On May 23, 2024, my husband, Jim Gallagher, entered the E.R. he worked in for 15 years, this time as a patient. Within days he was fighting for his life as an infection that began in his foot raged throughout his body, and on June 4th, his leg was amputated below the knee in order to save his life. This is an ongoing log of our journey.
25: Stand strong.
It was a huge moment and it brought tears to my eyes: my husband was taking his first steps on TWO feet in our own home!
Heartened by his progress at therapy, Jim assembled a walker to show me how he could walk with his new prosthesis. Nerve damage still hinders Jim’s right leg (the one amputated below the knee) from working normally, so each step requires mental focus to swing that leg and then lock his right knee so that it will support his weight as he moves his left leg forward.
Distracted by my cheers and tears, Jim turned to look at me and instantly found himself on the floor. I guess you could say he fell for me once again!
Jim was unhurt, but we stared at each other for a bit, wondering what to do next. How would we get him up? I couldn’t lift him. Did we need an ambulance? Should we call the neighbor?
We invented a crawl/slither maneuver, and Jim inched like Gollum the few feet over to his heavy recliner, where our combined strength was enough to pull him up. Victory and discernment caught up with us there in his chair; we now proceed a little more cautiously!
It’s not the end, not even the middle. But we’ve turned a corner.
Where we are at right now is just a small dot on the recovery timeline. It’s not the end, not even the middle. But we’ve turned a corner.
No, Jim is not walking freely with his prosthesis just yet. But he is standing strong. And the ability to simply stand on two feet gives him new steps of freedom that add up to a big change.
Think about it: Jim’s healthy left leg is not conveniently placed in the center of his body, so balance is difficult without his right leg. There is no way to lift Lefty without Righty because there is nothing to shift his weight to. Not only can Righty not help without a prosthesis, but the heavy, immobile leg behaves like an anchor, pulling Jim toward the floor as he tries to move. When moving Jim from wheelchair to any other chair, I need to hold the weight of that right leg and be ready to help Jim balance as he makes the transfer.
But standing on two feet, one with a prosthesis, is another story! Two feet on the ground gives Jim the ability to stand, balance, and transfer on his own. This small thing is a big thing. It grants Jim some independence and puts hours back into my day as well.
Here's an example: Most of us take the privacy of toileting for granted. We shut the door behind us, and no one needs to know what happens next! But without the ability to transfer or stand alone, all of those tasks require either bringing the urinal or commode to the disabled person, or doing assisted transfers first to the wheelchair, then the bathroom, then the toilet, and then all those steps back again. That adds up to a lot of time each day taken up with what used to be a few quick minutes.
It also requires you to think carefully about making trips in the car or going to public places. Do they have gender-neutral or family bathrooms where I can help Jim get in and out? Do we need to bring a urinal or commode with us? “What will we do if…,” and we think through the scenarios and try to be prepared in advance, piling all the solutions to all the “what ifs” into my little CRV along with wheelchair, dogs, and whatever else we need.
While walking independently is our goal, the ability to simply stand strong with the prosthesis is already changing our lives. And as Jim puts in the literal steps needed to build strength and adapt to walking with his prosthesis, it will be transformative. He makes progress in walking every week, with the help of his Physical Therapist, Troy.
We are so grateful for the prosthesis! And Jim is also sporting a new, custom wheelchair which is easier to handle. Changes like these are daunting because we are new to Medicare. How relieved we were to find both these expensive items covered in full!
Now that we are experiencing the benefits of simply standing strong, I keep thinking of Paul's charge to the church in Ephesians 6, where he urged them to stand strong: "Stand your ground," he says; "and having done everything, stand. Stand firm then...." And from there Paul goes on to describe the metaphorical "armor" we can all wear in our personal battles (see Ephesians 6:13-17). So while Jim is physically able to stand strong, I'm finding plenty of ways in which I need to armor up and stand strong, as well.
Fighting your own personal battle? Start by standing strong.
26: Find your groove.
The strangeness of an entirely different life in our same home was so disorienting at first. I was good at that old life! But I felt uncertain and clumsy and clueless as a care partner. Everything was different, daunting, and difficult.
Bit by bit as we learned our new roles and refined our routines, things became less awkward and time-consuming, more efficient and familiar, and began to settle into a new normal. Our new roles, rhythms and abilities are slowly carving a new groove. Could it be that we’re getting our groove back?
It reminds me of my adjustment last year to swimming laps in the mornings before work. I tried hard to look like I was a swimmer on that first day at the pool. The reality was I flailed at the water, gulped water when I wanted air, my legs sinking lower and lower as I kicked, until I was gasping, eyes-stinging, lungs bursting. Occasionally I stopped to put my feet down on the bottom just to suck air, cough up pool water, or adjust the goggles that were holding the water in, not out.
It was basically a train wreck, and it took a lot of determination to show up again and try to swim for just 10 or 15 minutes the next day.
But gradually I found a stroke pace that matched my needs, learned when and how to breathe, just how hard to kick, and when to reach for the wall. Eventually I could glide effortlessly, the water supporting me, and lap swimming went from "bomb" to "balm".
Jim and I are going through a similar change in this new reality of ours. It takes a bit of flailing about to get comfortable with what we’ve lost and learn some new skills, and we have gulped our share of proverbial water in the process. But we are beginning to find our rhythm, learn when to lean in to support, when to step back and let the other figure it out, how much we can fit into a day, and when to stop and breathe. We’re slowly figuring out what brings us joy, what rhythms and habits make things more efficient, how to laugh, and when to have hard conversations. We’re learning when to be “we” and when to find or give some personal space.
I’m doing things I’ve never done before—some badly, some pretty doggone well: managing the bills, moving a heavy table alone, barbecuing a pork rib roast like Jim used to, shaving a handsome old man’s beard, bench pressing a wheelchair.
Jim is slowly teaching his body how to walk again and his spirit how to embrace pain, do the hard thing, tolerate me driving both the car and the budget, push through pain, and be content with today’s accomplishments.
Yesterday’s pain has built today’s muscle.
Sometimes we inhale water and think we’re drowning. But more and more the laps are becoming familiar and regular, and we have small moments of triumph, feeling like we know a thing or two. Alone and together we’re learning how to relax, flail less against the way things are, and spend less time looking back and more time reaching for the wall.
Yesterday’s pain has built today’s muscle. We’re getting our groove back.
It’s a new, unfamiliar groove, but a groove, nonetheless. It happens when you forgive yourself and each other, get yourself up off the floor, try again, and stand strong. It happens when you keep surrendering to grace....
One step at a time.
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