Fantastic finish
On January 27, 2004, after 18 years of physical limitation and suffering, I chose to amputate my leg below the knee. From the moment I made this difficult decision, I set the goal to walk Bloomsday.
My doctor and prosthetician said it was an admirable goal but not a realistic one.
But for me, finishing Bloomsday became about beating the odds and rebelling against those who told me I couldn’t and shouldn’t, and it wasn’t until I participated in the event that I truly understood the depth of my physical and mental limitations. Bloomsday changed my life.
Making the choice to remove a limb is not a simple one. My decision was based on having to survive a typical morning every day by acclimating to extreme pain. For 18 years I awoke pain free until I put my foot on the floor and took the first step. As I leaned on my right ankle, the floor felt like a 15-inch cattle prod, sending a sharp electrical and unending shock reverberating though out my entire body.
Often, both of my legs would collapse simultaneously and I would fall into fetal position on the carpet, a violent shrill escaping my lips and tears of agony bursting from eyes.
I would force myself to stand.
“Buck up,” I affirmed in my mind. Placing my left foot solidly on the ground, I would slowly transfer weight onto my right ankle. I welcomed the waves of electricity, like a heavyweight prizefighter shouting, “YYYYeaaaah, HIT ME again!”
I ended up like this because I took a ride on the back of a motorcycle going just 30 MPH. There was an accident which ripped my ankle free of my leg, leaving it attached only by the Achilles tendon. After multiple surgeries, hours of physical therapy, the decision became obvious: I chose to amputate my leg below the knee. My family and friends strongly opposed this decision.
I, however, believed the decision was my only choice if I wanted to live a life of mobility and limited pain.
After the surgery, I pinned a postcard from the 7.5 mile race on my mirror. It showed a group of people gathered on the Monroe Street Bridge. Since I had never participated in Bloomsday, I really had no idea of what to expect. Having grown up in the bay area, Spokane always felt microscopic in size and in community.
I could only imagine what Bloomsday would be like, perhaps with a local high school band lining the roadside, mixed in the crowd little kids would wave flags while sitting on their parents shoulders, giggling as “Bloomies” passed by. The vision I had was much like the parade scene in the movie, “Born on the 4th of July.”
As my amputation was so new, I knew I could not walk the miles unassisted and planned to walk it on crutches. I imagined it would take me many hours. In my mind I saw myself crossing the finish line in the dark of night, the race long over and the fan-fare all but dead. I had no idea how off my imaginary Bloomsday scenario was until the much anticipated day finally arrived.
Getting there
I awoke Bloomsday morning full of enthusiasm. I had decided that this would be my “coming out” event. I would not be ashamed of my choice, and didn’t care what anyone thought about my disability. With this in mind, I put on tank top and matching shorts. One could clearly see my prostheses and the five-inch bar that formed a makeshift ankle. Dressed for the day, I focused my mind on my destination. My husband, a 12-time Bloomsday veteran informed me that traffic would be an issue, so we decided to take the bus. Energy bars in hand, I gulped down my 32-ounce cup of rocket fuel and we drove to the Valley Mall.
That’s where I first discovered my “vision” of Bloomsday was askew. At 6:30 a.m. the entire Valley Mall east parking lot had reached capacity. Countless people filled the 4-foot sidewalks of the five to six blocks facing the main drag in the front of the mall. I begrudgingly made my way to the very end of the line. It seemed that the buses arrived approximately every three minutes. People around me glanced nervously at their watches. The first starting gun sounded off in just an hour and a half, and people were concerned about arriving downtown in time for the race to begin. As the line inched along, my coffee found its way to my bladder. There was no restroom in sight. The first chuckle of the day was husband telling me, “Guess you’ll have to cross your leg”.
When the bus arrived downtown, my jaw dropped to the ground. I could not believe the numbers of people already gathered. A panoramic scan of the streets revealed a bird’s eye view of what I always imagined the streets of New York to look like. There were so many people that I could no longer see the pavement. The street in front of me was only one of four starting locations for the race. At this point, my first mission was to find a bathroom.
I joined a gathering of 40 others who stood in a line for the “honey pot.” After 15 minutes into the process, I moved three feet toward the 37-foot end zone. This tedious process had many of us crossing our legs and scanning bushes considering the options. A woman in front of me made her race number into a funnel.
“Okay folks,” she said, “this is taking waaaay too long! I have 5 bucks for the first person to make it out of the can in less than 54 seconds.” Laughter filled the air. We all joined together to count out the first participants plight.
“63” we shouted in unison.
A few participants later, a feisty senior set the standard of “34.”
As she walked out of the honey-pot, she triumphantly lifted her arms to the clouds retrieving her reward, while the rest of us cheered. The line moved much faster after that.
The first shot rang for the elite runners to start the race. I felt nothing like the endorphin jocks who had the intention of running the entire distance, so I had signed up to be in the “assisted” starting group.
This group included: families pushing strollers, disabled people like me and those just there to leisurely walk the race.
Our starting time was 1 hour and 15 minutes behind the elite. When we arrived at our starting point I found that there were people compacted together as far as the eye could see. A huge speaker mounted on top of a Snyder’s bread truck, bellowed out the song “Louie, Louie.”
A little girl about age five toppled out of her stroller.
“I told you to sit…” the father sternly reprimanded her. He stopped scolding when she began twirling in circles dancing to the song. Soon, he grabbed her hands and joined the dance. I tapped my toes.
To that father’s right was a man wearing Birkenstock sandals and a rainbow tie-dyed outfit. He blew up a huge beach ball and threw it into the air. I watched the ball as the crowd volleyed it forward. I followed it with my eyes until it shrank to the size of a dodge ball off in the distance.
Finally, the bell tolled for our group, signaling our start. I could feel the energy and excitement like a mist of steam that rose off of people around me. Minutes passed before the crowd spaced itself out enough for me to start my journey. Standing there, I noticed my heart pounding so hard that I glanced down to see if I could actually see the rise and fall of my shirt. I never imagined the true build up of that spectacular moment. The impact filled my body like a fountain until it overflowed in tears from my eyes.
Four blocks down, the theme song from “Chariots of Fire” filled the air. As I walked a variety of people came up to me offering words of encouragement.
“I just have to tell you what an inspiration you are,” a man said with a wink. A woman about 20 jogged past me and yelled between breaths, “You go girl.”
By that point, I had completely forgotten about my leg. Her reminder prodded me to assess my physical status. I had wrapped the crutches with foam padding and towels to limit the pressure on my armpits. I hadn’t walked very far at this point so there really were no physical affects yet.
The moment passed quickly, and my mind went back to all of the mental stimulation surrounding me.
Two ladies with magnetic smiles strolled past carrying fresh cut sunflowers which they held valiantly high above their heads. A family of seven paraded past me. They all wore teal blue t-shirts, reading something like “The Smith’s, five generations, present and accounted for.” My ears were delighted by the sound of pounding feet, bubbly conversation and laughter in the air.
Along the course, a wide variety of bands were playing everything from classic rock to hip hop, from oldies to polka music. The melded sound of all the instruments created a tune of its own, which reminded me of when I would switch radio stations on the AM radio on the outdated stereo system in my car. I could smell the excitement, hear the joy, and feel the pounding of my heart – I felt so completely fulfilled and happy just to be walking.
The race continues
We left the downtown area, through Browne’s Addition where crowds of people gathered outside of their homes to watch the spectacle. It was still before noon, yet the smell of grilled steaks, hamburgers, and bratwurst permeated the air. There were signs of support, “Welcome Bloomies.”
Others had jugs of water and stood with paper cups in hand for the first thirsty passers-by. Many people clapped as I navigated through the gathering. By this point the compliments were numerous. I inhaled the community support and waved to the crowd, smiling in my heart, and focusing my eyes on the next bend in the road.
Not too far into the race a man seated in an electric blue Suburban signified that I had reached the first mile marker. Megaphone in hand, he looked out to the crowd through his mirrored Ray-bans. “Forty-one minutes, 52 seconds.” Moments later he chimed, “Forty-two minutes, 30 seconds.”
Next, we moved toward the hills. This area was free of banners and yet decorated with left behind shirts, jackets and pants waving in the light breeze. Individuals, who discovered that they were too hot or were carrying too much, had true to Bloomsday tradition left the extra garments behind.
When the first big hill came into view, I held my breath as I stood at the bottom of it. I did not realize until actually experiencing it how difficult it is to walk up an incline without an ankle.
Heading up Cemetery Hill I began chanting in my head, “left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.” Other than blisters developing on my hands, I had not yet experienced a great deal of pain and I was only starting to feel tired from my own lack of physical exercise over the past years.
The chanting in my head continued for those few initial moments. I began to wonder if I would reach the top without stopping.
Suddenly, I sensed a speeding object approaching from behind. As I turned to my left, I saw a young man sitting in a patriotically decorated wheelchair. On his face was a look of sheer determination as he rotated his wheels at lightning speed. Watching him, the hill did not seem so big anymore. As I climbed upward, I began offering support to others whom I passed as I felt great joy of sharing the encouragement others had freely given me earlier on the course.
With a smile and a renewed energy, I doubled my pace all the way to the top of that hill. That climb’s reward would be my first water station.
Seeing the water station was truly incredible. About 100 people stood on each side of the road, and every age group was represented in the crowd of volunteers. Each person’s arms were extended out at full length, and empty cups from former runners covered the entire road, forming a colorful artistic collage on the pavement. Right at that moment, a loudspeaker in the distance announced the name of the first person to cross the finish line. It seemed like only an hour had passed, and we were all less than a quarter through the race.
From that point forward my mind absorbed the walk like a sponge. I recall spectators standing in their yards with hoses spraying hot Bloomies passing-by. I remember walking past SFCC and my first sight of Doomsday Hill, and of course the feeling of accomplishment when reaching the top and smiling at the huge buzzard, welcoming me with open arms.
The end in sight
Three hours 30 minutes after the start of the race, I approached the finish line. The largest speaker I had ever seen in my life blasted out the theme from “Rocky” so loud the windows shook on the nearby covered bus stop, vibrating in time with the bass notes of the song. Not too far in front of me, an elderly man assisted his wife out of her wheelchair so she could take the last 12 steps towards the finish line.
The announcer gave the play-by-play as she took her final steps and hundreds of people applauded her achievement, myself included. Only a few steps away from crossing the white line painted on the street, the eyes of the announcers met mine. “Hey folks, here comes a gal with a bum knee let’s give her a hand.”
I could not help but giggle at his comment. I nodded my head in acceptance and took the final step. I lifted my arms, and my crutches above my head.
The radiant smile on my face was only a pale reflection of the emotions of my elated soul. My husband wrapped his arms around me and swirled methrough the air in the most loving moment I have ever experienced.
“You did it honey,” he shouted with great pride. Hot tears flowed freely as I formed the words of my new worldview. “No…we did it honey.”
Reflecting back to that magical moment I cherish the lessons I learned that day by those who walked with me.
When I chose to amputate my leg, my life was focused on my challenges and my world. My goal of participating in Bloomsday was about me overcoming my problems and physically being able to navigate. What I learned while running Bloomsday was that engaging in life is really not about my leg or my personal struggles. Engaging or walking in life means, “letting go of me.”
Participating in life is not an individual effort but a team event. To truly be able to walk, one must learn to race outside of the lines and be part of world.