On Loss, Grief, and Challenges

(This will probably be part one of many.)

The last couple of weeks have been a whirlwind. Between helping the kids over the finish line for the school year, celebrating the life of Dacia’s great uncle Jerry, and just the daily vicissitudes that come with recovering from a serious spinal injury, I’m worn out. Which is why it’s taken a while to muster the energy to sit down and write this.

More than a few people have asked me how I’m handling the grief of losing my legs. Or complimented me on “not giving up.” Or told me that they couldn’t possibly deal with what I’ve been going through. And the answers I give have been, in order:

• I did my all my grieving on the side of the road before the ambulance came,
• It is what it is, giving up won‘t do any good, and
• Of course they could, because none of my friends and family are weak-ass dingleberries.

Okay, maybe I don’t say that last part out loud. But if there‘s one thing I’ve learned through this whole ordeal, it’s how amazing, strong, and caring the folks in my life can be.

Anyway. Back to that first bullet point. It’s true I went through most of the grieving process lying face down on Claremont Avenue (as Curtis, Hailey, Neruda, Eric, and Shiraz can no doubt attest). And it’s true that when I arrived at the emergency room I told Dacia “I’m so happy to be here,” and I meant it fully. But it’s also true that every day I have to reckon with some part of my former life that I’ve lost.

As I’ve said in prior posts, this often coincides with moments when I regain some part of my life (coming home, getting access to the upstairs, riding a bike) only to realize that it has been altered by my injuries. My best time getting upstairs (wheeling to the front entry, transferring to the chairlift, riding upstairs, and transferring to the upstairs chair) is just under 13 minutes. Obviously a lot longer than when I could just take the stairs two at a time. Crossing the University Avenue bike bridge out to the Bay Trail, which took me just under a minute as an able-bodied cyclist, now takes me nearly four. Rolling over in bed to give Dacia a good morning kiss requires careful management of my legs, spine, and shoulders, along with significant shoulder strength to pull myself over using the headboard. But two weeks ago, when I woke up on Saturday morning, in my own bed for the first time in over three months, I was hit with a profound wave of grief that took hold of me for nearly the whole day, until I figured out what it was all about.

Because that was the first “group ride day” where I woke up in my own house—in my own bed—since the accident. Every Saturday that I could manage it, I would wake up, make waffle batter for the kids, pump up my tires, ride to the coffee shop for a quick espresso, and then go for a long, fun, and challenging ride with the amazing men and women of Be The Change Cycling Club. I had been riding with this group since 2020. Together we’ve ridden all over the Bay Area, up to Sacramento, in 104-degree heat in Napa, around Lake Tahoe, and more.

These folks (and these rides) mean the world to me—and they’ve all been right there with me throughout my recovery. Randy’s even been riding with my initials on his bike, which is making me tear up again just thinking about it now. But two weeks ago it hit me that I won’t be able to ride with them, not the way I want to, for quite some time. I need to get a handbike, probably an electric assist one, if I want to keep up. I‘ll also need to become proficient enough with the bike that I can ride comfortably in a group. And I’ll also need to heal enough that I can keep it going for a long Saturday on the road.

All of these things are going to take time. But maybe that‘s the point. They’re all going to take time, but they are going to happen. Or at least that’s my plan. And maybe that‘s how I’m dealing with the grief that comes in waves and at the most unexpected times—by making those little plans, every day.