Moving Forward in Reverse (12 page)

As my paranoia worsened and more things routinely slid off my
tray, I began unwittingly traversing the path of isolation. Once the students
returned, my anxiety only amplified as my fear of embarrassment swelled to
debilitating proportions. It wasn’t long before I stopped going to the cafeteria
altogether.

~~~

 ‘Hey, Bonzo!’ a man’s voice hollered across the phone line
when I answered.

‘Savrsnik?’ I asked, thinking only Scott Savrsnik would call me
Bonzo for no apparent reason. ‘Holy shit!’

‘Yeah, man,’ he said. ‘I’m gonna be in Eau Claire for a meeting
next week. Are you available for lunch on Monday?’

The last time I had visited Scott and his wife, Jill, was before I
moved to Eau Claire a year earlier – before my illness. I wasn’t sure if he
knew what had happened to me, but I didn’t want to make any assumptions so I
just responded, ‘Sounds good,’ and told him where to find me and when. Somehow
I knew I should have asked the question.

~~~

Noon on Monday I was roused by a booming knock at my apartment
door. Using the outside of the myo where the rubber was less slippery (my
solution for turning a doorknob with no wrist), I opened the door to the
grinning, mustached face of my former college apartment mate. We hugged and
patted each other on the back. As we separated I could feel a hesitation in my
usually jocular friend. An onslaught of sweat broke out across the surface of
my skin as Scott’s eyes locked onto the myos.

The seconds ticked by as we stood in awkward silence – me,
terrified of what had to come next; him, traumatized by what he was missing.

I closed my eyes briefly, steeling myself for the conversation
that was about to come and said, ‘Come on in.’ Scott seemed to shudder back to
life at my words.

While the silence had been broken, the dividing cruelty of its cause
and effect remained strong, driving a cold fissure between old friends.

‘Have a seat,’ I said, gesturing to the sofa and watching as he
lowered himself onto the cushions, his face frozen in an expression of horror
and shock. I looked into his eyes, wavering halfway between the myos and my
face, and saw the sharp light of betrayal.

‘You didn’t know, did you?’

He looked up at me with those same distraught, pained eyes. ‘Is
this a joke?’

I winced. Wouldn’t that be great? If all of this were just some
elaborate joke? After taking a seat on the chair across from the sofa, I took a
breath and told one of my best friends the greatly abbreviated story of the
past six months of my life. As I spoke, Scott shook his head back and forth,
eyes downcast and brow furrowed as he tried to absorb what I was telling him.

When my recount came to an end, he simply sat quietly until time
seemed to dull the sting of my words.

‘Nooo.’ He shook his head vehemently. ‘No. NonoNO!’ I looked down
at the myos as the rift between us developed another crack.

After another painfully protracted pause he murmured, ‘How did you
contract the bacteria?’

I looked at him with sad understanding. Sitting with Scott,
sharing my story and watching it tear at him in figurative synonymy of the
physical severs I had experienced, I could again see the ripple effect of my
illness. It seemed with each passing day the reverberations spread further and
further and the distance between me and the people they touched grew wider and
wider.

I opened my mouth, wanting to apologize for the emotional trauma
he was going through, but stopped myself moments before speaking. I felt
terrible – in fact, I think I felt more for him than I did for myself – but I
didn’t want to develop a habit of apologizing for my illness. Instead, I
apologized for something else.

‘It’s complicated, but, actually, Scott, I’m afraid I can’t go out
to lunch. A meeting came up this morning. Sorry to bail on you, man.’ There was
no meeting and, in all likeliness, Scott probably knew it, too. But I could
tell he was uncomfortable seeing me like that and needed time to process what
he had just learned. I could understand that and wanted him to know I
understood.

He studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, sure. It’s
no problem.’

Together we stood from our seats. I showed him to the door and
watched as he ambled down the hall towards the exit.

Scott and I would communicate through email sporadically once
electronic mail became popular. He was known for sending out weekly jokes and
always made me laugh. We’d meet in person again down the line, too. The sad
truth, though: our relationship was never the same after he saw me that day.
Always a good man and an even better friend, Scott’s reaction was one of many,
all unique and yet so much the same. The beauty and the cruelty of friendship
is that you rarely experience trauma alone.

14

In order to continue holding the dual position of Assistant Hall
Director and Head Soccer Coach, I had to put in longer hours, a fact which
didn’t perturb me in the least. All of a sudden it was far easier to forget all
that had happened in the past months and simply devote myself to my work.
Players started dropping by the Soccer Office between classes just as they used
to before the illness. Whether intentional or not, their resumption of old
routines was monumental in helping me push aside any inhibitions or any anxiety
I felt about returning a changed man.

I was not only growing more comfortable in my old roles as Coach
and Assistant Hall Director, but also with the alterations my daily routine had
had to undergo. I finally managed to dress in an hour and was becoming more
adept at using the myos in real-world settings with each passing day. More
importantly, I was learning to cope more effectively with the obstacles that
arose – of which there were many. I looked upon each hurdle with a Zenon-like
voracity, taking up the challenge as one of intellect and creativity.

Just like my final months in the hospital, I had no time for
grief, anxiety, or insecurity. Emotions so detrimental to physical progress
were best left tucked behind the thick curtains of the darker alcoves of my
mind.

My routine was my savior, and I began to follow it with blind
contentment. Perhaps that was my downfall. Perhaps had I opened my eyes to the
reality around me, I would have been able to prevent our collision.

As it was, walking down the hall just before nine in the morning,
I was too absorbed in the security of planning my day to react fast enough to
the two girls who came sashaying around the corner ahead of me. And they, in
turn, were too caught up in their conversation to notice me.

All I caught was a glimpse of bleached-blonde hair and colorful
makeup in my path. I stumbled to my right in an effort to avoid a collision;
too little too late. Our shoulders jostled and I staggered sideways even
further, ricocheting off the wall like a Ping-Pong ball. I twisted quickly to
prevent yet another impact.

‘Excuse me,’ I called, angling my head over my shoulder as I righted
myself and continued past. The girl I had bumped gasped and lifted one
pink-manicured hand towards her friend for balance.

‘Ew!’ A voice cried from behind me. I started to turn, curious
what had caused her disgust.

‘That man with no hands
touched
me!’

I froze.

Her words seemed to reverberate towards me, through me. It was me.
She was disgusted by
me
.

Shrinking in on myself, I put my head down and subconsciously
pulled the myoelectric hands towards my stomach. My emotions shut down. A
familiar cold sweat began to break out across my forehead. Fight or flight?
Fight or flight?

I felt my heart race and dove for the sanctity of my Hall Director
office. The door was locked. Of course it was; I’d locked it the night before.
I fumbled with the keys – damn robotic hands! It took too many tries and too
much concentration to single out the correct one. A screech like the yowling of
a cat emanated from the hands with every motion of the fingers. I shied away
from the sound, recoiling at the way it seemed to resonate across the hallway.

The key finally pinched between two fingers, I fought to navigate
it into the keyhole, turn the lock. Without the use of a wrist, it was a trying
feat on the best of days. And today was not the best of days.

I felt deflated and traumatized by what had just happened. I could
sense the eyes of the other students on me, staring at the mannequin-like
hands, judging me for my incompetence and handicap. I felt utterly inept and
completely isolated.

The key finally slid home and I managed to turn the latch. I
rammed my shoulder into the door with unnecessary force and stumbled across the
threshold. I hastily pushed the door shut behind me  – locking everyone
else out.

My arms were shaking as I set the key on the edge of the
desk. My legs wobbled as I lowered myself into the chair. The only sounds were
my panting and the creek of the hands as I lay them flat across my legs.

In one fell swoop, she had managed to cast away the sheltering
façade I’d hidden behind. All that false bravado and purported self-confidence
vanished in the blink of an eye. Hearing her words forced me to glimpse the
very thing I’d been avoiding: to look headlong into the mirror reflecting my
shattered self-image. The broken figure I saw there revolted me.

Maybe this is the new “normal”,
I thought as I stared at the white, concrete
wall before me.
The rest of your life is going to be spent as the object of
other people’s ridicule. Might as well get used to it, Buddy. No one likes a
handicapped person. Children gawk at you, adults avoid you, teens scorn you.

I lowered my chin to my chest and closed my eyes against reality.
From a successful collegiate soccer coach and player to this: Could life take
any larger a turn for the worse? Before the illness, I would have gone out to
the soccer field to kick the ball around after a traumatic experience. Now I
couldn’t even take the ball for a walk like I showed the kids who attended my
camps to do.

Everything was so wrong. Irrevocably and irreparably broken. It
was all fake: everything I had felt, everything I pretended to be. I had been
doing the best imitation of myself. Nothing more.

~~~

A few weeks later I’d convinced myself not to fear the people in
the halls. But I also told myself that shuffling alongside the walls like a dog
slinking around a room wasn’t a sign of deep-set, unresolved issues. I couldn’t
hide from the fact that I only felt truly present when I was on the field or
talking with Cindy or the players. The rest of my days were spent hovering in a
hazy fog that isolated and distanced me emotionally. I was still there, still
functional, but it was like living with cotton balls stuffed in your ears and
dark goggles on: everything muffled and unclear – surreal.

The Fog began rolling in each morning when it came time for me to
don my prosthetics. I was much quicker at the process, and could complete it
almost subconsciously now. Of course, I didn’t really have a choice because the
central part of my brain seemed to check out every time I looked at the
prosthetics. Repudiating of that part of my life though I was, I still made a
point of being thorough with my care of the amputations.

I had never been able to fully shake what Dr. Mixter had said
about my right foot; the fact that there was no guarantee and I might still
lose my entire lower leg haunted me incessantly. So every morning I made a
point of examining the foot before putting the first sock on.

The primary concern was blood flow through the extremity.
Swallowing my repulsion, I would first examine the bottom briefly, then sit and
watch the artery located just under the skin at the upper heel pump blood to
what remained of my foot. In the first few months it was always a moment of
dispelling relief to see it pulsing, gently throbbing beneath the skin: a sign
that I was going to keep the foot for one more day at least.

Today, though, I never made it that far. On the base of the foot,
no larger than a dime, was a deep red hole. Leaning closer, I could see the
muscle tissue that once had been part of my abdomen stretching beneath the skin
that once belonged to my right thigh.

How was it possible
?
I would have thought something so
severe would have caused me pain but I had felt nothing. I knew the poor design
of the prosthetic inserts caused my foot to pivot when I walked, but I always
wore socks. And yet here was my proof: a gaping hole where my arch once was.

In moments I was on my feet and heading for the phone.

Two days later, I was led into an exam room to be seen by yet
another doctor in a button up shirt and lab coat. Everything about that visit
is a blur. Sue had recommended this particular physician, a fact which gave him
some merit, but still I couldn’t for the life of me hold his image in my mind
as unique. I sat amidst The Fog as he examined the foot, cleaned it, chattered
over his worked. He diagnosed the hole as “an ulceration” and prescribed
antibiotics to keep an infection at bay. A nurse would drop by my apartment
each day to change the dressing.

~~~

The nurse was easily absorbed into my chaotic routine and since
the foot never gave me any pain, I carefully paid it no more than a moment’s
consideration each day. It was perhaps even easier to disregard the issue with
a medical professional keeping an eye on it for me – I didn’t need to exam it
daily as long as she was there to do the gruesome task for me – and I had no
interest in dwelling on the possible ramifications a hole could have. Work was
more important. I pushed any contemplations or concerns aside and put the
finishing touches on the Soccer Atlas.

The Atlas was ready to be distributed come August when training
began. Shuffling the newly-bound packets of paper in my hands, I took a
stabilizing breath. Next season was my chance for a fresh start. Once the hole
in my foot had healed, I could put all the negative events of the past semester
behind me. We had a strong recruiting class and a full season lined up: just
the sort of remedy I urgently needed.

Where are we going?
I thought as I scuffed my way home, the Atlases cuddled in my
arms.
The top. How are we going to get there? With dedication and drive and
most of all, training and thorough planning.

We were on the road to success; I could feel it in the marrow of
my amputated bones.

~~~

With my time almost exclusively dedicated to training and prepping
for the season, I felt my energy soar. I was enthused and inspired and so sure
that The Fog had passed that I was ready to take on anything. When the hole on
my right foot resurfaced (probably due to all the walking during our two daily
training sessions), I refused to let it intrude on my newfound joy. I bought my
own tape and four-by-four gauze bandages to cover the hole as the nurse had
done, then carefully put my sock back on and continued as if nothing was amiss.

I kept it clean and tried to convince myself it wasn’t getting
deeper, bigger, redder. Besides, whatever the hole may have been doing, we were
kicking ass at the start of our season. There was no way I was about to let up
now.

As deep as the hole in my foot may have gone, I threw myself even
deeper into my work. And the soccer program thrived for it. In preparation for
a difficult schedule, we hosted a team from Russia that included players from
their National Team, and beat the University of Minnesota, a Division I school,
in preseason exhibitions. As young we were as a team (17 of the 22 final-roster
players were freshmen and sophomores, but we needed the speed and energy they
could bring), the season started well. We won seven of our first eight matches.

After returning from a decent trip to St. Louis, I opened the
regular Tuesday national ranking emails and scanned for our name on the list.
We’d started the season ranked number 19 in the country. As my eyes crept down
the list, I nodded and conceded to the top three teams, scoffed at the fourth,
and grumbled at the fifth and sixth, then froze at the seventh.

#7: University of Wisconsin at Eau Claire

‘Excellent!’ I beamed with radiant pride. I could have jumped up
and done a victory dance then and there but worry that a player might pop in at
any moment kept me seated; I couldn’t help grinning madly at my computer
screen, though. As far as high points go, this one was right up there with
winning the lottery in my mind. Maybe, just maybe, the arc of that inner
pendulum really was changing directions after all.

~~~

Alas, there was only so long my foot would be ignored. After
receiving the news of our National Top 10 ranking, it became clear the
infection that had developed could wait no longer. I had spoken to Zenon about
my issues with the right foot, and he had recommended a plastic surgeon who he
thought could patch me up good as new – err, good as new circa August 1993.
This was the man I called when I realized I’d hit the end of my rope in terms
of procrastination.

Dr. Joseph Rucker appeared to be about ten years older than me
with slanted blue eyes and a round, balding head. If the fact that Zenon had
recommended him wasn’t enough to make me aware of his reputation, seeing his
staff say his name with such reverence certainly was. There was no doubt that
this man was well respected in the medical community and likely beyond.

The clinic he operated in Eau Claire was elaborate, bordering on
extravagant, and spoke to the clientele he saw regularly. The waiting area
boasted two sofas and two red velvet pillowed chairs where most hospitals offer
only plastic, sparsely cushioned seats. With a myriad of indoor plants and the
soft, warm ambiance the place provided, I was almost sad to leave for the exam
room so soon.

Of course, the examination room wasn’t much of a hardship, either.
Wood furnishings and deep maroon cushions adorned the room. I took a seat
beside the mahogany desk and admired one of the contemporary art pieces hung on
the wall.