Stronger (20 page)
Aunt Jenn usually invited about eighty people to her party, but this year more than 150 came. Instead of the traditional barbecue, she had it professionally catered, and there was a raffle and silent auction. A dozen of my coworkers at Costco came and drank most of the beer. Carlos and Mel were there, along with Kevin. They were all part of our family now.
Two men were jogging from Washington, D.C., to raise money for Martin’s family and me. They started at the Pentagon, stopped at Ground Zero, and planned to finish by running the course of the Boston Marathon. I’m not sure where the money came from—I imagine them running along pulling dollars out of bushes, although that’s probably not how it worked—but it was an impressive feat. They were scheduled to finish that morning, so Erin ran with them the last ten miles, sprinting down Boylston Street and across the marathon finish line for the first time.
Afterward, the men came to Aunt Jenn’s party and gave me a check. Erin gave them her medal for finishing the Boston Marathon. The organizers had given everyone a medal, even those who couldn’t finish because of the bombing.
“Don’t worry,” Erin told the men when they protested. “I’ll get a real one next year.”
The men left soon after, either because they were tired from their run or because of my shirtless shenanigans, I’m not sure. I was feeling good, riding around in my wheelchair bare-chested, laughing and joking with everyone.
Aunt Jenn kept trying to get me to put my shirt on. She said the sun would turn the burn scars on my torso red. But guess what? Aunt Jenn isn’t a doctor. I’m pretty sure she had no idea what she was talking about.
By the time the beer started to run low, though, I was tired. It had been a busy week. But I was happy to be home, and happy to be with my family.
I got out of my wheelchair, sat on the bottom step to Aunt Jenn’s aboveground pool, and hauled myself up with my arms. I sat on the edge for a while, enjoying the sunshine and laughing with Erin. Then I flipped myself over into the water.
Aunt Jenn had bought Styrofoam noodles, in case I had trouble staying afloat. I didn’t need them. I just spread my arms and floated, weightless and happy, staring at the sky.
O
n Tuesday, it was back to the grind at Spaulding. Now that I had my prosthetic legs, my workouts changed. I still did the crunches and stretches without my legs, and whatever those exercises are called where you lift your knee (or in my case, thigh) across your body toward the opposite shoulder.
Then I would strap on my Geniums and try the same exercises. Suddenly, what had become natural turned into some real Navy SEAL–type shit. I thought the workouts were hard before, but they were nothing compared to working out with my artificial legs. I lay down on my back and tried to hold my legs off the floor. I lay on my stomach and tried the Superman, lifting my arms and legs straight out at the same time. The first time I did leg presses, it felt like the sockets were going to rip right off my thighs.
Then we’d work on the practical stuff, like standing up from and sitting down in my wheelchair. Michelle put a harness under my crotch with a cord that attached to the ceiling and made me walk between two parallel bars. I hated that; I don’t feel comfortable with anything in the undercarriage region. So she switched to a belt, and held on to me from behind while I walked.
The rest of the exercises hurt, but walking was the hardest. Walking involved mental work. I had to concentrate on shifting my weight so I could lift a leg. Then push it forward. Then put it down a few inches in front. I’d stop, focus, then lift the other leg. Nothing was easy. Every step took mental and physical effort. Every shift in my weight took trust that the leg would hold. I’d be huffing after two steps. By the end my shoulders and arms would be sore, because I’d been straining to hold myself up without even knowing it. It took me a full minute to walk ten feet.
Part of it was the Genium legs. They were built with so many fail-safes to stop you from falling that any unorthodox motion locked them out. In the past, you’d see people with artificial legs jutting their hips, then swinging their legs in a half circle, producing a side-to-side swaying walk. This technique took less effort with each step, but cumulatively wore the body down. With the Genium, I had to step correctly each time. The leg wouldn’t allow anything else. There were no half measures. No shortcuts. The legs forced me to swap today’s pain for tomorrow’s gain, and all the other cliches of self-improvement culture. Walking was the most tiring part of my day.
After walking practice, I’d lie on my back for my bridge. In a bridge you lift your torso, hips, and thighs so only your shoulders and feet are touching the ground. Most of the upward force comes from the legs, but it’s the thighs and core that hold the position. My legs, though, couldn’t produce upward force, because they were inanimate metal rods. And I struggled to keep my feet from slipping. Bridging meant controlling my weight while exerting maximum force and stretching my torso in a backward arch. It combined balance, strength, and flexibility.
“The bridge is the key,” Michelle told me every session. “Once you can do a one-legged bridge on each side, you’ll have all the strength and coordination you need.”
It was so important, she wouldn’t consider moving on to more complicated processes, like walking on slanted surfaces or stairs, until I mastered it. Until I could hold my two-legged bridge for thirty seconds, I was stuck with small steps on the parallel bars.
I could handle the physical exertion. I was used to it by then, and I’d seen progress. I was obviously stronger, if not necessarily confident. It was the rest of my life that was becoming a struggle. Erin was working five days a week, and the effort was wearing her down. Her boss was understanding, letting her take an occasional morning off to spend with me at Spaulding, or an extralong lunch so we could relax in Boston after my workout. They let her switch her schedule so that she could leave at three to beat the traffic back to Chelmsford.
It didn’t work. Even leaving at three, it took her two hours to get to Mom’s apartment. By then, she was worn out and cranky, and I was anxious. The joy of being alone in my room had turned into loneliness. My body needed rest, but I couldn’t sleep, so the days crept by. Mom was trying; she was working hard to give me what I needed, but I didn’t want to… hang out with her. And since I couldn’t drive, I was trapped in the apartment. It was a mile to any business besides a bank, with no sidewalk.
I had visitors, but I was beginning to lose patience with some of the people who came by. Aunt Jenn, for instance, was always trying to get me to open up about my feelings. Several articles had quoted me as saying that after the explosion, I thought I was going to die, and that I was okay with that.
“I want to talk about it,” Aunt Jenn told me. “I’m not comfortable with that feeling.”
I didn’t want to talk about it. Unless you’ve been there, how can you understand? I looked down that day, and my legs were applesauce.
I saw my feet, and they weren’t attached to my body.
Maybe it would be better if I didn’t remember that so clearly, because once you’ve seen something like that, you don’t sleep. I’m not sure I’ll ever sleep well again.
I didn’t want to die. No way. I wanted to live. But my body had been ripped apart; I was lying in a pool of my own blood, and when that happens, you die. There was nothing I could do about it. I was going to die. So I accepted it. I saw the good in my life. I was happy for the time I had.
Maybe that doesn’t make me a fighter. Maybe even though acceptance lasted only a second, until Carlos Arredondo lifted me up, that doesn’t gibe with the “no pain, no gain, work hard, play hard, never give up” style of looking at the world. Maybe a true hero would have screamed,
Hell no
.
But I’m not that guy.
“Okay, I understand,” Aunt Jenn said when I didn’t respond. “You’re not ready. I understand. But one day, Jeff, we’re going to talk about everything.”
No we’re not, Aunt Jenn. I’m not
that
guy, either.
I preferred Derek and Sully, who never asked me anything. I bought a flat-screen television, put it in my room, and we’d play PlayStation.
EA Sports. MLB: The Show.
I preferred the Red Sox, who were slowly pulling away from the rest of their division, despite their lack of stars.
But Derek and Sully both worked: Derek for Uncle Bob, and Sully for his stepfather (who was divorced from his mother, but broken family is still family). Derek often came by in the afternoon, when Uncle Bob gave him time off to hang with me. Sully would disappear for days.
So I spent most of the afternoon alone. Playing video games. Fiddling with my guitar. I’d break out my orange amps (another gift) and play my olive-colored Epiphone, the one the guy in Oregon had given me, until my damaged ears were ringing. It helped me forget what the days were really like. How my life was going to be. I’d learn to drive one day. I’d learn to walk. But I’d always be limited in what I could do.
I could never play pickup basketball. Never join a coed softball team. Never run. Never fly a plane.
I couldn’t go back to my old job at Costco, carrying heavy loads of food to the displays, turning rotisserie chickens, standing at a counter chopping vegetables. And the last thing I wanted was to be given a handicapped job. I didn’t want to be some sort of greeter, like a store mascot. If I was at the front of the store, with my artificial legs, it would be a circus.
I wanted Erin. She didn’t have to ask what I needed, because she knew what I was going through. She would tell me to lie down when she knew my legs were hurting. She would give me a hug when I woke up in the morning and tried to get out of bed. I had terrible nightmares. I don’t remember what they were about, but I’d wake up sweating and feverish. Erin would rub my back, sometimes for an hour, until I calmed down enough to lie still.
“Move in with me,” I’d tell her.
She’d sigh. “I can’t do that.”
She was practically living out of her car. She was staying with me at Mom’s four or five nights a week, but there wasn’t room for her stuff. She had her clothes in the backseat, hauling them back and forth between Boston and Chelmsford. When she wasn’t with me, she’d stay at her apartment in Brighton, or she’d drive to her parents’ house and stay the night with them. Remy and Michele had gone home for the summer to recover from their wounds, so I think her parents’ house was the only place she felt comfortable.
“Move in with me,” I’d tell her.
And she’d say, “Not here, Jeff. I can’t move in here.”
I needed her. Without Erin, my life was hell. I was lonely. I couldn’t sleep. I’d lie awake thinking about the bombing, feeling depressed and tense for hours. It wasn’t sights or sounds, or even smells, that troubled me. It was the feeling of helplessness. Of lying in the street with no legs and no way to get up. There were nights on end when I never slept at all, not for a second.
Most days, I’d start texting Erin after lunch.
What time u comin?
Don’t know. Tired today. Maybe I’ll stay at apartment.
I need you. About 6?
I’m tired, Jeff.
My legs hurt.
No response.
I’ll take you to dinner.
No response.
I love you.
OK.
D
espite my new legs and lack of sleep, I stayed busy in June. I went to my friend’s bachelor party at a gun range. Erin’s sister Gail drove us to Rhode Island for a toddler cousin’s birthday party, the first time I met her extended family. Then Erin and I went to New Jersey to spend time with my dad’s family, who threw a party and fund-raiser in my honor. A company called Now City gave me a free helicopter ride over Boston.
There was a poker tournament to raise funds for Pitching In for Kids, a charity that raised money to pay for children’s hospital bills supported by Red Sox legends Tim Wakefield and Jason Varitek. I blew the starter horn for the Falmouth Seven Mile on Cape Cod, then waited for Erin at the finish line with a sign that said, “Go Erin. Run Like a Girl.” I spoke to a class at Boston University’s medical school. I recorded a public service announcement for the Boston Athletic Association, the sponsors of the marathon, supporting and thanking emergency responders.
At every event, strangers would come up to me. They would shake my hand or want pictures. “Sure, what’s your name?” Women, from grandmothers to teens, would ask if they could give me a hug. “Of course.” Kids would ask for my autograph. “Do you want me to write it on your hand, or that napkin?”
I tried not to turn anyone down, even the people who wanted to tell me where they were on the day of the bombing, what they saw, how they felt when they saw the picture of me. I don’t like to talk about the bombing. I’d rather talk about anything else.
Kat, who was used to helping with crowds, often went with me. And I always had at least one of my crew—Sully, Big D, or my brother Tim—and not just because I needed a ride. I didn’t feel safe without them. I didn’t like looking around and realizing I didn’t recognize anyone. And my boys were fun, too. They were the perfect companions for the VIP section, where the booze was free.