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  “Do you think you can find a roommate? Would your sister live with you again?” Dave was washing the dinner dishes. It had been a month since our return from Europe, and both of us were tired. A fork slipped out of my hand and clattered to the floor.

  “I love my sister but I don’t want a roommate.”

  “I know, but you’re pregnant. This is my baby, too, and I can’t help you when I’m one hundred and ten miles away. What if you fall? How are you going to get help? How will you get to the phone?” His voice kept getting louder.

  I froze, unable to respond. I was going to LA no matter what. Dave’s temper and my passivity or aversion to confrontation are an issue between us. He can “see red” instantly. It takes me forever to get mad. But watch out—if you push me enough, I won’t talk to you for three days. “You ass-holy shithead” is my favorite term of endearment for him when I’ve reached that stage.

  I took a deep breath and waited. I was concerned about him. I suspected that this accident and recovery were easier for me because I could take physical control and work hard to make things better. The more I sweated, the stronger I got. While Dave obviously did most of the grunt work, he had more mental uncertainty. Am I physically strong enough to do what the doctors have said is not possible? Will I persevere? Will I get depressed? He also had more anger about the accident than I did. And then financial security was a huge issue. It was going to cost a lot of money to modify or build a house, to adapt a car for me to drive, to pay for household help. And finally, who would take care of me if he couldn’t, and what would it cost?

  I was convinced that his addiction to running was probably what would save him. To him, a day without running is worse than a day without food. It’s where he sorts through a myriad of issues, airs them out in his mind, creates solutions, and packs them back into his brain so he can deal with them as the day wears on. I learned only recently how he felt and what he did on those early morning runs the year after the accident.

  The radiology department at UCSD had offered to let me finish my residency there, but I’d declined. It would take a while for me to learn how to operate the equipment with one hand. I’d be unable to perform angiograms, bronchograms, lymphangiograms, myelograms, and some of the less invasive procedures. I was sure I’d be slow at first and might not be able to pull my weight. It seemed better that I return to the White Memorial Medical Center where everyone knew me as a hardworking, gung-ho resident and would be cheering me on. My dad worked at the same hospital, and my parents lived about twenty minutes away, so they could help me if need be. Plus, who could know how my pregnancy would go? But the overarching reason I wanted to go back was so I could live on my own again.

  Am I being selfish and self-centered? Am I pushing an even bigger burden of worry onto Dave? I knew that he wanted to take care of but not smother me. He still wanted me to be a doctor but worried that the collision of studying for boards, figuring out how to live by myself, and carrying our baby was an invitation for failure or discouragement or depression. He knew I was strong, but we’d been told that it takes a bilateral above-the-knee amputee four times the amount of energy to walk as it takes a normal person. Add to that the energy that pours from a woman’s body into her baby while it grows, and cap that off with the necessity of studying for boards at least two hours every night after getting home from a full day at work.

  After things settled down a bit, I looked at Dave and said, “I’ve made a timetable for myself to start studying.” I handed him an outline of the books I needed to digest in the next twelve months. Lists are our way of tackling problems, and beginning to study would get me revved up for moving back to LA. “If I get started now, I think I’ll have time to review the teaching file at least one last time just before the exam.”

  “Sounds reasonable to me,” he said. “While you’ve been doing that, I’ve been thinking about making it easier for you to climb the stairs here at home.” Now, that was big. In the beginning, staircases might as well have been Mount Everest, so I’d put a lot of effort into mastering them.

  Difficulty going up and down stairs had been very problematic for me. Everything I needed always seemed to be above or below where I was. This dramatized one of my major shortcomings: disorganization. Dave is constantly annoyed by my “shit piles.” He, on the other hand, is a neatnik who knows where everything is in his life. I’m the one always looking for things, wondering where I left them. It is so like him to be constantly devising ways to make my life closer to normal. I’m going to have to start paying attention to things. I can’t make his life miserable by picking up after me.

  “How big is this new man?” I asked, laughing.

  “Well, I couldn’t find anyone as strong and good-looking as I am, so I’ve settled on having a handrail installed on the left-side wall going up the stairs.”

  The railing was installed about a week later, and we moved Iron Mike up into our room the same day.

  “Okey-dokey, here I go.” I wedged my forearm between the wall and handrail, grabbing it tightly. Taking a deep breath, I hiked my right hip up and threw my leg up, levering myself onto the first step. Leaning right, I dragged my left leg up . . . and then I was standing eight inches closer to our bedroom. At this rate, I’d have to start getting ready for bed ten minutes before Dave every night.

  The next morning, I stood at the top of the stairs, wobbling a little on the deep, yellow shag carpet. The fastest way would be to butt-slide down, but I didn’t think Dave would be too impressed with that. So I turned around, clutched the railing, leaned over, and, putting my left foot down behind me, proceeded with my drunken-sailor, backward trek downstairs. Each step brought me more independence.

  I was scared shitless. It was September 1980, and we were turning into the parking lot of White Memorial Medical Center in Los Angeles. After a year of rehabilitation, I was going back. Back to real life, back to being a doctor, and also back to being an anxious resident who would have to study her butt off to pass boards the following June. I’d had twelve months to get ready. My fiberglass-and-aluminum legs behaved most of the time, and I thought I was ready to be on my own. I’d successfully mastered the activities that Donna, Dr. Gohlbranson, Dr. Webster, and Dave and I thought necessary before I was able to live on my own again: go to the bathroom, sit down and stand up from a chair, put my legs on by myself, bathe or shower, get up off the floor if I fell, go up and down stairs, and walk long distances comfortably with a cane. It had been hard work—sweaty, grueling, and oftentimes discouraging—but I’d done it. We’d done it.

  My priority when I got back to work was to identify bathrooms in the radiology department that would suit my needs. Wonder if they’ll let me put up a LINDA’S BATHROOM sign. Likewise, I was choosy about which chairs I sat in. While sturdy chairs with armrests are my preference, I’ve tamed chairs on wheels—as found in most offices—by backing them up to a wall or desk so they can’t roll away from me when I fully extend my right leg, throw myself up with my muscled left arm, pivot around on my right heel while swinging my left leg out into extension, and stand up straight without teetering too much. There are two risks to this maneuver: the chair could tip over or roll away while I land on my behind, or I could use too much force when I thrust myself upright, and then topple over, flat on my face.

  I never practiced falling because of the risk that I might break my only remaining extremity, but I mentally prepared for this possibility by telling myself that if I thought it was going to happen, I’d pull my arm in close to my body and tuck and roll, kind of like what big, burly football dudes do every Sunday on national television. I hoped I’d never have to do it.

  Setting aside the concerns about living on my own, I knew my primary challenge was to get into a routine of studying for the American Board of Radiology exam. It was a half-day oral exam in Louisville, Kentucky. The first part of board certification was a written exam that I’d passed a few weeks before the accident. Over the next ten months, I’d need to look at thou
sands of images and read the major texts about seven topics that were on the exam then: musculoskeletal, central nervous system, pediatric, gastrointestinal/genitourinary, thoracic, cardiovascular, and nuclear medicine. I was just like every other radiology resident in the country, trying to balance work with study. But I also knew that I had to pass, because, as a disabled female, I’d never get a job if I didn’t pass the first time around.

  And I wanted Dave to be proud of me.

  In addition, I needed to figure out how to operate the machines, start IVs, and dictate and interpret films in a timely fashion. I played all the scenes in my mind and had a backup plan for every scenario. Oh, and then there was the fact that I was pregnant.

  I was moving back into the high-rise apartment building, located behind White Memorial Medical Center, where I’d lived for the three years preceding the accident. I sat quietly for a few moments, recalling the first time I’d moved into this building—one week after graduating from medical school. My boyfriend, Dave, and I had rented a U-Haul truck in Redlands and gleefully packed my furniture and clothes for the one-hour drive out Interstate 10 to East LA.

  He had worked for Mayflower during college summers and knew how to do this. The dishes were packed carefully in paper and stacked in dish boxes; my clothes hung in wardrobe boxes. He’d loaded my furniture, miscellaneous boxes, skis, and all my camping equipment onto the van in military order. My pride and joy had been a classic, mint-green Bianchi racing bike with sew-up tires that made me feel like a superathlete when I sped along country roads in San Timoteo Canyon or up into the San Bernardino Mountains to Oak Glen. There were clothes for every occasion, hiking boots, and shoes. Lots of shoes. Imelda Marcos would have been envious.

  We’d giggled and flirted with each other. Deep down, we had a lot of uncertainties. Would our relationship survive the next four years, 110 miles apart? Had we chosen the right specialties? For me, the scariest thing was that, two days later, I’d put on a stiffly starched, new white coat with my name stitched on it: Linda K. Olson, MD. It seemed to me that seven days was not enough to turn a fourth-year medical student into a doctor, but that’s what happens. It was scary to think about seeing patients on my own, writing orders in the middle of the night, waiting for my pager to go off, and possibly not knowing what to do.

  I’d been scared and excited then, too, but this time I had a ground-floor apartment that had been graciously modified for my use. Within the first few months after my accident, the administration at White Memorial Medical Center informed us of its unanimous decision to create a wheelchair-accessible apartment for me so I could return and finish my residency. This was a full ten years before the passage of the Americans with Disabilities Act.

  As we pulled into the parking lot, I saw my new place and grinned. Dave, my boyfriend turned husband, was grinning and crying at the same time. It was bittersweet to see the newly painted, blue handicapped parking space welcoming us to a ground-floor apartment—a space I wouldn’t be able to use, because I couldn’t drive. It wasn’t clear to either of us if I’d ever be able to drive. Several times I’d sat in the driver’s seat of our car, experimenting with different ideas, like strapping my fake feet to the gas and brake so I’d accelerate and stop, or getting an artificial arm with a hook on it that could attach to a ring on the steering wheel for turning. I always came back to the fact that I’d need two extremities to drive: one for gas/brake and another for steering. My one remaining extremity was strong and worked really well, but it wasn’t extraordinary enough to perform this miracle. I kept pushing down the fear that I’d never be able to drive. I will do anything. It must happen. It will happen. For the time being, I can look out the window and imagine Dave parking his puke-green Toyota Corona there when he comes to spend weekends with me.

  A short sidewalk led directly from the parking spot to a sliding glass door that had been modified to become the entry, which I accessed with a remote-controlled, battery-operated garage-door opener. With the click of a button, the door slid open and I could walk or roll in. Click the button again, and the door closed and locked. Pretty cool! A remodel of the bathroom provided me with a wheelchair-accessible shower, sink, and toilet, plus grab bars on three walls.

  We brought very little with us. Furniture gets in the way of my wheelchair. A dining room table and two chairs, a small TV, a few kitchen appliances, and, of course, Iron Mike. Dave hauled the mattress and box spring into the bedroom and left it on the floor without a frame. This functioned as a safety backup. If I fell, I could butt-walk across the floor, pull myself up onto the bed, and stand up if I had my legs on or get into my wheelchair if I didn’t have my legs on. I had just a few clothes—baggy pants and formless dresses that I could grow into as my pregnancy progressed—and only one pair of shoes, which stayed on my fake feet twenty-four hours a day.

  I’d had my first, temporary set of legs for ten months. Permanent legs are not made until the soft tissues of the residual limb have stopped shrinking, usually three to six months after amputation. But because I was pregnant, things would continue to change for several more months. My doctors decided that it would be best if I waited until after the baby was born for my permanent, suction-socket legs to be made.

  Every morning, I pushed myself to the open side of Iron Mike and locked my wheelchair in place. Every morning, I had to look down at my stubby, scarred, and puckered legs that extended only about eight inches in front of me, leaving a lot of empty space in my wheelchair. Pulling a pair of pantyhose up to my waist, I smoothed them over my residual legs and gazed at the twenty to thirty inches of empty, wrinkled nylon that dangled over the edge of the seat. Still seated, I took each artificial leg from its resting place and pulled it partway on what was left of my real legs, threading the nylon pantyhose out through the hole at the front lower end of each socket, thereby tugging my legs partway into the sockets of the fake legs. I crisscrossed the wide, thick white straps over my pelvis and fastened them loosely. Taking a deep breath, I thrust myself upright and leaned over the front supporting rail, knowing that my wheelchair was right behind me if I fell. Grasping the protruding end of the nylon stocking at the end of the socket, I pulled steadily on the nylon so that it slid my thigh as deeply into the socket as possible. Then I stuffed the nylon back up into the small space left inside the end of the socket and screwed a valve into the hole. Left leg first, and then right leg. I stood up and wiggled my legs around to adjust the fit and tightness of the straps. Abracadabra—I was a biped again.

  Paramedics leaning over me on the ground next to the van. August 27, 1979. Photo © Bavarian State Police Berchtesgaden

  One of the happiest days of my life, graduating with Dave from medical school at Loma Linda University, Class of 1976-A. Photo © Albert L. Olson

  Adrian (top left) and Donna (top right) hugging Dave and me a few days after the accident. Afternoons in the hospital garden were excellent therapy, maybe because of the Austrian beers we bought in the hotel lobby? Photo © Jack Hodgens

  I endeared myself to my future in-laws by weeding in their backyard. I endeared myself to Dave by wearing a bikini when weeding. Photo © David Hodgens

  Vintage Dave running in his “Connie All-stars” (Converse All-Star shoes), baggy socks, ratty tee shirt with stretched out neck, and the dogged determination that has carried him more than 80,000 miles since we’ve known each other. Photo © Sports Photos, Coronado, CA

  Reconnecting with my radiology colleagues, “Rad Gang,” at the White Memorial Medical Center six days after the accident. It was hard to spell correctly as I started writing with my left hand. Photo © Linda Olson

  This is the list of priorities we made the first week. Dave made me record it so I could practice writing with my left hand. Photo © Linda Olson

  The very lengthy and alliterative introduction to the “Report Card” created in the evenings by our families and friends after they’d had dinner . . . and perhaps a drink or two. Photo © Linda Olson

  Using the alphabet to
grade our condition in the hospital infused some crazy humor into everyone’s lives during those first three weeks. Photo © Linda Olson

  Learning how to do one-armed chin-ups in physical therapy with the help of two Navy techs. We always made it look like fun. Photo © Donna Pavlick

  Dave and Donna Pavlick helping me stand in my first set of legs that looked like they’d come from a plumber’s supply store. The rigid sockets were strapped around my pelvis and attached to metal knees and pipes which were affixed to feet with non-articulating ankles. They were just about as comfortable as it sounds. Photo credit unknown

  Resting after a walk with Donna at Mission Bay Park, the day before Tiffany was born. I kept those boots on my prostheses twenty-four hours a day-including during labor and delivery. Photo © Adrian Johnston

  Dave holding Tiffany soon after she was born. Having children fulfilled a lifelong dream of his. Photo © Linda Olson

  Linda and Tiffany. There was always at least one kid on my lap until they were three or four years old. Photo © David Hodgens

  The beach north of Scripps Pier is where Dave took me in my bikini a couple of months after the accident and where we went with the kids once or twice a week as they were growing up. This was our home away from home. Photo © Linda Olson

  Brian helping me cook. This is the part of the kitchen that we built at wheelchair height. It was also perfect for children. Photo © David Hodgens