Body Language & Conversation Escapes

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We’ve all been there before. You’re at a party or social gathering and you find yourself cornered by someone who can’t stop talking. Escape seems impossible. You don’t want to be rude but it’s obvious that the person thinks what they’re saying is much more interesting than it actually is so you start to scheme an exit plan. The easiest excuses are usually the bathroom or the need to get a drink or food but sometimes it’s not quite so easy. At this point, whether conscious or not, your body language starts to indicate your immediate desire for an end to the conversation.

Maybe your eyes wander around the room, desperately seeking the welcoming face of a friend, or you start to lean or move away from the person, or your hands and body give some other cues that you’re simply not engaged in the conversation. One way or another, you finally make your way out and are grateful for the social freedom that seemed unobtainable just moments ago.

While scenarios like this are difficult enough, navigating them is even more challenging if you’re a wheelchair user.

I’ve written previously about the challenges of moving through the world two feet shorter than most others and how it impacts my mentality, but I’m long overdue to share a few thoughts on the differences of body language cues that I’ve encountered. I share these not only to express my perspective (and yes, to vent a little bit…) but hopefully to educate and raise awareness for others for when they’re talking to someone using a wheelchair or who simply can’t walk or move “normally”, particularly in crowds.

1) Just because I’m sitting and facing you doesn’t mean I’m interested in what you’re saying.

I know it’s blunt but I have to be 100% honest. This is my number one pet peeve and my most common body language struggle when it comes to social interactions.

Countless times, I’ve been stuck talking to someone (or, I should say, listening impatiently to them) and they’re clueless that for whatever reason, I’m not interested anymore. My theory is that because I’m sitting down and facing them and, yes, looking up at them, they think that I’m a captive audience. And I can understand some of the reasoning for that. I think it’s natural that if you’re standing above and talking down (literally, not figuratively) to people, you’re inclined to think that they are interested in listening to you. Think of a teacher in a classroom or a performer onstage or a speaker talking to a roomful of seated people.

But there have been too many times where I’ve tried to subtly express my disinterest in the conversation and only been met by the person continuing to talk at me. And because they’re standing right in front of me and blocking me from seeing most of the room, it’s hard for me to find an obvious excuse to cut the conversation short.

Like it or not, our respective physical presence has a huge impact on the way we interact. If a seven foot tall person is towering over you and talking, you’re more likely to listen than if it’s someone who’s much shorter than you. But if you’re the person with a larger physical presence, that presence can feel intimidating and cornering.

And that brings me to point number two…

2) Body language is muted when you’re not using your whole body

I’ve been in too many situations where I’ve needed to quickly leave a conversation (i.e. urgently need to use the restroom, wanting to catch someone before they leave, or just simply being in a rush to leave) and my body language cues are not being picked up by the person(s) I’m talking to. I can’t step back or lean to a side or fidget the way an able-bodied person could that would likely convey the need to let me out! On top of that, because I can’t see above people’s shoulders, it’s nearly impossible for me to look around the room and make eye contact with someone else to call out for a conversation rescue.

3) Being cornered or trapped in any way is very limiting and unpleasant

I think everyone can relate…. This situation has occurred to me the most frequently in restaurants or large mealtime gatherings. I’ll find myself at a table that’s difficult to get in and out of. Therefore, not only do I feel awkward having to ask people to move or bump into purses hanging off the back of a chair, I’m less inclined to want to use the restroom or simply get up and leave the table for any reason. And so I unwittingly accept that I’m stuck, and it’s not very fun.

I used to love parties and concerts, crowds and gatherings, and being in a big group of people. But often times now, these situations make me anxious and uncomfortable and so I avoid them. But I will say that I’ve become EXTREMELY grateful and appreciative of people when they DO recognize these physical challenges and go out of their way to pick up my cues or simply ask me what I need. It makes all the difference in the world.

So let’s all try to be more mindful of how we move through the world, how we converse with others, and the social and body language cues that we encounter. And if you see someone in a wheelchair or physically limited, be extra nice and considerate of them. You may think your story is super interesting, and there’s a chance that it is, but they may just be dying to have a bite of food or use the bathroom.  🙂

Five Years On…

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I have a very vivid memory of the first day of school in fourth grade. I remember the begrudging acceptance that summer vacation was over, the yearning for just one more long day spent outside and out of the confines of school, and looking up at the calendar on the wall, next to the teacher’s desk, with SEPTEMBER folded open. I remember thinking to myself that it could literally be an eternity before all those ensuing months would pass, the calendar would flip to June and the liberation of summer would commence anew.

I don’t know about all of you but for the elementary school me, nine months felt like—and turned out to be—a very long time. By the time the following summer came, it seemed like I had been through endless glances at the calendar and a brutally long build up to the end of the school year.

We all know that as we get older, time does indeed move faster since a week, month, or year represents a smaller and smaller fraction of our full lives.

Today marks five years since my life was turned upside down by a spinal cord injury. Five years since everything I knew about my body and how I interacted with the world was broken, shattered, and left to be pieced back together (literally and figuratively).

Five years. 260 weeks. Half a decade. Has it felt like a long time? Or has it gone by fast? The answer, as you can probably imagine, is both.

On the one hand, five years have gone by surprisingly quickly. The weeks and months do seem to pass faster and faster every year. And I can very clearly remember my life before July 8, 2012 and it doesn’t seem like a long time ago at all. Maybe it’s because nearly every night in my dreams I walk, run, play sports and have more control over my body than I do in waking hours. Sometimes, in a lucid dream, I realize what’s happening and I tell myself to savor every second of it, knowing that I will inevitably wake up and go back to a very different reality.

But on the other hand, five years has also felt like a five-term life sentence in prison. To think that I’ve woken up 1825 days and encountered this body is still terrifying. To recognize how many singular moments of struggle, pain and discomfort I’ve experienced is mind-numbing and overwhelming. I can’t even conceptualize how many times I’ve had the wish, prayer and desire to somehow get rid of the impacts of this injury and go back to a day-to-day life that doesn’t need to be planned around managing pain and obsessively analyzing sidewalks, curbs, stairs, ramps and building access. Thousands of times? Millions? Possibly.

When it comes to the time frame of my injury—and especially when I’m approaching an anniversary—people often ask me two related questions:

1. Has living with this injury become easier at all?

2. Have I gotten used to it?

The short answer to both questions is an unequivocal NO.

I’m sorry if that’s not what people want to hear but it’s the truth. I’ve heard other people say, “oh you’ll get used to it” or “it’s not that bad once you figure things out.” In fact, I’ll never forget the hospital worker who told me—just days after my surgery—to look at the bright side: “At least when you go to a baseball game or crowded event you’ll have a comfortable chair to sit in and won’t have to stand in line!” (How or why the hospital employed and allowed that person to speak to people early after their injuries is still beyond me…)

I know of many people who’ve suffered spinal cord injuries who have said that things did get easier after a while, that they did get used to using a wheelchair and while I respect each person’s individual opinion and experience, that approach has not worked for me, and I’m not sure it ever will. I’ve been told I’m hard-headed (true); I’ve been told that my effort to improve my body and work on my recovery is simply delaying the inevitable; and I’ve been told that this injury can’t be beat, so the sooner I “accept my current condition”, the happier I’ll be.

Bullshit.

Yes this recovery hasn’t gone as fast as I would like. Yes I haven’t reached all of my physical or functional goals yet. And yes there is still a long ways to go. But if I had listened to those voices early on, there’s no way I could have stood up and asked Brita to marry me. There’s no way I could have gained enough strength in my abdominals, back and core to train for and complete a five-mile swim. And there’s no way I would have continued to gain physical breakthroughs and new neurological connections in my third, fourth, and fifth years after the injury, long after that two-year window when the doctors said the healing would surely stop.

The truth is that it’s because of, not in spite of, my commitment to my objectives and diligence that some things have gotten easier. But while certain challenges have lessened or been addressed with novel solutions, new challenges have always arisen.

Reducing pain or discomfort in one part of my body has resulted in new pain somewhere else. Because I have sensation all over my body, I am not disconnected from my lower body and know that being in any one position is uncomfortable and unwise. I still have to plan every single day around minimizing physical pain and how much time I spend in the wheelchair.

The psychological burden of dealing with this injury has become more manageable, but by no means would I say that it’s something I’ve become used to. The truth is that it sucked five years ago when I woke up in the hospital, and while many things have changed and improved, it still sucks today. Again, I’m sorry if this isn’t the narrative or story that people want to hear but I’ve only been sincere and genuine in this blog and so I share all of this with the utmost honesty.

One thing I admit I have learned and accepted is how to find joy and embrace moments of happiness despite all of my day-to-day challenges. For the first few years after my injury, I lived with a mindset that I could not and should not allow myself to feel happiness because that would somehow concede and accept defeat. I’ve learned—through the wisdom, love and support of my family, friends and most of all my incredible very-soon-to-be-wife Brita—to allow joy and happiness back into my life.

I no longer push away those experiences. I no longer think of joyful emotions as distractions from my commitment and pursuit of a healthier and stronger body and a more fulfilled life.

So where do all these ramblings leave me right now, on this five year anniversary and moving forward?

I am still working just as hard as ever on improving my condition. I refuse to live a life of perpetual discomfort and pain. I refuse to accept externally imposed limitations and societal and medical customs of what living with a disability should be like. I refuse to abide by a narrative that “it’s all ok now,” that “things aren’t so bad,” that time has healed all the wounds.

I will continue to listen to my body first and foremost. I will work hard and keep striving for new connections and improvements. I will push myself as long as the fire in me burns (and it’s burning as strong as ever now). I will rest when it is needed and beneficial and I will continue to carve out my own path to a better, healthier, more functional, more fulfilling life.

I am still bitter about the prognoses and outdated expectations that the medical establishment set for me. Instead of telling me that all the healing would occur in one year or two max, that after that I wouldn’t get better, I wonder where I would be now if they had provided more encouragement, support and validation for the potential to continue improving for many years to come. Although I never took them for their word or accepted their arbitrary prognostications, I know that those words impacted me profoundly.

In addition to the pursuit of my personal recovery objectives, I will continue to do everything I can to educate, inform, and alter the ubiquitous approach that our medical system still teaches and promotes to people dealing with spinal cord injuries. There is no place for a method that takes away hope and possibility from so many people in their most vulnerable time. This must change.

The human spirit is strong. The will to work towards something seemingly unachievable should not be discouraged or doubted. And our individual and subjective understanding of time, of what days and months and years mean to each of us, and what we each want to do with our limited time on this planet, should be explored and revered.

I never thought I could make it through five years of living with this injury, but I have. And I hope to continue on my path for another five, fifteen or fifty years to come.

Exciting News! – A book is coming….

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When I started writing this blog in November of 2012, just five months after I suffered a traumatic spinal cord injury, my intention was only to have an honest and unobtrusive way to keep my family and friends updated on the process of my recovery: the struggles, challenges, objectives, achievements, breakthroughs and thought processes behind this insane journey. I didn’t want to crowd everyone’s inbox with emails or spew out random thoughts or take to social media for these updates, so I figured I would write a blog and have it out there for whomever was interested in staying in the loop.

Little did I know where this would lead…

Thanks to all of you and your continued interest, support, encouragement and readership, the blog continued to grow and reach more people than I could ever imagine. Within a few months of me launching this website and sharing my story, I was getting readers and messages from all over the world. People were asking questions, seeking advice (for which I had very little to provide…), searching for perspective, and often times, relating some of the experiences I was sharing to their own respective experiences. I also learned that there were many people out there — with spinal cord injuries or other medical conditions or just life challenges — who could identify with some of the larger issues that I would sometimes raise.

I was flattered to have anyone outside of my personal social community care or read about my story and it wasn’t until many of you commented and told me that you wanted to know more about a specific story, that you were curious about something I had shared and asked me to delve more into it, that I got the idea for doing something bigger.

Well, I can now say that that bigger something is coming very soon.

For the better part of the last two years — and with increasing intensity, energy, time and commitment — I have been turning the story of my recovery into a book. And this book is coming to fruition now as I am in the final process of revisions and edits to get it ready to publish.

This blog has been so many positive things for me but I didn’t expect that it would spark the creative effort and undertaking of completing a full-on memoir of my experience. But alas, that’s where we are.

I will be posting more info very soon about the book — including a landing page where you can sign up to get updates and have access to an advance copy, as well as a specific timeline for the final publish (summer reading anyone???) — but for now, I want to thank all of you for the incredible support and commitment you’ve shown me in reading my blog, commenting, sharing your perspectives and launching this crazy little idea within me that will hopefully turn into something real and tangible very soon.

I always have, and still continue to read and respond to every single comment that has ever been posted on this blog and if it weren’t for the conversations that you have all initiated with me, this likely would not have happened. So thank you. I’m grateful to have this opportunity. And I’m excited to share the larger story very soon…

A gander through Bali & Lombok

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One thing became very clear within minutes of driving out from the swanky, sparkling international airport in Bali: this was NOT going to be an accessible place for a wheelchair.

While I’ve learned to transfer into and out of most cars relatively comfortably – Hummers and massive pickup trucks aside – the minivans that taxis in Bali preferred (that looked like a Dodge Caravan that had been squished on both ends, making it taller and more compact) were a challenge to say the least. The sidewalks were narrow, potholed, bumpy, and their frequent stone steps made them completely unusable. Almost every single store or restaurant had at least a couple of tall, stone steps to enter. And all four of our lodging options – despite my meticulous review of online photos and numerous phone calls and emails confirming the lack of steps, obstacles or other impediments – indeed presented us with unexpected challenges.

But amidst all of these day-to-day struggles and unforeseen hiccups, we were blessed with incredibly helpful people who were always eager to help. I want to steer clear of the exhausted and overused trope I’ve read in so much travel writing and speak about the “friendliness of the locals” but I know no other way to admit just how helpful the locals were at all times. They were fantastic, never once approaching me in an uncooperative way or with confusion about how I enter or exit a particular building or car or storefront. We were consistently greeted with collaborative attitudes and helpful smiles. Yes we were tourists paying for their services, but I’ve traveled enough to know that simply paying someone for their work doesn’t necessarily result in sincere warmth and cooperation.

Even at the airport, as we were waiting on the tarmac to board our little plane that would make the 30-minute hop over to Lombok, Bali’s much quieter and less developed neighboring island, once the airport staff finally realized what we had repeatedly told them (that I would need assistance getting up the steep steps into the plane), they only scratched their heads in confusion for a couple of seconds before they sprang into action and one unfortunate baggage handler had the pleasure of piggybacking me up the stairs, inside the plane, and into the seat.

In fact, the only sideways stares and resentful glances I got were from the other tourists. The locals always treated me with respect but it was the European and North American travelers who made me feel the most uncomfortable. At one point, I practically had to hold Brita back from unleashing a verbal tirade upon an elderly French couple who seemed to go out of their way to be unhelpful and rude every time I was near them.

It was a wonderfully relaxing trip and allowed Brita and I to have some much needed downtime. I had never taken such a long break from my rehab and exercise but it became very clear that my body desperately needed this time to unwind, rest and relax. Every time I got antsy about my nonexistent exercise regimen, I reminded myself that after four years of going going going and working as hard as I had been, I was due to give myself a break.

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On the snorkeling boat to Menjangan Island

One of the highlights of the trip was doing an all-day snorkeling venture in what many people considered to be one of the best snorkeling places in Indonesia, if not all of Southeast Asia.

It took some friendly boat workers to help me on and off the rickety motor boat, but once I strapped on the snorkel and got in the water, I was in my element, loving every weightless moment and appreciating the opportunity to do a unique and memorable activity in a comfortable physical state, outside of the wheelchair and free of the confines of gravity.

While there were certainly some frustrations – not being able to explore as much as I wanted, physical pain and discomfort, and a steady flow of logistical challenges – Brita kept asking me if it was all worth it. If the long travel and the unfamiliar terrain and the different cultural attitudes and the physical struggles were all worth the effort?

After years of craving to go abroad and finally having the opportunity to feed my desire for international travel and novel explorations, my unequivocal and repeated response was YES.

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A slightly less lonely passport

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Brazil. Nepal. Slovakia. India. Finland. The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan (yes that’s the official name). Tunisia. Laos. Egypt. New Zealand. Norway. Peru.

Between 2003 and 2012, my passport filled with stamps from the many places I had the extraordinary privilege of traveling to. As a trip leader for a company with biking, hiking and multi-sport vacations all over the world, I had the incredible opportunity to live and work in a number of different countries, getting to know the cultures more intimately and having the chance to explore some of the less traveled paths. As a result, my time off from work while I was in these places allowed me to continue to travel and explore on my own, often times with little to no expectation or planning. It was as simple as finding a cheap flight and a fun destination and off I went.

A last minute schedule change to give me a week off from a long stretch of work in Tuscany allowed me to hop on a cheap flight to Romania and check out the land of Dracula. Killing time on a layover in Lima resulted in a chance stroll past a ticket counter advertising bargain flights to Buenos Aires so I had no choice but to pull out the credit card and book a flight for later in the summer. When my mom told me that she was going on a work trip to Sweden and I was on biking tours in Spain, I decided that it made perfect sense to squeeze in a trip up to northern Europe before continuing my schedule on the Iberian peninsula.

And so it went again and again and I was able to spend my twenties seeing much of the world and developing an insatiable desire to continue exploring and becoming exposed to different cultures, peoples, and ways of life. In 2008 I had to get extra pages added into my passport to accommodate the flow of visas and stamps I was accumulating and that’s when I came up with a simple life goal for myself: to have the number of countries I’ve visited always be a higher number than my age.

The last international trip before my injury was in January 2012 when I went to Colombia with one of my closest friends. Because it was the 37th country I had visited at that point, I knew I had a few years buffer before my age would catch up but for a long time, my severely weakened physical state as well as the daunting logistical challenges involved in traveling abroad prevented me from fulfilling my ever-present urge to get out into the world. This was the case until recently when Brita and I decided that enough was enough.

After four and a half years of not leaving the good ol’ U S of A, and countless experiences of hiding my envy and jealousy of my friends and family as they regaled me with their stories of travel, the two of us decided to fly almost as far away as possible and spend two weeks in Indonesia.

After allowing my passport to expire three years ago – a virtually unthinkable prospect back in my heyday of globetrotting – I had to trade in my trusty, wrinkled, beat up version with its haphazard stamps and sewn in extra pages for a blank, lonely new passport. When it arrived, I flipped through its empty pages, wondering if and when I could fill it with more country names (recognizing these as gross oversimplified symbols of novel trips) before readying it to get christened on this first adventure.

Gone were the days of stuffing some items into a backpack and carelessly jumping onto a plane with little planning or preparation, knowing that everything would inevitably work out. Nowadays anywhere I go, even if it’s for one night, requires that I meticulously go through a long list of essential items for my health and comfort. Add on to that the unpredictability of where we were going and how easy or difficult every single thing would be, and my packing list was just a little bit more complicated than it used to be, to say the least.

But pack we did, and I grabbed my lonely, blank, rigid passport and smiled at the thought of this new chapter as we headed out…

Next post: A summary and reflection of our trip 

Swim like a cannibal pioneer

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Throughout my journey of recovery from spinal cord injury, as I’ve maintained my focus and commitment on reaching my ultimate goal of getting back on my feet and walking, I’ve learned the value of setting and working towards smaller goals. The proverbial mountain I’m trying to climb is bigger than anything I’ve ever experienced and I have been, and continue to be, in it for the long haul. I’m proud of the progress I’ve made and the accomplishments that I’ve achieved (all of which I was told I wouldn’t do) but I would be lying if I said that my journey has been anything but arduous, full of challenges, breakthroughs, moments of immense frustration and moments of unparalleled hopefulness.

Because of the immensity of my goal, I have found focus and comfort in setting smaller, more attainable objectives and working towards those. The best example of this was the months and months of hard work I did that was dedicated to the moment I would be able to finally stand up on my own and ask Brita to marry me.

I’ve previously shared my newfound love of being in the water and swimming largely because of the freedom I feel from the weightlessness and the relief of pain from not having to deal with gravity and its impact on my body. Last summer, I set a goal to complete a 2.4 mile open water swim and I thoroughly enjoyed the process of training as well as actually completing the swim. But I remember that the moment it was over, I was already looking ahead to the next challenge. A couple months later, during a trip to visit friends, Brita and I swam in Lake Tahoe’s smaller, slightly warmer, less sexy and well-known but still gorgeous neighbor: Donner Lake.

Since I was seeking a new swimming challenge and wasn’t quite able to find an existing event that could serve the purpose (the swims weren’t long enough or they were relays with too much distance or the water temperature and other conditions were too challenging), I decided I would make up my own event and the answer couldn’t be more obvious.

Though I toyed with the idea for quite some time, it’s only recently that I finally put the pieces together and decided that my new challenge would be to circumnavigate the perimeter of Donner Lake, which by my best Google Earth estimates, comes out to 5.8 miles.

Yes it’s more than double what I did last summer, yes it will be at 6000 feet of altitude, and yes with my steady but very slow pace of swimming it will likely take me the equivalent of a cross-country flight, but I couldn’t be more excited about it. I want the swim to be about so much more than just my personal commitment to work towards this goal (I’m going to do that no matter what) so I’m inviting friends and others to join me in this endeavor. Whether swimming is completely new or a familiar activity, working towards a personal goal, whatever that may be, is what I want to encourage.

The non-profit that a few friends and I recently established (more to come on that on a future post) will be organizing the swim and raising money for our mission. If you’re interested in participating, you can join as a swimmer or non-swimmer (there are options to kayak, paddleboard, or just simply hang out, cheer and support), just comment on the post or contact me individually.

Because it’s in Donner Lake, near Donner Pass and everything else named Donner, the swim is the Donner Party Swim. For those of you not from Northern California who didn’t hear the story of the Donner Party pioneers (yes there was cannibalism involved) a thousand times as a child, educate yourselves here.

Before my injury, with a fully functional body, I could barely swim a quarter of a mile in the pool before gasping for air and calling it quits. Two years ago, I could swim no more than a couple hundred meters but only with a snorkel and many rest breaks. A year ago, I thought it would be nearly impossible to swim 2.4 miles in open water. Now, it’s time to work towards something much bigger and more challenging, to prove that I can do it, but also to remind myself that this will be just another step in my larger journey of recovery and reaching my ultimate goal.

Stupid comments and positive outcomes

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Recent conversation outside my local coffee shop. I’m sitting and chatting with my friend when a woman in her mid 40s, slightly disheveled but generally pretty normal looking, walks out of the café, stops in her tracks about ten feet away and addresses me:

 

Woman: Are you really in a wheelchair? Do you actually need it?

Me: Excuse me?

W: I’m just wondering if you’re actually paralyzed and if you need the chair or if you’re just using it, because…well…you know.

M: Um…do you really think I’d be in this damn wheelchair if I didn’t need to?

W: Well it’s just that you’re sitting with your legs sprawled open and you don’t look like you need to use that chair, so I’m wondering if you’re actually paralyzed.

M: Do you make it a habit of asking strangers such personal questions about their conditions?

W: Well, I know people who are actually paralyzed are usually very open about talking about these things and you just don’t look like you actually need a wheelchair. So, are you or not?

M: This conversation is over.

W: Well! I guess that answers that then, doesn’t it?!

M: You need to leave now lady.

 

She storms off, leaving me to wonder why she’s the one who’s agitated and exasperated.

***

In the time since my spinal cord injury, I have rarely, if ever, had any negative or insulting interactions with strangers in public. Initially, the fear of such an interaction terrified me. I was fearful of going anywhere in public, I was anxious about the looks I would get, the expressions of curiosity and bewilderment I would inevitably see on people’s revealing faces as they walked by me in the street, towering two feet above me.

But time and time again, I’ve been proven wrong. Ninety-eight percent of the time, I’m treated with civility, genuine greetings, and offers to hold the door open or move a chair out of the way to let me through. Of course, every single concession or accommodation that people make for me adds to my immense frustration at not yet being able to move freely on my feet, at eye level, where I want to be. Frustration aside, other than some confused, staring children who often don’t seem to know what to make of a guy in a wheelchair, I’ve become accustomed to cordiality and respect in public.

For that reason, I suppose I was due for a strange and unsettling interaction like this one.

I still hate everything about the wheelchair with the same passion and vitriol that I’ve had since day one. So naturally, I really dislike anyone noticing it or pointing something out about it. I continue to pray and hope for the day when it is a thing of the past and I won’t have to have this unwelcome companion with me at all times. That said, I’m not clueless, I realize that a society full of people who are upright and then a person who’s sitting down, rolling by is going to be noticed, but maybe because of the general progressiveness and open minded mentality of the people where I live, I don’t often have to worry about feeling too noticed for standing out, but of course this time it was different.

If the inappropriate and nosy questioning didn’t prove the nuttiness of this strange and sad woman, then my ensuing conversation with the cafe worker did. He came out, apologized for her behavior and said that she had ruffled some feathers with him as well when she purchased a pastry, ate some of it, complained about its price yet refused a refund, then continued to eat almost the entire pastry before returning to the counter and demanding a refund, which she was politely given. The point was proven: this person didn’t know how to interact with society and in the span of two minutes had angered a handful of people.

As she walked away, my friend (who has been a tremendous source of support and encouragement for me since my injury), instantly knew that I was on the verge of getting upset and deftly changed the course of my emotions. He told me that as crazy and weird as she had been, she was 100% right about one thing: I don’t look like I belong in a wheelchair. He said that he’s been noticing it for quite some time, that my overall health, confidence and increased strength make me look less and less like the vulnerable and weak person that I was not too long ago, and more and more like someone who’s about to jump out of the chair and start running down the street. He pointed out that I was sitting so unusually in the chair, scooted forward on the cushion with my feet on the ground and my legs comfortably spread apart, and the lady just didn’t know what to make of it.

I’m grateful for my friend for helping me take an awkward and potentially frustrating public interaction and treat it as a positive occurrence. In fact, within seconds of Mrs. Nuttipants’ departure, likely to annoy another self-respecting citizen or two, I had forgotten about the entire thing. I realize that had this conversation happened a year ago, I might have had a very different reaction but this time, I got the last laugh.

Standing in the Southwest

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We all have sacred places, locations that have a strong link to our emotions and memories, that register some kind of greater meaning within us. One of my most sacred and favorite places in the world is the high desert plateaus and canyons of southern Utah and northern Arizona.

I first came to this region in 2005 when I was working as a trip leader for guests on biking and hiking tours and taking delight in seeing their faces when they experienced this truly special place, unlike any other in the world. It was always the same story, everyone signed up for the trip mostly because of the draw of the Grand Canyon. The other areas we would visit were usually more of an afterthought, an asterisk next to the statement of having seen one of the natural wonders of the world, or as us trip leaders would jokingly refer to it, “the biggest ditch in the world.”

The result was always the same. People usually hadn’t heard much about Bryce Canyon or Zion National Park (not to mention Red Canyon, the Kaibab plateau, Cedar Breaks and some of the other places we passed through), but once they saw all of it, they almost always admitted that the Grand Canyon was just a part of a truly spectacular area, and the other national parks would often cement their presence in their memories stronger than the big ditch.

I spent a good part of three summers in this area, visiting these parks over and over again yet I never got bored of the dramatic cliffs, canyons and geological formations. So it was only natural that when I found out that my fiancé had never been to any of these places, we decided to make a road trip out there. In order to make the long drive a little less painful, and to continue to explore our own state of California, we decided to throw in Death Valley National Park too, for good measure.

I wasn’t sure how I would react to visiting these places again after an eight year hiatus, and more importantly, now in a very different physical situation, where I wouldn’t be able to do the hikes I had done so many times or share my favorite peaks and viewpoints with Brita. What would it be like to visit my sacred place but without the physical ability to experience it as I remember? Was I setting myself up for disaster?

The answer, probably not surprisingly, was mixed. On the one hand, it was extremely difficult to be in beautiful and memorable locations yet constantly feel limited by where I couldn’t go, what I couldn’t see or relive again. On the other hand, I was able to share these places with Brita, to experience seeing them through her eyes and taking joy from that process. Not to mention that simply being in these places, with or without hiking and climbing up to the tops of the mountains, was soothing for my soul. At the end of the day, seeing the late afternoon sun shine on the massive, red, sandstone cliffs of Zion confirmed to me that I had made the right decision to come back.

For the last couple of months, I’ve been practicing standing up by myself, unassisted, in a walker and while it’s certainly not as effortless, long-lasting or smooth as I’d like it to be, it’s a measurable improvement from before. It was only natural then that throughout our road trip we would pull the walker out of the car, and I would rise to my feet and at least get a slightly higher view than from the wheelchair. While it wasn’t a replacement for the inability to go on a hike, and while I still long to climb back up to those peaks and descend into those canyons, it at least made it a tiny bit less painful and a whole lot more memorable. This sacred place remains sacred to me, and nothing that has happened to me physically can take that away from me.

Grand Canyon
Grand Canyon
Grand Canyon
Grand Canyon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Zion National Park
Zion National Park

Reluctant self-promotion (sigh…)

AB19 Comments

I’m not good at self-promotion. I’ve always believed that a surplus of humility is more admirable than a just a splash of arrogance or self-obsession. The entire reason I started writing this blog was to have a way of sharing the story of my recovery without having to inundate my community with personal emails or unrelenting status updates that could get lost in the shuffles of baby photos, restaurant check-ins, flight details and snapshots of meals (seemingly the majority of my Facebook newsfeed these days). Call me old school or what you will…

Well, at the behest of my closest family and friends, I’d like to (still reluctantly) share some recent developments and accomplishments .

A few months ago, a friend invited me to speak to a large conference of Silicon Valley Venture Capitalists, investors, and entrepreneurs. Not knowing exactly what I could offer or say, I decided to craft a story about my injury, my journey on the path to recovery thus far, and my marriage proposal standing up on my own two feet.

While I had always felt comfortable speaking in front of a group in a variety of contexts, having presented in professional settings many times and at social events like fundraisers with my friends and community, I had never done a TED style talk in front of 300 paying attendees, which was the setting of this event. I spent a great deal of time writing my speech, making sure to abide by the imposed time limits and keep it engaging, clear and concise. When it came time to remember the key points of my presentation, I was at a loss.

My friend, a recently published author, conference organizer, and master of integrating comedy into business who hates self-promotion as much as I do which is why I am shamelessly calling him out, told me about the Memory Palace: a millennia-old technique using visual imagery to remember long presentations, recitations, or speeches. “I promise you it will work,” he said. With only three days before my presentation, I was a bit skeptical but I trusted him and decided to give it a shot, especially since I really had no better option on the table.

I drew out my own little memory palace, abandoned any other methods for remembering my talk and off I went. My presentation went quite well, and not only did I remember everything I wanted to, I thoroughly enjoyed the experience of being onstage and sharing my story with a roomful of people.

Since then, I’ve been invited to give more speaking engagements and have continued to refine my skills each time, all while still having lots of fun doing so. Following one of my recent talks, I met a very interesting guy who after a long career in broadcasting became a speaking coach and is now the premier presentation coach in Silicon Valley. Unbeknownst to me, he is also a regular contributor to Forbes magazine and decided to write a story about the memory palace and my use of it in Forbes. I’m including the link here:

http://www.forbes.com/sites/jerryweissman/2015/04/20/how-to-remember-what-to-say-and-four-ways-to-make-it-stick/

I’m enjoying these speaking opportunities greatly especially when I find out that people are impacted by my story and able to take something away from me and apply it in their world. In a struggle as big as mine, to recover from this traumatic injury and its devastating effects, knowing that I’ve positively impacted just one person is extremely gratifying and fulfilling and I’d like to keep that going. I’m open to other opportunities so if any of you have any thoughts, suggestions or ideas, don’t be a stranger and let me know.

Levels upon levels and the big building of recovery

AB27 Comments

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about buildings. I’m no real estate mogul, and certainly no engineer, but I can’t stop thinking about a building and how it’s constructed from bottom up.

I think of a building in the midst of construction and the stages of development it goes through. More specifically, I think of the levels of a building. How they get built, one on top of the other, each level relying on those below it and the tallest level, stacked up on the rest, claiming the highest height for itself, until it’s replaced by the next level and it becomes a supporting member of the entire structure, just like its brethren below.

Whenever a new level is being built on a structure, be it a 2 story house or a multistory skyscraper, there is so much that goes into making sure everything below is secure before the next level can be completed. Under construction, a new level always looks so awkward, incomplete, and bare. It’s only once it’s finished that suddenly, everything looks right, it all makes sense again and pretty quickly, it’s hard to imagine that building without that added level.

I swear I’m going somewhere with this…

For the last few months, I’ve felt like a massive level has been under construction on my building of recovery. After a spring and summer where I had noticeable, small and large achievements on a seemingly consisten basis, it’s been a….how would I say it….interesting…time recently.

There haven’t been any major breakthroughs I can hang my hat on. I don’t have any big accomplishments to match some of the developments I had in the past, developments I could feed off of and rely upon to propel myself forward.

So I keep thinking of these levels being constructed in buildings and how crucial it is for everything below to be stable, strong and 100% reliable before the next level can be built. I figure that all of the hard work I’m doing now is laying the foundation (pun fully intended) for the next breakthrough. I tell myself that my upcoming accomplishment must be a good one, since it’s needing all of this extra time and attention in the construction phase before it can be completed and realized. I guess in my building metaphor, not all levels are created equal.

Some are constructed and completed soon after the previous ones, while others are those needy, complicated, annoying projects that need all of those extra materials and time before they’re ready to be finished.

I keep telling myself that I can’t stop now, that I’ve put too much time and effort over these last few months building and strengthening everything for the next major breakthrough, and that my hard work will be realized. I’m looking forward to that imminent moment, when the awkward looking phase is over, when the next level has been built and when I can look at the new construction and wonder how it could possibly have existed any other way. Yeah, I’m ready for that moment to come…