow through the extremity. Swallowing my repulsion, I would first examine the bottom briefly, then sit and watch the artery located just under the skin at the upper heel pump blood to what remained of my foot. In the first few months it was always a moment of dispelling relief to see it pulsing, gently throbbing beneath the skin: a sign that I was going to keep the foot for one more day at least.
Today, though, I never made it that far. On the base of the foot, no larger than a dime, was a deep red hole. Leaning closer, I could see the muscle tissue that once had been part of my abdomen stretching beneath the skin that once belonged to my right thigh.
How was it possible? I would have thought something so severe would have caused me pain but I had felt nothing. I knew the poor design of the prosthetic inserts caused my foot to pivot when I walked, but I always wore socks. And yet here was my proof: a gaping hole where my arch once was.
In moments I was on my feet and heading for the phone.
Two days later, I was led into an exam room to be seen by yet another doctor in a button up shirt and lab coat. Everything about that visit is a blur. Sue had recommended this particular physician, a fact which gave him some merit, but still I couldn’t for the life of me hold his image in my mind as unique. I sat amidst The Fog as he examined the foot, cleaned it, chattered over his worked. He diagnosed the hole as “an ulceration” and prescribed antibiotics to keep an infection at bay. A nurse would drop by my apartment each day to change the dressing.
~~~
The nurse was easily absorbed into my chaotic routine and since the foot never gave me any pain, I carefully paid it no more than a moment’s consideration each day. It was perhaps even easier to disregard the issue with a medical professional keeping an eye on it for me – I didn’t need to exam it daily as long as she was there to do the gruesome task for me – and I had no interest in dwelling on the possible ramifications a hole could have. Work was more important. I pushed any contemplations or concerns aside and put the finishing touches on the Soccer Atlas.
The Atlas was ready to be distributed come August when training began. Shu
ffling the newly-bound packets of paper in my hands, I took a stabilizing breath. Next season was my chance for a fresh start. Once the hole in my foot had healed, I could put all the negative events of the past semester behind me. We had a strong recruiting class and a full season lined up: just the sort of remedy I urgently needed.
Where are we going? I thought as I scuffed my way home, the Atlases cuddled in my arms. The top. How are we going to get there? With dedication and drive and most of all, training and thorough planning.
We were on the road to success; I could feel it in the marrow of my amputated bones.
~~~
With my time almost exclusively dedicated to training and prepping for the season, I felt my energy soar. I was enthused and inspired and so sure that The Fog had passed that I was ready to take on anything. When the hole on my right foot resurfaced (probably due to all the walking during our two daily training sessions), I refused to let it intrude on my newfound joy. I bought my own tape and four-by-four gauze bandages to cover the hole as the nurse had done, then carefully put my sock back on and continued as if nothing was amiss.
I kept it clean and tried to convince myself it wasn’t getting deeper, bigger, redder. Besides, whatever the hole may have been doing, we were kicking ass at the start of our season. There was no way I was about to let up now.
As deep as the hole in my foot may have gone, I threw myself even deeper into my work. And the soccer program thrived for it. In preparation for a difficult schedule, we hosted a team from Russia that included players from their National Team, and beat the University of Minnesota, a Division I school, in preseason exhibitions. As young we were as a team (17 of the 22 final-roster players were freshmen and sophomores, but we needed the speed and energy they could bring), the season started well. We won seven of our first eight matches.
After returning from a decent trip to St. Louis, I opened the regular Tuesday national ranking emails and scanned for our name on the list. We’d started the season ranked number 19 in the country. As my eyes crept down the list, I nodded and conceded to the top three teams, scoffed at the fourth, and grumbled at the fifth and sixth, then froze at the seventh.
#7: University of Wisconsin at Eau Claire
‘Excellent!’ I beamed with radiant pride. I could have jumped up and done a victory dance then and there but worry that a player might pop in at any moment kept me seated; I couldn’t help grinning madly at my computer screen, though. As far as high points go, this one was right up there with winning the lottery in my mind. Maybe, just maybe, the arc of that inner pendulum really was changing directions after all.
~~~
Alas, there was only so long my foot would be ignored. After receiving the news of our National Top 10 ranking, it became clear the infection that had developed could wait no longer. I had spoken to Zenon about my issues with the right foot, and he had recommended a plastic surgeon who he thought could patch me up good as new – err, good as new circa August 1993. This was the man I called when I realized I’d hit the end of my rope in terms of procrastination.
Dr. Joseph Rucker appeared to be about ten years older than me with slanted blue eyes and a round, balding head. If the fact that Zenon had recommended him wasn’t enough to make me aware of his reputation, seeing his staff say his name with such reverence certainly was. There was no doubt that this man was well respected in the medical community and likely beyond.
The clinic he operated in Eau Claire was elaborate, bordering on extravagant, and spoke to the clientele he saw regularly. The waiting area boasted two sofas and two red velvet pillowed chairs where most hospitals offer only plastic, sparsely cushioned seats. With a myriad of indoor plants and the soft, warm ambiance the place provided, I was almost sad to leave for the exam room so soon.
Of course, the examination room wasn’t much of a hardship, either. Wood furnishings and deep maroon cushions adorned the room. I took a seat beside the mahogany desk and admired one of the contemporary art pieces hung on the wall.
When the man of the hour arrived, he had me transfer to the massage-esque exam table and we chatted briefly about the prosthetics and my past surgeries. He particularly enjoyed the story of how Dr. Mixter saved my lower leg with scraps of my other body parts.
‘This is quite impressive,’ he said examining the entirety of my patch-work foot a la Dr. Mixter, two soft fingertips holding it in position. ‘Something you really have to see to believe, I’d say. But let’s have a look at the trouble maker. Ah, here we go,’ he said as he sat in a maroon-topped, rolling stool to get a better viewing angle of the bottom of my foot. ‘Mm-hm.’
I let him take his time, leaning back on my elbows without comment. I could only hope what he would determine wasn’t going to be life-altering. I’d had my life altered enough for one year.
After a moment of considering, he sat up and gently lowered my leg onto the table. I met his eyes and waited to hear his verdict. I felt as if I were clunk-clunk-clunking to the top of a roller coaster; every word he said another thud upwards, another inch towards the top.
‘That’s definitely an infection, as you said,’ he began. I held my breath. ‘It’s quite deep,’ he went on, dragging me higher, setting me up for the fall. ‘You’ve had damage to both the skin and the underlying muscle tissue. It looks like it’ll require surgery to correct.’
I could feel myself plummeting, frantically thinking, I didn’t sign up for this! as I fell and fell and fell.
But I had signed up for it. I had kept walking on the foot in the same poorly fitted prosthetics. I had known exactly how bad that hole was. It should have been no surprise that surgery was the only solution. And yet, I felt complete and utter despair – and perhaps a hint of betrayal – at hearing the news spoken aloud.
I can’t have surgery now. Not in the midst of the season; especially not when we’re doing so well.
‘Scott,’ Dr. Rucker said, making my name half summons and half question. I looked at him and sighed, trying to muster a ce’est-la-vie smile. ‘You will need surgery.’ He was watching my eyes with such perception I wondered if he didn’t also do optometric surgery. I nodded my head and cleared my throat to say something – I wasn’t sure what, exactly, but something.
‘But,’ he interjected before I could muster any words, ‘it can be postponed for a time. If you’d prefer, we could put you on antibiotics and keep a close eye on it until the timing gets better.’
I stared at him, wondering what reason he thought I had for ducking out of surgery. Then I realized it didn’t matter what he thought; all I needed to hear was that there was an alternative – that surgery didn’t have to navigate the course of my life anymore.
‘Okay, yeah –’
‘I want you to know I don’t recommend this option. The longer we wait to perform surgery, the greater the risk of complications later on.’
I paused. Complications. I had a pretty good sense of just how bad ‘complications’ could be. Was I willing to risk losing my entire lower leg for the chance to finish the season? I had already lost so much. I mused. There was a chance I’d lose my leg if I postponed, but I was guaranteed to miss out on some – possibly the rest – of the season if I didn’t. I was even more familiar with the endurance of rehabilitation than I was with the consequences of complications.
In the end, I left with a prescription for potent antibiotics and instructions to call if any changes occurred. I was taking a gamble, one that could cost me my leg, but soccer was the only thing keeping me afloat for the time being. I wasn’t sure I could stand to lose that and have to simultaneously recover from another surgery. Not yet. Just, not yet.
15
On My Knees
I was handling it all fine: The long hours at work. The pressures of the soccer season. The never-ending problem-solving my handicap required.
So why was I lying on the floor in a near panic as my heart beat raced?
I was on my lunch break, had just finished eating and settled in to watch a few mor
e minutes of CNN”s Headline News. I hadn’t experienced any new trauma. No side-effects to the antibiotics (I’d been on this type before, so I knew I could handle them fine). The season was still going well, the team performing above expectations. We were in line to be invited to the National Tournament at the end of the season.
Then it stopped. My heart. I froze, waiting to feel it start up again. In the span of a few breaths which I didn’t take, it resumed its beating, this time faster than before, I felt the terror rush like ice down my veins, chilling my bones and freezing my joints. After having endured a week at 170 beats per minute, I was sure my life expectancy must already be shortened.
So what would be the consequence of these heart palpitations? I tried to breathe, telling myself to calm down; it was probably nothing to worry about. But with my recent past, everything felt like something to worry about.
It’s stress, a voice in my head said. What with all that you’re doing, you’re not giving yourself any time to relax.
I stared at the ceiling, huffing in rapid breaths. Relaxing wasn’t in my schedule for a reason. When you relax, you give yourself time to think. I needed to function, not think.
I pushed myself upright, standing on wobbly legs while the world swirled before my eyes. After struggling to clean up the lunch dishes, I hastily shut off the television and made my way to the Soccer Office.
The duration of the walk, the logical voice of reason in my head refused to give me peace.
It buzzed and whirred, analyzing the choice I had just made. Clearly something wasn’t right.
You should see a doctor, you fool, the voice coolly scolded. Hearts aren’t supposed to do that. I was pretty sure on most medications they list such things under “serious side-effects” and direct you to ”contact your doctor immediately.” But I also knew what he was going to say. I couldn’t allow the handicap to beat me.
