20 Apr Growing Pains 2: Valleys and Mountains

By Beth Livingston

After my car accident, I was stabilized at our local hospital, before making the flight to North West University Hospital in Chicago, Illinois. There I was to undergo spinal reduction surgery, and the thought was that I would do my rehabilitation at the nearby Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago. I had family in town, and Chicago was a relatively easy distance for the rest of my immediate family to travel to and from.

The early days of rehab were grueling, humiliating, and depressing as everyone who has gone through it knows all too well. I did not want to learn how to put my clothes on with my chipper occupational therapist in the mornings, no matter how many time-saving tricks she might have to show me. Nor did I want to learn how to make brownies with her in the afternoons. Did I really need to know how to entertain for all the new friends I would make in a wheelchair? Eventually, I got a doctor’s note getting out of O.T. entirely. I was much more interested in figuring it out on my own, once I got home. In the meantime, it seemed like meaningless “house play,” and it made me infinitely hostile.

I was much more interested in physical therapy. I wanted to get stronger, I wanted to walk on braces, and I wanted to increase my sitting tolerance. I wanted to get outside! My first trip out, however, was brutally painful on an emotional level. Diane, my physical therapist was a beautiful, athletic 24-year-old from New Jersey. We were the same age, from the same state, and very much kindred spirits. We are still close today. She was my savior. In her, I saw a reflection of the former me. Watching her, I could hold on to fragments of how I used to see myself.

Diane was sympathetic, and realistic, and hopeful all at the same time. She knew that the painful plunge into the outside world needed to happen early, to get it over with. Get over the first time you are a little person, trying to order a stupid burger at the McDonalds order counter, across the street from your safe, sterile and fully accessible Rehab facility. The first time you have to go two blocks past your destination to find a curb cut so you can reach it. And the first time you have to feel people staring at you. One of Diane’s best friends in high school became a quad when doing his routine on the uneven bars. His coach stepped away from spotting him, and he fell and broke his neck. She knew that in just a split second, you could become the person people stare at, for lack of anything better to do, in a McDonald’s.

My outing was textbook. I went out, I got frustrated, and was rewarded by being stared at. I chewed the nearly tasteless burger, as I fought off choking through my sobbing. I was experiencing my newfound freedom, and the pain that it inflicted.

Time passed, and I became more independent. Soon it was time to return to the uncertainties of home, and the questions of how I would get along. I packed my things, and boarded a flight back to Montana, the place I had chosen for its greater outdoors and fabulous skiing. I wondered when I would ever visit a ski hill again and what that would feel like. I would soon have the opportunity to re-enter the world of skiing, when I met up with the folks from my local disabled outdoor recreation center, EagleMount.

I was thrilled to have the opportunity to relearn skiing the winter after my accident. Ski equipment for people in chairs was in its infancy, but there was something out there and a slew of kind souls willing to brave the learning curve to getting you back to what you used to love to do. Skiing was a microcosm of every new experience I have had since becoming disabled. It was frustrating, and terrifying. It triggered immense sadness and feelings of loss, and lo and behold, tiny flickers of accomplishment, and exhilaration. Skiing has become both a vocation, and an avocation. It is a part of my identity, as I am a part of a broader community of people with shared interests. It brings me great joy, and a feeling of connectedness.

I love skiing for many reasons and on many levels. I encourage anyone who loves the outdoors to revisit skiing, or to give it a try for the first time. The are many different ways to enjoy skiing, for many different abilities, and almost every ski hill in America has a disabled ski program staffed by some of the funniest, heartiest, kindest people you could ever bump into. To find out about chapters near you, visit www.usdsa.org (United States Disabled Ski Association) For information on state of the art ski equipment, new and used, and for general information, and inspiration, visit www.sitski.com. Get out there!

Beth Livingston is the single mother of two children. She lives in Bozeman, Montana.