Gone Page 11

  First camping trip to Yellowstone Lake when Brian was 5 and Tiffany was 8 years old. This began our tradition of annual wilderness adventures with the Cox family. Photo © Linda Olson

  Carla, Heidi, Tiffany and I in our Yellowstone kitchen where my very important job was to boil water and cook on a tiny backpacking stove. And to ration the reward for paddling all day—M&M’s. Photo © David Hodgens

  This serendipitous photo of my legs resting up against a tree in our camp in Yellowstone is one of my favorite pictures. It embodies my life after the accident; being able to adapt and get out and go with or without legs. Photo © Linda Olson

  If you look carefully you can see my distinctive butt-walking tracks behind me in the sand making it pretty easy to tell where I’ve been. Photo © Trilby Cox

  Brian and Tiffany grew up playing water polo at San Diego Shores with Doug Peabody and went on to play varsity water polo at University of California, Davis. This sport created a second family for them and helped define their lives even past college. Photo © Linda Olson

  Tiffany was very proud of being able to carry me at age 11. Photo © Albert L. Olson

  Dave has carried me many miles in backpacks like this that he modified with a drop-down shelf for me to sit on. People coming toward us thought he was a two-headed hiker. This was on the trail to Yosemite Falls with Half Dome in the background. Photo by an unknown hiker

  Thanksgiving at Coronado when Tiffany was in college and Brian in high school. Photo © Janice Hauser

  The middle-aged versions of me and my college roommates, Carla Wissner Cox and Juli Ling Miller. Along with their families, they’ve been the mainstays of our support team from the very beginning. Photo © David Hodgens

  Yvonne Espinosa and Carla and Roger Cox accompanied us to Machu Picchu, one of the most amazing places we’ve been. Our guides, Edgar Mollinedo Quispe, Jose Ugarte de Souza, Benjamin Muniz Martinez, and Washington Gibaja Tapia carried me up and down the steep trails using the backpack Dave had made or pushing me in a wheelchair they’d made for me. Photo by an unknown hiker

  I was honored to become a Fellow of the American College of Radiology in 1993. This is one of the few pictures we have showing how I walked independently with a quad cane. Most people had no idea I was missing both my legs. Photo © David Hodgens

  I interpreted thousands of mammograms at UCSD during my career. The perfect job for a one-arm radiologist. Photo © Haydee Ojeda

  Life has come full circle. Our granddaughter, Sierra, sitting in my wheelchair and cooking with “No-Leg Grandma.” Photo © David Hodgens

  It was hard to believe, but it was real. I’m going to be independent, living on my own again. And loving it! Who’d have thought that nylons, the bane of women’s existence, would be my ticket to freedom?

  When we finished unpacking, Dave pushed me across the parking lot in my wheelchair, into the hospital, and down the hall to the back door of the radiology department. The big, automatic door-opener plate along the right side of the double doors meant one less obstacle in my world. I put on my happy face, ramped up my energy, pushed up out of my wheelchair, got my balance, and took hold of my quad cane. I took a deep breath and told myself to relax. This is going to take all the willpower you have.

  As I walked down the long hallway, my perspective was very different. Walking required an enormous amount of energy but even more focus. I stayed near the right-side wall, pretending it would hold me up if I started to fall. My eyes were riveted to the linoleum, looking for slight irregularities so I wouldn’t lose my balance and bash my face on the floor. I was so focused that it was impossible to talk and walk at the same time.

  “Dr. Olson, is that you?” I heard astonishment in the heavily accented voice of the man who had been the radiology film file room director for many years.

  I finished the step I was taking and planted my feet and quad cane firmly, in as stable a stance as I could muster, before I looked up. Dario was a small, shy, older Filipino man who walked quickly, in a hunched-over, self-effacing fashion. He got close to me and stopped, recognizing how precarious I looked standing in the middle of the hall. Tears trickled down his cheeks.

  “We are sooo happy to see you back. Please tell me if I can help you.” I let go of my cane and hugged him tightly.

  I thump-thudded my way down the wide hallway, pausing at each room, thinking about the procedures we did in each one: sialograms, lymphangiograms, venograms, and hysterosalpingograms, upper GIs and barium enemas, bronchograms, and on and on. Radiologists perform all of these exams while standing in the room and insert catheters or needles for injecting contrast material so they can see an anatomical structure. We were just starting to do ultrasound studies. CT was not yet available at our hospital. Only two years earlier, in 1979, there were only two hundred CT scanners in the United States.

  I was lucky to be near the end of my training. I already knew how to do all these procedures; now, I’d just learn how to do them in new ways. I thought I’d probably need to specialize—that is, not be a general radiologist. But that was okay with me. I hated doing invasive procedures like angiograms anyway.

  Dave and I stayed just long enough to say hi to everyone and confirm to ourselves that I could truly get around the whole department by myself. No more guessing. It was going to work.

  Late that evening, balancing with my cane, I walked Dave out to his car as he readied to drive home to San Diego. Leaning against the car for support, I hugged him. We held each other tightly for a long time, tears running down our cheeks.

  “Sorry I’m crying,” I blubbered. “I’m really happy to be back. But it’s a little scary. I don’t want you to worry about me. I’m going to be just fine.” I accidentally bumped my cane, and it fell over. I leaned down and grabbed it, steadying myself against the car door. “Remember when you moved me up here the first time? I was scared then, too.” We were silent for a while. I remembered what it was like to stand there when I had feet that wiggled, bouncing from side to side with nervous energy. Feet that probably got cold standing there. Dave had supported me back then, just as he did again that night.

  He hugged me even tighter. “Olsie, I know you can do it. And I know you need to do it. To be independent and finish your residency. You’ve worked really hard to get here tonight. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered, “for staying with me and helping me be strong. I don’t think I could have done it without you.”

  He started the engine and switched on his headlights, watching to make sure my fake feet and cane got me safely back into my apartment. Then he was gone and I was on my own—again. We were regaining our independence. But it was different. We would be apart but closer than ever.

  Dave and I resumed seeing each other only on weekends. Over the years, we’ve told our friends that it’s one of the reasons we’re still married—working hard during the week without each other and then playing together on the weekends. When I was on call, he drove up to see me. When I wasn’t on call, I rode the Amtrak train from Union Station to Del Mar, just as I had for the three years before the accident. On Friday evenings, I loaded my wheelchair and overnight bag into a taxi that dropped me off at the train station, where I waited at the main entrance for an electric cart. I was just able to sidle up to it, pull myself semi-gracefully onto the seat, and settle in for a sedate ride through the ornate, high-ceilinged station, with its mission revival, art deco, and Spanish colonial architectural design. The floor and walls of the cool, cavernous hall were lined with travertine, terra cotta tiles, and inlaid marble strips. Enormous wrought-iron chandeliers floated high above the massive space. It’s a recognizable setting that’s appeared in many movies, and it welcomed me every week.

  As soon as we crossed from the fancy floor to the concrete passageways, I had to hang on as the driver mashed the pedal to the floor and careened around corners, zooming up and down the subterranean ramps en route to the designated train track. I was usually the only passenger, and the driv
er knew I wouldn’t complain about his speed-demon driving. Diesel-fuel fumes and the hiss and screech of nearby trains braking their way into the station assaulted my brain as the cart strained up the steep tunnel ramp and emerged onto the concrete platform.

  Coasting to a stop at my train, I craned my neck, looking for my bevy of big black porters dressed in their navy-blue uniforms. They hovered over me as soon as I alighted from the cart, waiting to see if I needed help. The loud shushing, in-and-out breathing sound of the engine and wind blowing between the trains made walking with my cane an adventure. As I neared the huge metal wheels, I looked down between the edge of the concrete and train and saw the tracks and gravel rail bed.

  I’d stared hard at the tracks the first few times I made this trek, challenging myself to see how I felt, to see if it would trigger any flashbacks or nightmares. Dave told me he did the same thing and had the exact same reaction—nothing.

  We actually like riding trains. Being pragmatic people, we see them as a utilitarian means of transportation with multiple advantages over driving. No more traffic jams; easy to read or study for the two-and-a-half-hour trip or be lulled to sleep by the clickety-clacking tracks and gentle swaying rhythm of the car. And to feel refreshed at the other end, rather than angry, tired, nervous, or frazzled—what could be better?

  “Hi, Doc, how ya doin’?” my favorite porter boomed. “It’s my turn this week.”

  As soon as I got to the train steps, he leaned over and scooped me up in his big, strong arms while I crooked my left arm around his neck and broad shoulders. He swept me up the three or four steep steps into the train, whereupon he leaned over and gently lowered me inside the doorway. I left him with a hug, a thank-you, and a peck on the cheek. The porters all knew my story and appreciated that I had no fear of riding the trains with them every week. They knew I was pregnant and absolutely loved watching me glow and grow—being part of our family’s journey. Dave says I have a way of making men happy by letting them carry me. None of these men seemed the least bit fazed by the fact that I’d gone from a lightweight to 110 pounds.

  Upon arrival in Del Mar, I strained to see Dave, who was always either standing on the platform or walking alongside the train and peering into the windows as it slowed to a stop. When he saw me, he bounded up the steps and swept me down and out into his waiting car. The crash of the surf a couple of hundred yards away and the salty sea air were the prelude to another weekend together, enjoying each other and our impending new life.

  I was elated to be back at work, where my days became predictable: be at morning conference by 7:00 a.m., work from eight to five, get supper in the hospital cafeteria, roll across the parking lot in my one-arm-drive manual wheelchair to my apartment, study for two hours, and go to bed. My pregnancy gave me more focus than I’d ever shown in my life. Scared I’d flunk my oral boards, I mapped out a rigid study schedule. I was even more scared that the baby would be too small or abnormal somehow, so I ate healthy food and got lots of rest.

  The staff and my fellow residents enthusiastically reintegrated me into the program, figuring out ways for me to perform procedures and operate the radiologic equipment. But, most of all, they fluttered around me as if they were an army of surrogate parents, attending to the needs of my unborn child. Having me back at work while I had a new life within me was the icing on the cake. It helped all of us believe that things might get back to normal after all.

  By the end of the first week, there was one elephant in the room. My fellow residents had been covering for me by starting IVs on my patients who needed intravenous contrast for procedures, but we all knew that had to change soon. It would have been nice if radiology technologists could have done it, but the state of California did not allow them to do so at the time.

  “Hey, Linda.”

  I looked across the room to see Eric, one of my favorite techs, standing in the doorway. He held up a tourniquet and motioned me to follow him, which, like an idiot, I did. “Where are we going?” I asked when he turned left toward the hallway where all the radiologists’ offices were.

  “Dr. Sanders and Dr. Woesner want to see you.”

  Well, isn’t that nice.

  When I reached Dr. Sanders’s office door, it seemed a little strange to see him sitting catty-corner at his desk, leaning over with his arm flat out in front of him. Dr. Sanders was a big man—six feet, five inches tall and weighing in at over two hundred pounds—who had a commanding presence and a booming, deep voice. I started to giggle when I saw him sprawled halfway across his huge mahogany desk, but the sight of Dr. Woesner pacing back and forth on the other side of the desk brought me back to my senses.

  “You have to be able to start IVs, or you can’t be a radiologist,” Dr. Sanders said.

  “I know, but I haven’t figured out how to do it yet.”

  “Well, put your heart-shaped tush down in that chair and start by practicing on me.”

  I grasped the armrest of the chair, hoping it was sturdy enough to withstand my sit-down assault, and plopped down. As they hit the wood chair, my prostheses made a loud clunk, another of my new signature noises.

  “Eric,” Dr. Sanders said, “tie that tourniquet around my arm.”

  In no time, a big vein popped up, just waiting to be punctured with the butterfly needle that appeared out of thin air. Dr. Sanders had with his other hand already cleansed his arm with an alcohol swab and was waving his hand over it to air-dry the skin so it wouldn’t sting when the needle entered it.

  “I can’t do this to you,” I blurted out. “What if I miss?”

  “And just who do you think is going to let you do this, other than me?” he demanded.

  I’d worked there long enough to know I had no choice in the matter, so I picked up the needle and wiggled around in the chair so I could line up my hand somewhat parallel to the pipe of a vein in front of me. I started to close my eyes but then quickly opened them. I had to keep my eye on the needle as it went into the vein, or it might go through the other side and cause a big hematoma. A freaky quote from Dave popped into my brain and distracted me momentarily. To him, baseball is full of metaphors for life: Keep your eye on the ball, stupid! And, lo and behold, it worked. I looked up just in time to see Dr. Sanders open his eyes, and we all broke out laughing. Eric pulled off the tourniquet, and we high-fived all around.

  Now, one successful venipuncture does not guarantee you can do it again, so when I got to San Diego for the weekend, Dave, with a box in his hand, confronted me.

  “Look what I brought home for you,” he said, with love in his eyes.

  To my dismay, Vampire Dave poured out at least a dozen butterfly needles, packaged alcohol swabs, and a beige tourniquet. What an awful way to spend the weekend.

  “I can’t do this to you!”

  “Yes, you can, and you will. We’re going to make sure you’re good at this before you go back to LA next week.”

  I wanted to sit down and cry. He was right, though. The last thing I should be doing was practicing on patients who were sick and trusted me to take care of, not harm, them. So I rolled up to the kitchen table and locked my wheelchair.

  “Okay, big boy. Let’s see what you’ve got,” I said. Dave made a fist and laid his arm out straight in front of me.

  “When you get this side, then I want you to do the other arm,” he said.

  By Sunday night, I was pretty good at starting IVs, thanks again to my husband, who loves me and will do anything for me.

  “Dr. Olson, please go to Dr. Sanders’s office.” The overhead announcement echoed throughout the radiology department. This was a common occurrence that struck fear in the hearts of all residents. I trundled to the back hallway and walked in with trepidation.

  “Yes? What did I do?” This was my standard response to the command.

  “Put your heart-shaped tush in that chair over there.”

  I let go of my cane and sat down. Dr. Sanders waited at his desk, twiddling something in his hands.

  �
�When was your last menstrual period?”

  “Pardon me? Why?”

  “We need to figure out your exact due date to make sure it’s well before the dates for the boards in Louisville.”

  Whew. I exhaled. No problem there. My due date was in early March, several months before the usual June exam dates. I’ll be svelte by then. None of those old geezer radiology examiners will know that I’m a new mom . . . and they’ll pass me with flying colors. I’ll soon be one of the boys, a board-certified radiologist.

  CHAPTER 7:

  Building a House and Family

  It was Friday night, and Dave was picking me up at the train station in Del Mar. As he put me in the car, he said, “Olsie, I don’t know how we’re going to do it, but we need to build a house.”

  I gulped when Dave looked at me and stated what had become obvious to both of us. While I was in LA, he rented the house that his parents owned but had left empty when Jack was stationed in Germany. Since all the bedrooms were upstairs, I had to pull myself, or he had to carry me, up and down, and I was definitely getting tired of it. Even though my paternal grandmother had told me my legs would grow back if we had faith and prayed hard enough, we knew the legless decades ahead of me would be much easier in a wheelchair-accessible home.

  Weekends became a pain in the butt. We searched and searched for months, but there was no such thing as a ready-made wheelchair-accessible house. It was as if builders had put their heads in the sand and presumed everyone would always have two functioning legs. One step down into the living room. One step up into the kitchen. Three steps up to another level. Narrow halls. Even narrower doorways. Cramped bathrooms. What were all the old people doing? Did they just crawl into bed and never get out again? Where were all the wheelchair users? Were they locked up in facilities?