Completion

I first thought that the final post of Leg+Frame would be a triumphant account of me walking my senior lap. Today, you see, was our track team's annual Chubb Bettels Invitational meet, named after a former coach. At Chubb it is tradition for each senior on every team invited to take a lap around the track, a flower in hand, their name read out loud over the PA system.

That was this afternoon.

Weather-wise, this afternoon was brutal. It felt like winter was trying to come back. Temperatures were harsh, the winds severe. Everybody was huddled together, swaddled in layers and layers of warm-ups.

At 4:00 PM, the seniors, myself included, were called to the finish line of the track to begin the lap. As normal, the lap would run counter to normal meet running. Non-seniors were instructed to line the infield to cheer for their teammates. A bucket of flowers was waiting for the seniors.

The first hint that my senior lap would not work out quite like I'd imagined it came when my name failed to appear on the list. I had to add myself in, using a Sharpie I scrounged out of my pocket, writing with the sheet of paper pressed against my hand. I was to go last. This presented several problems. First, since I had my splint on, I'd be walking slowly where all the other seniors would be able to actually run. In other words, there was no chance I'd finish anywhere close to anybody else. Second, as it turned out, there were enough flowers for everybody but one person to get one. The one missing out was, of course, the one starting last. Me.

Names were called and people stepped into their laps. They were running. I can't help but imagine that the running would make things feel more triumphant.

When my name was called, I lurched into action. There was a hint of run lurking in my lurching flailing limp, but I tried to control myself. I high-fived a coach or two and made it onto the track.

After about seventy yards, I got to high-five a series of teammates. That was by far the highlight of the experience before I left the straightaway, at which point the infield had cleared out, the first running event was due to start within minutes, athletes were returning to base camp.

I did not, as I had intended from my freshman year, run a complete senior lap. I did not, as I'd been hoping, even limp a full lap frame-free. I made it about halfway around—just far enough for my mother to snap a picture of me, smiling, in my Virginia t-shirt surrounded by teammates starting to spread out towards their events.

It was, in other words, completely anti-climactic.

And yet…

And yet it doesn't matter. I ran discus this afternoon, reading out the distances of the throws. And when somebody throws a personal record and you know it and they know it and it's six, seven, ten or more feet beyond what they've ever managed to accomplish before, that moment, that split second between when you see the distance marked out on the measuring tape and your lips start moving to read the number out loud—that's an incredible moment. Seeing the people you've watched practice and shouted encouragements to for weeks and days and months and years performing incredible feats is marvelous.

And yet the anticlimactic nature of the lap (or partial lap) feels entirely fitting. There was a large part of me which wanted the frame to be a Defining Moment, a moment which would reveal depths of my personality and forge me into a stronger person.

That wasn't how it went at all.

The frame was a piece of metal which held my bones together for four and a half months between the day after Christmas 2012 and the first sputtering breaths of spring in 2013. It simply was. The frame was not a cruel object or a kind object, it was an object. The experience likewise was neither cruel nor kind. It was what it was.

I don't know if I'm proud of myself for surviving the frame. I don't think I am. It isn't that I want to make the frame sound like it's nothing, because that's simply not true. In my case, however, the entire experience was fairly straightforward. Ultimately, while the recovery was a bit longer than anything I'd done before, it was just another surgery. The incisions are already nothing more than scars and I'm still less than a week removed from the removal.

Which, of course, brings me to the question: is there anything I'm proud of about the last four months? And I think the answer here is yes. I think I'm proud of not just rolling over and totally giving up.

And I'm proud that my I can finally say that I have two straight legs.

So. Here we are, at the concluding paragraphs of the story of how my leg met the frame. For a time, the two got along, mostly from necessity. In the end, they went their separate ways. The frame is headed to Ecuador to provide help to people in need there. I wish it the best. My leg is headed to unknown roads and paths and sidewalks.

I won't be able to start moving, really moving immediately. It will take a while. The former pin sites need to calcify and the bone needs to fully harden. I think this takes about a year, start to finish. But, at some point, because of this device, this dearly departed (fine, just departed) device, I will be able to move as I've been unable to before.

At some point, I will be able to move as I've been unable to before. I plan on moving. Actually, scratch that—I plan on moving.

October 15, 2012–May 9, 2013

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Leg+Frame: The User's Guide

I: AN OVERVIEW

Leg+Frame is the account of how I finally stopped avoiding the Taylor Spatial Frame and got my leg straightened while supervising track, reading really long Stephen King books and occupying the couch. More importantly, Leg+Frame is supposed to be able to serve as a relatively thorough documentation of the process of having a Taylor Spatial Frame, from placement to removal. The goal, fist and foremost, is to be able to provide some idea of what somebody entering a frame can expect.

II: USER'S GUIDE

The blog is designed to be read from the earliest entry to the final entry. There are 65 entries in total. Because the blog was being written for an active audience, there is some continuity from post to post. You could skip about if you want. At some later date, I'll tag all the posts to make all that easier.

Scattered throughout, there are eight backstory posts which are designed to provide some context for the main narrative of the blog as well as to give some idea of just where I'm coming from. Those are designed to be read one after the other. Unfortunately, that's kind of hard because I wasn't that good about writing backstory entries when I said I would (or planned to). I'll tag all of those to make that a bit easier. Still, in the grand scheme of things, just starting with the earliest entry is probably the way to go.

III: IF YOU DON'T HAVE MUCH TIME

I realize that reading 65 entries to figure out some basic facts about life with a Taylor Spatial Frame is rather a lot to ask. That's is the purpose behind this entry, to provide a sort of SparkNotes account of what life is like with a frame.

General warning: Not all frames are created equal. Depending on your doctor's preferences, your experience could vary wildly from mine. Additional factors which change things up include the amount of correction which needs to be made, whether or not the frame was a pre-planned event, whether or not any lengthening of bone needs to take place, etc.

Frame placement: The procedure to place my frame took about three hours, though that three hour figure includes time to remove some unrelated bone growths. I don't know what the average time to place a frame is, but two to three hours sounds fairly reasonable. Also, expect a hospital stay of two to four days. Really, though, you should ask your doctor. I think this can vary from case to case.

Pain after placement: Keep up with your pain medicine. I had a night where I got behind on pain medicine (this was in the hospital) and sleep was pretty rough. I can't remember what the pain felt like, unfortunately. Also, for anybody wondering, I was on a combination of epidural/morphine for the first few days. That was incredibly effective.

Strut adjustments: Follow instructions. Except for the final set, none of my adjustments were painful. The final set of adjustments was a two-in-one (two days' worth of adjusting, one adjustment) and there was some discomfort for the rest of the day, though nothing in the morning.

Walking: My progression towards walking was slow but steady. I started in the wheelchair, moved to the walker, moved to walking. It was very much as I felt comfortable (yep, you'll have to gauge that for yourself). Once I got walking normally, which took perhaps six to eight weeks, I was at more or less full mobility.

Going for walks: Once you're able to, going for walks can be really fun (that was something I didn't do enough of). Still, be careful—there was one time where I went on a walk and the next morning I found out that the frame had started bleeding while I was walking.

Furniture: Frames resting on cushions tend to make dents in cushions. The frame as a whole is a remarkably effective weapon against wood and other surfaces. If you have valuable furniture, you should probably be careful.

Doorways: Again, be careful. I bashed the frame against the doorway a number of times. Hitting the frame against objects such as doorways (or tables or people's legs or etc.) didn't hurt me at all—I could sense it, but no pain. For the object being hit, the experience was less pleasant.

Stairs: Doable. In the beginning, while the frame is non-weight-bearing, hopping up the stairs while holding onto the railing is effective. Ascending the stairs in a sitting position with the frame extended in front of you also works quite well. In both cases, have somebody supervise your stair-going. After you're weight-bearing, life gets easier. Stairs did not provide a huge obstacle to me, but it's probably best to follow the doctor's advice on this one. My main concern with stairs, in the end, was more geometric than anything else—on steep staircases, frames don't necessarily fit so hot.

Aisles, tables, seats: Your frame will not fit beneath every table, will not go through every aisle, will not allow you to sit in some seats (economy class on the airplane could be tricky). Listen to necessity on this one, but just be aware that frames do not fit in all places.

Running: You probably shouldn't run if your doctor doesn't tell you to.

Jumping/leaping: I'd say beware. You don't want your leg to break.

Sleeping: I needed to reposition myself a lot before I was able to fall asleep.

Pain: As far as soreness goes I really had no pain, which is apparently not typical of the experience. I suppose the only advice I can give here is use pain medicine if needed and remember that the frame isn't forever. One of the pin sites developed a callus, which rubbed weirdly when I walked and caused discomfort. If you think one of your pin sites needs oiling, vasoline works pretty well.

Pin care: Pin care was what scared me the most. Assuming no peroxide is used, you should be just fine. Saline and q-tips were the initial combination used to clean my pins; it stung a bit, but nothing too extreme (to put it into perspective, I'd say pin care was preferable to being stung by a bee). At times, the pins would need some more agressive help, which did hurt and caused them to be sore. This only happened two or three times. I think it just comes with having a frame. Most of the time, I was in charge of my own pin care. I simply made sure, while showering, to get the pin sites sudsy. This was very effective. I got lots of praise for having clean pin sites. This made me feel good.

Pin site infections: Didn't have one. From what Dr. Sundberg said, oral antibiotics can serve to help take care of those. I did have an antibacterial paste which I applied to the pin site with the callus when that got a bit red. The antibacterial paste did the trick.

X-rays: Side view x-rays should be really easy to get. However, if they want a frontal view of the frame, sandbags might be required since frames are rounded and tend to roll.

Looking at the frame: I took my time in being able to look at the thing, which was probably a mistake. It's a part of your body (if you don't want to sound so attached to the thing, you can refer to it as an extension of your body) for months, at least. Also, pin care is much easier if you're willing to look at the thing.

Crowds: Be careful! People don't necessarily look down at where frames tend to lurk. Frames don't necessarily care one way or the other if a stranger is in their way.

Energy: Wearing a frame takes a lot of energy. Seriously. Expect to have less endurance and be more tired than in normal life.

Motivation: This can be tricky. The trick for me was a) having fantastic people in my life and b) trying to stick to as normal a routine as I could, including activities such as helping out with track and not quitting school.

Clothing: Since I had a frame on my lower leg, I'm going to write this bit about frames on the lower leg. Upper leg is going to be trickier and I'm not really sure if they do arm frames. First, underwear. Either relatively large boxers, knitted stitch so they're stretchy (my set was Fruit of the Loom, purchased at Target, so they're not hard to find) or underwear with velcro sides (search the Internet) will do. I'd go with the large knitted stitch boxers, as they're much cheaper and much more comfortable. Second, pants. From what I've heard, basketball snap-on warm-up pants would work well. I had a pair of cargo pants that was fairly nice for the occasions where I wanted to feel a bit more normal. Sweatpants, however, are key. Use women's sizes, as those accomodate the frame better without dragging on the ground so much. Make sure the fabric stretches a bit. Be prepared to only use the sweatpants for a few months, as the frame will absolutely chew through the pants. Many of the pairs I was wearing were quite literally shredded. For more formal occasions, things get harder. My mother customized a pair of khakis, but customizing pants requires a lot of time, energy and a sewing machine. It's doable (for lower leg frames: below the knee, add a panel of fabric in to increase the diameter; above the knee: add a zipper so the pant leg will go over the frame in the first place), but really does take time.

Pin caps: Pin caps fall off. When they do, just tape over the end of the pins. The pins will still eat anything placed on top of them (e.g., sweatpants), but the devouring will be a little bit less enthused.

Dogs: Dogs apparently enjoy sticking their snouts between the struts of a Taylor Spatial Frame and sniffing. This can be a bit awkward. Watch out.

Cold: While one would think that metal pins going into one's bones would make avoiding the cold a top priority (and I deluded myself into thinking this for a little), I found that this wasn't really the case. In the cold, the frame does tighten up a little bit, but otherwise does not hurt. The tightening is not a painful sensation and, to be honest, I barely noticed it. It is, however, a bit bizarre.

Frame removal: The bad news is you need to go into the operating room. The good news is the procedure is very quick. I experienced some soreness for a few days afterwards. I have to wear a splint for about three weeks. The splint really does limit motion, but three weeks isn't too bad. Also, when you get the frame off you get to reclaim your leg as your own, as opposed to being a possession shared by you and the frame.

Pin site scarring: I believe the scars are for life. I was at dinner with my father and some of his friends, and one of his friends had worn a frame a while ago. There was some dimpling at the old pin sites but nothing really glaring. My pin sites are already fading pretty quickly into obscurity, which is really quite fantastic.

Again, this list is only based on my personal experience, so take everything I say with a grain of salt. Additionally, I ought to note that while this list covers many of the aspects of wearing the frame, it does not cover everything. What it does cover is the objective stuff that you can put in a list and dedicate a single blog post to. Most of wearing a frame, I discovered, is mental. It is getting used to having multiple metal rods going into your bone, restricting activity and constraining you to a sitting or reclining position for long stretches of time. That's where the rest of Leg+Frame comes in.

Edit, October 8, 2013—Following the completion of Leg+Frame, I have started work on a sequel blog which covers life after the frame's removal. It is, appropriately enough, called Leg After Frame. 

A Look Towards the Future and a Note of Thanks

It's hard to believe that it's been less than a week since my final surgery (yes, I think the frame removal will be it for me and the operating room, barring emergencies). Less than a week ago, my leg looked something like this:

In the waiting room for surgery at Gilette Children's Hospital, St. Paul Campus.  Note the sweatpants, thoroughly destroyed after months of wear (none of my five-ish pairs of Taylor Spatial Frame sweatpants survived the experience).

Fifteen minutes or so in the operating room transformed the leg into the following:

In the car after discharge on May 3 (in case anybody was wondering, I spent less than an hour in the hospital after regaining consciousness, from what I can remember—it was a really short, really easy stay). Please note the lack of bulging metal frame, though if you look closely, you can see where the pins poked holes through the fabric.

That's more or less what my leg looks like at the moment when fully covered by sweatpants and splint. Uncovered by sweatpants and splint, well, it looks incredibly normal. It's healing fast. I think within a month or so you'll barely be able to tell I even had a frame. Then again, another thrower described my leg today as looking as if it had a couple bullet wounds…not sure what to make of that.

The leg, minus frame; frontal view. You can see all five halfpin sites, a piano wire pin site (to the side) and two incisions, all from December.

The leg, minus frame, side view. Most visible here are the ankle incision from December and a piano wire pin site. You can also see a sort of groove in the leg, which is where two of the halfpins used to reside. I'm not sure if that will go away or not. Can't say I really mind that much. My former "second kneecap" is gone, the groove isn't too big or noticeable, the leg is straight.

And there my legs are. Leg which never had a frame and leg which was plus frame but is now minus frame.

So I'm done now. I don't know what more there is to say. Once upon a time, my right leg was not straight. After spending years fearfully avoiding the Taylor Spatial Frame, I bit the bullet and spent the final week of 2012 in the hospital with a leg newly adhered to my leg. In mid-January, my leg was at last straight. In March, I managed to get myself back to track and back into the swing of things. And a week or so ago, I parted ways with the frame.

This blog, when completed tomorrow, will span approximately six and a half months and 65 entries, which is an incredible number (I'd try to provide a word count, but a) it isn't yet complete and b) that would really take a lot of work). I have received some really wonderful feedback and in the end, though Leg+Frame has taken many, many hours to maintain it has been completely, one hundred percent worthwhile. I know I've benefited from having this venue to channel some of my frame experience and I hope that others get some use out of this blog as well later on down the line.

As far as what I myself will be doing later on down the line, first priority is going to college. I'll be entering the University of Virginia in the fall, which is incredibly exciting (being a native, I adore Charlottesville) and a bit intimidating (though this is part of the reason I chose the school, it is incredibly different from the schools I've been in up to now). With the leg, I'm mostly just waiting on word from Dr. Sundberg as far as returning to activities. I'm not in any physical shape at the moment and getting myself into shape is an incredibly high priority. This summer I hope to walk, bike and swim a solid amount. We have a dog, Boone the Enthusiastic English Cocker Spaniel, who loves walking and I think he and I might become really, really good friends in the next few months, once I'm cleared to leave this splint behind.

Beyond that, I want to run. In theory, if I got in better shape I'd really like running. I like the feeling of motion, I like the simplicity of the concept, I like knowing that I can endure and to me, running and endurance seem to go hand-in-hand. Also, after so long being not able to run, I think it's about time. I spent however many months in this frame so I could do more activities, I want to run. There are about a bazillion reasons why it shouldn't work (even though I've had all these surgeries, my legs still have issues and I haven't run before and and and and…). But, hey, it wouldn't be the first time I've done something which I probably shouldn't have (for example: throwing).

My numeric running-related goal is a 27 minute 5K, though I think 25 minutes would be pretty neat as well. I just need to find somebody to help me learn how to run now…

Also, once I get cleared, I want to indulge one of my many obsessions. Not dinosaurs, not box office numbers, not the phrase "Carthago delenda est," but roller coasters. When wearing a Taylor Spatial Frame, one is not allowed to ride coasters, which is rather sad. I intend to indulge myself the second I'm allowed to.

But, first and foremost, I'm going to just try to enjoy life with a straight leg. I want to ski and walk and run and ride roller coasters and just relish not having a metal cage circling/piercing my tibia/fibula. In case anybody's wondering, I fully intend to create another blog to cover my life after frame. It won't be as focused as this blog is and I think the entries might be shorter. The main reason Leg+Frame is ending now is I think that a 65-entry blog on wearing a Taylor Spatial Frame is a bit unwieldy, particularly for somebody entering the blog trying to get an idea of what wearing a frame might be like (which is the primary purpose for this thing).

Now, this isn't a particularly graceful transition from plans to thanks, but before I move on with my post-frame life, there are some people I want to take the time to thank right here, right now for the help they've given me with the surgeries, with the leg, with just getting through. In earlier entries, I've generally tried to avoid using people's names, out of respect to their privacy. For those who I haven't mentioned by some name earlier in the blog, I'll use initials. This isn't a full list but simply a list of those whose contributions were so great I'd feel awful if they weren't specifically mentioned here.

I'm fully aware that many of these people will never read this entry. That's fine. I just want to get these thanks out in the open.

So…

Thanks to Dr. Abel, the excellent surgeon who started fixing my bones. Your contributions to my life have been…well, I don't know how to quantify what you were able to do. I'm not sure I can state how lucky I got when I wound up with Dr. Abel as my orthopedic surgeon.

On that line, thanks to Dr. Sundberg, who straightened my leg and opened my future.

Thanks to Coach D. and the other Blake School track coaches, for letting me on the team and, in doing so, giving me access to some many wonderful opportunities and experiences and, this year, helping me get out of the Recovery Couch rut. Track has been a powerful, affirming experience and there is no way I can thank you all enough.

To Jake and the other throwers, for welcoming me into the fold and helping me improve my throwing even though they gained nothing from it.

To BTL, for providing needed company and good moments and for pushing my wheelchair and so much more. That sentence doesn't do a particularly good job of expressing how helpful you've been, but at least it puts down some sort of outline.

To EAM (and her parents), for always being available when I needed somebody to talk to and for being a wonderful host in March. Wearing a frame can be a long and grueling process. You raised my spirits many, many times. Thanks.

To MLP, who managed to understand so much. I'm not sure if I've actually tried telling you what a difference you made just by listening, especially in those earlier days, but it was a profound difference.

To DD, whose kindness and generosity have been an inspiration for years and who provided valuable support during the frame experience (and afterwards). I was incredibly fortunate to have you for a teacher so many years ago and have been even more fortunate to have been able to keep in touch.

To the brothers, who, despite themselves, provided lots and lots of desperately needed company and kept me from going absolutely insane from loneliness. CLHP, for helping me get into school every day for weeks and weeks (pushing a wheelchair might not be as hard as swim practice, but I know it isn't always the easiest) and for staying with me the first night at the hospital. JLEP, for always being sporty and enthusiastic. OSP, who spent days upon days with me in the back.

To Sunny the Golden Retriever and the other dogs, who were at least present (albeit asleep) most of the time. Barking is not always appreciated, but cheerfulness and snuggling normally is.

To Stephen King, who, despite scaring me off the frame for years with On Writing nevertheless provided some of the stories which kept me from slipping entirely into mindlessness.

To my father, who provided me with an almost uncountable number of opportunities to escape the house on errands and who was just there for me (and who also helped me clean myself for the first long weeks).

To my mother, who raised me and encouraged me and ultimately was the one who really bore me through these months. I know it wasn't always easy, but I'm done now, and it's mostly because of you. I could not be more proud to have you as my mother. Your mix of being caring and thoughtful and scary smart and understanding is hard to beat.

Thank you all.

Accessing the Blake School

At the present moment, most of my being is rather focused on current events. I'm focused on ending my school year on a not-completely-awful note, focused on how much I'm enjoying the bits of soundtrack for Man of Steel I'm listening to, focused on how much I don't like this splint on my leg. But the truth of the matter is I simply don't have much to write about at the present moment. The splint can get rather gross and disgusting in eighty degree heat and slows me down. There. Thoughts from today.

Which of course means it's time for me to write one of the entries I've been meaning to write for quite literally months now.

So here goes.

Handicap accessibility at my school.

Before starting today's discussion, I probably ought to explain a bit more where I got to school. I mentioned earlier on that I go to a private school in the Twin Cities area. In order for this post to have any meaning, I probably ought to mention a few more things about the school. First off, I go to the Blake School, which is a college preparatory day school that prides itself on, among other things, being diverse and accessible. The building dates back to the early 1900s, though has been recently renovated. The student body is relatively small. I don't know how applicable this post is going to be for people whose schools/work environments radically differ from Blake, so I figured I ought to mention it.

I can remember touring Blake for the first time (this would be after I'd decided to attend and about a week before actually starting classes) and having all the handicap-accessible features pointed out. Look! Elevators! Look! Wheelchair lift! Look! Ramp! Another ramp! The more subtle features—some of the bathrooms have handicap-accessible stalls which are enlarged for wheelchairs and have railings on the walls—fell at the wayside to the more noticeable triumphs of accessibility.

That day, I never actually stopped to think about whether or not these features would work for me. I noted them, thought: This looks nice. I never assumed I'd actually ever need to use the ramp or the elevator.

I was, of course, wrong.

In the months leading up to the arrival of my frame, I started trying to think through all of the various handicap accessibility issues I'd be faced with. From experience, I knew the elevators were slower than dust. Bits of me were scared that the ramps would be too narrow. The wheelchair lift was regarded with special distrust—no way that thing would be able to fit me. The distances between classes—would I be able to make it in the five minute gaps built into the schedule?

And then the frame went on and all my thinking about handicap accessibility was for naught because I had no choice but to just do it.

The elevators were slow. At times, waiting for the machine to just show up took forever and incredibly frustrating (and then there were the times when the elevator would show up with a non-handicapped joyrider on board). The wheelchair lift didn't fit the wheelchair. The ramps, however, did.

And yet…the ramps got where they needed to go. The elevators got me where they needed to get me. I could get from place to place. The building, mercifully, was not so large I couldn't get from class to class in five minutes or less.

Long story short: getting from the car into the school was fairly simple. My brother pushed me along, up the ramp, through the door. I then did my best to persuade somebody to get me to the next class, with normally quite high degrees of success. Going between classes was reliant, again, on finding help. Finding help wasn't hard.

The biggest problem is that people can be really self-absorbed. As in, they just stand in the hallways talking and talking about their own little personal vaguely consequential dramas while failing to notice that two hundred plus tons of wheelchair and wheelchair rider are pointed right in the direction they're blocking.

I'm not an expert on handicap accessibility. To be honest, the two best pieces of advice I can give for getting around in a wheelchair are make people you know help you, see if you can get acquaintances to help you, just figure it out when you get there.

But do watch out for the people who block the way. I tend to be fairly adverse to raising my voice interrupting conversations. As it turns out, that can be a problem when you need to get places.

(For those wondering: final verdict on handicap accessibility at the Blake School is fairly positive with some minor issues to be looked into (there were not enough handicap parking spots once you took out the spot covered by the giant green dumpster) and a few little changes the student body could make, such as not blocking as many hallways)

(It is still easier to access the school by foot compared to accessing the school by wheelchair)

I Get Myself Back Together

At long last, it's time for me to type out the final part of the story of how I wound up in a Taylor Spatial Frame, was bored for months on end, and ultimately picked up some of the pieces. I can't say the solution was a hundred percent perfect, but as far as completing my main objectives, it did pretty well. Also, it is worth noting that equally helpful was the fact that I still had classes to go to and (no matter how much I might grumble) homework to complete.

But the real topic of today's post is track.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I am not an athlete. This has, to some extent or another, always been a sore point for me (a lot of the reason I went through with the frame in the first place was so I'd have more approved activities). For the first three years of high school, I had a very successful stint at absolute last place in my school's athletic conference. All I can really contribute to a school team is showing up and trying to cheer, though I'm less than stellar at that, too.

This all boils down to a fairly pleasant May afternoon in 2012. I was at the end of two back-to-back AP exams, English Literature and Latin: Vergil, and was checking my phone to see if I had any new emails. Earlier in the day I'd finally bit the bullet and emailed my coach to tell him that the odds of my showing up the next season were rather low (by then I'd figured out I was probably going through with the frame).

Coach D replied asking if I might like to come back as a sort of captain/assistant coach/manager. If I could throw, great. If not, well, I'd be able to make myself useful in other areas.

At the end of year banquet, I was officially named a captain.

For months, my captain duties meant more or less nothing other than sending the coaches an email once it was official that I was going through with the frame.

And then the frame came on. I sat around the house, living in my chair and on my couch. I started coming up with ideas I never started creating, I stared into space and wondered when the whole frame experience would be over.

At one point in February, Jake, the other throwing captain, called a sort of practice session. We were indoors, since winter was in full bloom, meaning that disc was out of the question. I decided to go over, watching the form of some people trying shot put for the first time. At one point, I sat in a chair and tried to throw, being careful not to exert pressure on the leg.

It felt freeing, really.

Later that evening, I was roundly scolded for being rash—what if a shot put were to be dropped on the frame? what if I were to hurt myself while trying to throw? did I have the common sense to be trusted near throwing implements?

The answer to most of those questions, as far as my parents saw things, did not reflect well on me.

In the weeks leading up to the official start of the season, my mother started discussing the track issue with me, pointing out all the various reasons why my participation should be under question. She raised questions about my ability to make it down to the track, raised questions about the probability of a shot being dropped on the frame, raised questions about the frame's ability to endure the weather at some of the less pleasant meets.

Silently, I formulated responses, most of which assumed that some problem solving could be used if the time came, others of which assumed I'd be standing behind fences while supervising throwers. There were other responses I formulated, too, such as that doing track would force me to have contact with people my age, would force me to be outside, would get me out of the chair, would keep my mind active and engaged, would give me some sort of focal point for the end of my senior year of high school, would make things feels more complete…

There were numerous one-sided conversations in our golden Kia minivan on the way from the house to various errands, my mother explaining her caution towards my participation and my wanting to say something but not sure how to respond, how to word my answers in a way which would allow me to be listened to without being blatantly disrespectful.

It was all, in short, going to come down to what Dr. Sundberg had to say. The March 14 appointment was gaining more and more weight, until—

We brought up the issue of track. Dr. Sundberg cleared me for participation. He seemed to think that the frame could withstand the force of a 12-pound metal ball being dropped on it, if such an event occurred. He just warned me not to try actually throwing, as he had concerns with the pivoting motion.

So I emailed my coaches. My mother also sent an email, making her concerns known. And the next day, I showed up for practice. Not wanting to be yelled at for being incautious with the frame (his phrase), Coach D set up a barrier for me to stand behind while I watched practice. I also got to help time things and shout encouragements at people during the workout.

Several weeks into my latest engagement with track, Jake threw a shot put which entered a forcible collision with a water fountain. I was out of town that day; my fellow throwers assured me the water fountain did not so much break as explode. We then involuntarily moved outside, where we've been pretty much ever since. I have been out there while it snowed, while it rained, while the temperature was barely above freezing. The frame handled it fine, the pin sites were never infected and I was still participating, still being helpful, still not sitting on the Recovery Chair doing nothing.

The barrier went away with the move outdoors. As of now, Coach D has not been yelled at by my mother for a lack of caution regarding the frame.

So that's how I finally pulled bits of myself back together, by doing bits of what I would have done anyway. I'm not sure if I'm the most productive track captain ever. There are bits of form I'm able to pick up on, but I've still got a ways to go, learning-wise. I have, however, gotten rather good at timing people. And I'm certainly not the greatest student ever. My work ethic this past semester has been rather decisively up-and-down. But it's better than nothing.

If you ever have to wear a frame, I think that's what it comes down to. You have to hold on to as much of life pre-frame as possible. Your old responsibilities, your old interests and passions and maybe even an old deadline or two. There's a temptation, I think, to assign these devices some sort of weight they never ought to have. A Taylor Spatial Frame is an object which holds your bones together. There was a part of me which thought that perhaps wearing the frame would be some sort of weighty transformative experience. It wasn't. It was simply an experience, something I did and completed. A few months down the line, I seriously doubt any of my definition of self will be related to the frame. And a few years down the line…I think I'll still remember it. I've written too much here to not remember it. But will it be first and foremost or anywhere near there?

No. I don't think it will. The frame is a piece of metal. Compared to memories and people and to everything of that nature, it is nothing.

The frame holds bone together. In the end, you're the one holding the other pieces together.

The Leg is Free

I woke up after the procedure with my leg wrapped in ACE bandages and surrounded by a splint. It didn't hurt. There was no visible blood (though later on in the evening, once the splint was removed, we could see some faint pink circles on the bandages). There was some conversation in the recovery room, almost none of which I can remember other than my mother telling me a couple times that I'd be a really bad drunk.

Before too long, we went home, with instructions not to shower until Sunday. I spent the afternoon resting on the couch. The splint wasn't the most comfortable, but with a sizable enough stack of pillows, any amount of discomfort can be conquered.

My Friday was essentially spent under blankets, watching movies. I went to bed and slept easily, no longer adjusting my leg so the frame wouldn't complain.

Saturday, I had no energy. I stayed downstairs and continued reading It.

Sunday, I had some more energy. For the most part, I still stayed downstairs, still continued reading It. I did shower, unwrapping the leg for the first time since frame removal, to discover…not much, really, just some already-scabbing holes, much less interesting without the frame than they were with. I went on a couple of outings, once to get ice cream with the family, once to pick up normal size sweatpants without residual frame damage with my father. Every time I get into and out of the car I have to splint or unsplint the leg. Besides that, everything feels back to normal.

And that's more or less where I am now. The frame is off. I have yet to go running back to my walker and am still completely weight-bearing, though I've been walking a straight-legged walk.

I thought that this blog entry would, like some of the other entries here on Leg+Frame, be pushing it as far as word count goes. But the truth of the matter is that right now, I have nothing to write about. On Friday, I had what I'm pretty sure will be my final surgery for a while. There was some part of me that thought perhaps this frame process would continue after the frame was removed.

Before the surgery, everybody was encouraging me to celebrate. I was too focused on the whole surgery aspect of the matter to do so and for the last few days I've been too worn out to celebrate. And the really funny thing is I'm not sure there's anything to celebrate. This feels like a very gentle transition, a subtle shift into normalcy.

In about three weeks, I'll be able to get this splint off.

And then everything will be normal again.

When I started this blog, I intended to try to cover more or less the full sweep of wearing a Taylor Spatial Frame. At some point, I got so used to the reality of wearing the frame (or was it the frame wearing me? I get so confused with prepositions once things penetrate bone…) that I lost motivation to continue the blog, leading to an absence of a while. And then I managed to get my act back together, but as I did, Leg+Frame became more and more unwieldy. I decided it would be easiest just to end it shortly after the frame came off.

There was still a part of me that wondered if, by ending it before I came out of the immobilizer, I might be cutting things short.

That part of me now has an answer: no, nothing's going to be cut short. I'm back to normalcy now. Or at least, I'm almost there.

I almost can't believe it, but there you go…

Life's about to go on.

My leg is free, everything is essentially back to normal and I'm done with the frame.

Life is good.

Saying Goodbye

I'm done.

I think that's what it comes down to at this point.

Yes, I've still got a final stretch of recovery to go. My leg is, at present, trapped in a splint. Walking has become rather interesting (being forced to hold the leg rigid has resulted in a funny rolling gait), stairs more so. But…well, I'm done. That's what it comes down to.

For the past two days, my leg has ben just that: my leg. No jutting metal frame to get in the way of things. No metal pegs sticking out of the skin. No metal rings preventing the back of my calves from resting directly on the surfaces of the footstool in front of the Recovery Chair or the sheets on my bed.

Was there any difficult transition in going from leg plus frame to just leg? Not really. It just…happened, I suppose. One moment I was in the operating room being put to sleep, the next thing I knew I was in a recovery room, waking up, and the frame was no more.

I think I've reached the point where my ramblings on frame removal will quickly deteriorate into nonsense if I don't go to the beginning.

So here goes.

Thursday, May 2, 2013

On Thursday, I said good-bye to the frame. For months, I knew roughly the manner in which I wanted to bid the piece of metal farewell. First, I wanted to try to go the day (or at least most of it) in shorts, as a sort of social experiment, if you will. Second, in an effort to mirror the pre-frame walk around the lake, I wanted to take a walk with the frame the evening before that imminent removal.

I was at least somewhat successful on both counts.

Despite knowing in the back of my mind that I wanted to try the shorts experiment, it wasn't until the evening of May 1st that I actually bothered to check that my frame-approved pair of cargo pants would be clean (lately, my former couch-buddy Sunny the Golden Retriever has taken to having mental breakdowns when the drier's running, making clean anything rather questionable). They were. Since outdoor temperatures were hovering in the realm of too-cold-to-be-comfortable, after getting up I made sure that the pants were, you know, fully pants; however, upon arriving at school, I zipped the lower legs clean off and had a pair of shorts.

I have never been an avid wearer of shorts. I like the feel of long pants, the way the fabric swooshes around the solid vertical cylinder which is my leg. I'm incredibly not-fond of the way the hem can rub against the skin near your knee. But at the same time…

But at the same time I just wanted to know what it would be like, wandering around for a full day with nothing hiding the frame. No fabric, no stockingnet, no nothing.

It was, well, not much. In case you're wondering, people really don't tend to look down at people's legs all that often and the frame was barely noticed. Maybe I got one or two comments—and there were a couple giddy moments where I got to tell people that the thing was actually coming off tomorrow!—but for the most part my quote-on-quote friend, those several pounds of metal holding my bones together, passed unnoticed through the hallways of my school. I also managed to learn that Taylor Spatial Frames and shorts do not mix well—there are pleasant sensations in this world, and then there is the sensation of bare frame cuddling up against bare skin.

The whole shorts experiment was really not all too exciting. On the bus from the Upper School campus to the Middle School and track, I managed to wrestle the pants back into being pants before standing around outside for several hours, doing my best to be helpful.

And through it all, I was unbelievably on edge. I have had eight surgeries in my life, including Friday's. There are some things which become less scary the more you experience them (standardized tests). Then there are some things which don't (needles and anesthesia and getting sliced open and…).

So, long story short, I was nervous.

I was nervous through track and when I got home and tried to get some work done (enough work that there would be nothing left to do Saturday or Sunday) and up until my father summoned me for the promised walk. All through the week, I'd been running checks on the weather, making sure that Mother Nature would not conspire against my attempt at fitting the end of the frame with some nice dramatic resonance. For a while, it had been forecasted to snow Wednesday evening and into Thursday. We even got the winter storm warning to prove it.

It didn't snow. The weather cooperated and in the end, the walk got to happen. Granted, the walk was considerably scaled down from what my original intentions had been—at first, I'd been planning on going all the way around the lake, just like earlier. Then my mother found out and reminded us that last time I'd gone all the lake, I'd wound up with blisters on my feet which ultimately led to several bonus days of hospitalization. So we went for a walk which was a fraction of that distance, though still on the lake. And the lake was calm, the ice had actually managed to melt, nobody else was on the path and for a little bit, I was almost able to forget about the fact that I'd be having surgery number eight at 7:30 AM the next morning.

It was calm, in other words.

And the calm was good.

Friday, May 3, 2013

My parents woke me up at 5:45 Friday morning to drive to the hospital. Not surprisingly, traffic was minimal on the interstates from Minneapolis to St. Paul. I can't say I was particularly paying attention. It wasn't even like I was nervous—more accurately, I simply hadn't been awake long enough to process much of anything. Also, there was the slight matter of my not having eaten anything since dinner the previous night.

In the waiting room, my mother took pictures of the frame, for memory's sake.

We were then called back to a pre-operative waiting area and put in our own private room. I was instructed to clean myself up. I did so. More pictures were taken. At some point, the OR nurse came in to talk to me, and the anesthesiologist (my anesthesiologist from December), and Dr. Sundberg himself.

If you recall, my main concern with Friday was how I'd be put to sleep. Apparently Dr. Sundberg had only booked the OR for half an hour. Now, this would be fine, except that my preferred manner for being put to sleep (pill, followed by hand-numbing device, followed by IV) required fifteen minutes for the pill to take effect.

In the end, the course of action was to use nitrous oxide so I wouldn't care quite so much what was happening down near my hand, then put the IV in, then sleep.

In the pre-op room, the anesthesiologist used a tourniquet to find some veins on my arm. Apparently there were some good ones on my hand, because when I was wheeled back to the operating room to be put to sleep and after the nurse had slipped the mask over my mouth and after they had waited a few seconds for my circulatory system to carry the nitrous oxide throughout the body, more specifically to the brain, he started prodding my hand.

For some reason I cannot explain, I had decided to shut my eyes. Perhaps I thought that shutting my eyes would make the whole thing less real, but really all I managed to do was heighten the laughing gas experience. The nurses warned me it might start feeling like I was floating.

And—it did. It really did. The experience was overwhelming and terrifying and even though I was mostly focused by how reality seemed to be thrumming, I could feel the pressure at the back of my hand. At one point I cried out in pain. At another point I pushed the mask away form my mouth. It was all too much.

When the IV was in, I opened my eyes and realized how much calmer everything was. I can recall thinking that I was making intelligent sounds, but based on how messed up my perception of the world was, I probably was making no sense at all.

Then the actual anesthesia went into my veins and that was the end of that.

Backstory 9: Before Leg+Frame

I type this with fewer than twelve hours to go in the months-long wearing of the frame.

That's really strange.

It has been almost five months now, not a terribly long stretch of time but at the same time not an instantaneous moment. It's odd. I'm really used to the frame by now, though I can't recall ever feeling like I wasn't used to it—the process of regaining the use of the leg was so gradual (and the drugs to control pain in the hospital so powerful) that there was never this shock of Oh, look. My leg is now pierced with five half-pins and two piano wire pins which hold up one and two-thirds metal rings which are connected by six struts which form six triangles and the whole ensemble is holding my leg together.

The first step was being drugged out of my mind: Hospital. Bed.

The second step was realizing I could lift the leg an inch or two despite the fact that I could feel nothing from my waist down except for the blister already developing beneath the hospital boot.

Then came hopping on one foot to the wheelchair. Then hopping on one foot in the walker, followed by a moment of deciding to try to walk (though still with assistance) until, finally I felt comfortable enough to leave the walker behind.

It was all so gradual.

I don't know if my months of progress have been building up to a point or not. I don't know if there will have to be, to some extent, a starting over once the thing comes out of my leg. I don't know if it will hurt, if I'll be able to process more than simple thoughts in the early hours after waking up, if I will need to return to the walker or what the promised knee immobilizer will be like.

All I know for certain is that I will need to get up before 6:00 AM tomorrow morning, at which point we will drive over to the hospital and I will feel hungry. The surgery is at 7:15. It will last for about one hour. It may hurt afterwards. My leg will be just a leg once more.

But all of that is tomorrow. For today, at long, long last, I have reached the final backstory entry. So here goes.

BEFORE LEG+FRAME

At the end of the season sophomore year, our coach told us he would be moving from Minnesota to New York, which unfortunately precluded the possibility of his return for my junior year. This struck me as a major blow to my track career. Throughout those first two seasons, even though I had no athletic talent, he paid me the same attention he paid his more competent athletes. When my shoulder was operated on and I had to switch arms, he accommodated my limitations (which mostly meant having me ride the exercise bike while everybody else was lifting). And, over the course of my two seasons, I had managed to steadily increase my throwing distances, culminating in breaking fifty feet in the discus—again, not a great distance but a major barrier for me to cross.

I first heart about our new coach shortly after he was hired. I was walking through the lunchroom and another returning thrower stopped me to let me know that the school had found a new throwing coach. He went on to explain that apparently everybody our new coach had thrown personal bests the last season and his throwers went to the Wisconsin state meet.

Our first practice, I realized that our new coach was a rather intimidating person, at least physically. In every sense possible, he's larger than me by a number of degrees. His last name is, for all intents and purposes, unpronounceable for those without special training. He has a pointy little beard and wears shirts with slogans like "Only the strong survive."

It took a couple practices for me to become less intimidated. To help keep us from stumbling through a minefield of consonants whenever we used his last name, he told us to just call him Coach D. It also doesn't hurt that he's a really nice, ope, friendly guy who is incredibly dedicated to helping everybody do their best. His ability to spot the flaws in a thrower's form is incredible.

In short, all the pieces were in place for my junior year track season to be the smoothest yet. Despite switching arms the previous year, I'd managed to best the marks from my first season. Building off that success had to be doable. Also helping matters was the fact that, for the first time, I would not be stuck learning an entirely new form, whether starting or switching arms.

The first thing Coach D had me do was try to switch my shot put  form. Instead of doing the shuffle, I'd be doing what he referred to as a "step-through" (I think it might also be called a wheel). You start in the back of the circle, chest facing the toeboard. Step to the front of the circle, get into power position, pop upwards, putting the shot and hopefully setting a new personal best.

In theory.

Coach knew about my twenty foot goal. He seemed to believe that with the new throw I might reach twenty-five. To be honest, I never really considered the possibility of going much farther than twenty. Regardless, I flung myself into learning the new throw with abandon.

Shortly into the experiment, I discovered that every time I tried the step-through, I experienced an intense burst of pain in my hip. I would hobble over the toeboard, trying to recover enough so I could walk on the way to fetch the shot, pick up the implement, repeat.

I don't think I ever vocalized the pain with a cry or yelp or something of that nature. I certainly did my best to cover it up, hoping that the new form would still gain me some distance, thinking that maybe if I did it again…and again…

As it turns out, experiencing intense pain during a throw does not help one make the shot put move farther at all. Rather, it hinders the experience—it's impossible to give your all if you cannot finish the motion, and finishing the motion is key in shot and disc, giving you extra energy, keeping you on-balance and hopefully keeping the implement landing within the sector lines.

At some point, I finally wised up and talked to Coach D about the new form and it was mutually agreed that I probably ought to return to the shuffle.

It was with the shuffle I threw twenty feet for the first time. I'm not sure if everything just came together or if I was getting stronger or if I just got really lucky, but it happened. The shot put went twenty feet, seven and a half inches. And, at the end of the season, I threw the discus fifty-five feet four inches, a personal all-time best.

I wish that was the end of the story for track last year, but the step-through was far from the only activity which the hip did not approve of. As it turns out, lifting my knees too rapidly aggravated the hip, as did certain jumps. Before too long, stairs became a problem.

After two years of steadfastly avoiding Dr. Sundberg and his talk of frames, I asked my parents to schedule an appointment, just to talk things over.

And from there? Well, on Wednesday, December 26, 2012, Dr. Sundberg placed a Taylor Spatial Frame in my leg…

Backstory 8: Athletic Requirements Are Fulfilled

It seems like there is no end to the snow in Minnesota. Rather stunningly, the frame actually handles snow fairly well. More accurately, the sweatpants which cover the frame do a nice job of protecting the metal from moisture and the device itself seems mostly impervious to cold. When the frame is exposed to winter air, I don't feel a horrid chill penetrating skin and muscle into the core of my leg. Instead, I just feel a slight tightening—not unpleasant, but noticeable.

It's odd to think I won't feel that any more. Gratifying, but odd.

And, just as it seems there is no end to the snow here, it seems almost like there is no end to entries I need to get written for Leg+Frame. I know that, for both, there's an actual end in sight. It's just…at some point, things do feel like they've gone on for a while. Not that I'm complaining. I adore snow and actually enjoy writing these things here. It's satisfying.

ATHLETIC REQUIREMENTS ARE FULFILLED

My school has three campuses. There is the Upper School campus (Northrop) I attend, located near downtown Minneapolis. There is a campus in Wayzata, about forty-five minutes away, which houses half the Lower School. Then there is the campus in Hopkins, about halfway between the two, which houses the Middle School, the other half of the Lower School, the administrative offices and all the athletic facilities.

Throwers utilize two facilities on the Hopkins campus. First, the shot put and discus circles, which are located adjacent to the track. Second, one of the weight rooms, one of which is located inside the hockey stadium, the other beneath the football stadium. Naturally, the weight rooms and the circles are on opposite sides of the campus.

Long story short, it was during a practice late freshman year when we were doing jumping exercises in the hallway outside the weight room when my coach told me I would be receiving a varsity letter at the end-of-year banquet. I found this piece of information rather surprising, as over the course of the season I had done a rather good job establishing myself as the worst thrower in the Tri-Metro Conference. Not that I was particularly worried to be the worst in the conference—I had figured this out pretty early on and instead of trying to compete with others I competed to out-throw myself and attain that twenty foot mark. But, at the same time, even though I was giving my all I was not contributing in any substantive way to my team's success.

I was rather proud to receive my letter.

The first year of track, in the end, had been a tremendously positive experience. I had learned a new sport, made connections with people scattered throughout the school, gained a fierce sense of team pride, learned that we throwers traditionally had Pie Day, in which we sit around and eat pie while the runners run, on runner hard days, felt like a part of something. I had learned how to throw, a motion which is tremendously satisfying and good, good fun. In short, there was no way I wasn't coming back for my sophomore year.

Now, remember, the athletic requirement is for one season each freshman and sophomore year. After so many years in Virginia where I traded in medical excuses rather than going through the motions everybody else did to prove to the school that they were physically motivated, I desperately wanted to earn the requirement for myself.

That summer, summer 2010, and into the fall I discovered that my right shoulder was having issues. There were clicking noises when I raised it in certain ways and sometimes pain. An appointment was made to meet with a shoulder surgeon, talks were had and we decided to operate.

Around Christmas 2010, I was administered anesthesia and a large amount of bone was removed from beneath the right scapula. This was relatively routine as far as how my previous surgeries had gone and was certainly not the first time I'd had bone removed from the scapula area. This was, however, the first time the surgeons had needed to detach muscle from bone in order to access the growth.

What had initially looked like a non-track-threatening recovery of a matter of weeks now stretched into months. My initial plans for participating in track were in desperate straits.

Technically speaking, I'm left-handed. I write left-handed (if you call the chicken scratch I put on paper "writing," that is). However, when I learned to throw a year previous, using the left hand just felt wrong. Perhaps it was just that single day, perhaps it was because I was forging my ideas on what felt right based on what everyone else was doing. Regardless, I learned to throw right-handed. With the surgery, I would be unable to use the right arm for months.

Track season began. I did not sign up for the team or come out to practice.

That spring was not looking up.

Being at times rather desperate and longing to re-experience some of what I had experienced the previous spring, I started dreaming up plans to get myself medical clearance for track. What if…?

What if I learned to throw left-handed like I ought to have done in the first place?

It wasn't a desirable scenario. A large part of learning form in shot put and discus is getting used to the weight of the implement (for high school guys, a shot put weighs 12 pounds and a discus 1.61 kilos). Though we're told that it's best to have equal strength between your arms, that rarely happens. Beyond that, the actual release is critical, particularly in discus, which is much more finicky than shot.

I had an appointment with the shoulder surgeon scheduled shortly into our spring break, a week into the track season. I brought up my idea. My mother was skeptical. I got approval, provided I did nothing to threaten the connection of the muscle to the bone.

The next day, completely unannounced, I showed up for practice alongside my brother, who was competing in his first year on the high school track team (he was in eighth grade at the time). The coaches seemed pleased to see me, but if I'd been expecting some sort of large welcome, that didn't come. It was much more of a, "Good to see you, here's the workout."

Attendance that day wasn't particularly high, given that most of the team was away on vacation, and with the arm, I couldn't do all the exercises. But it was good to be back.

Several weeks later, meets started up again. Since I'd failed to reach twenty feet the previous year, I figured that would be as good a mark as any to shoot for. I didn't make it. However, on one of my final meets of the year, I set season-best marks in both events, surpassing my performance the previous year.

Once again, I felt pleased. Not so much with my performance compared to others—as before, I came in dead last. But I'd participated, which counted for a lot.

And I'd honestly completed the athletic requirement.

There was, I thought, nothing which could keep me from returning the next year. I mean, hey, I'd gotten through the surgery. What more could there be?

Backstory 7: Freshman Year, Part 2 (Starting Track)

Sometime around watching the new Pacific Rim trailer for the fifth or sixth time to watch a giant robot smash a giant monster with a boat, I realized that I am deeply excited for summer movie season. Now, it snowed again today in Minnesota, but even though it may not look like it, summer movie season is right around the corner, kicking off Friday as Iron Man 3 attempts to break The Avengers' domestic opening weekend record. Box office numbers are on the list of things I get way too excited about, so of course I could tell you that the mark Iron Man 3 would need to beat to set the new record is $207.3 million (it stands a shot, actually).

But, despite all the excitement that arrives on this Friday, May 3, 2013, with summer movies and giant box office numbers, there is also the trick that Friday is when the frame comes off. If you're like me, you choose to look at the coinciding of the start of summer movie season and the removal of the frame as a sign that the universe likes you.

Or you could look at it in the more practical way, the one which includes slightly fewer giant robots hitting slightly fewer giant monsters with boats. The less fun way, if you will.

That method of looking at things goes something along the lines of, "In less than 36 hours you will be having surgery! Oh, and by the way, just one full day of frame remains."

Which means I really need to return to continuing this blog.

FRESHMAN YEAR, PART TWO (STARTING TRACK)

There was half a part of me that dreamed I had some previously undiscovered talent for throwing shot puts and discuses. This was a part of me blissfully unaware of some of the traits required to throw a shot put or discus any reasonable distance at all: leg strength, arm strength, upper body in general strength, lower body in general strength, ability to pivot, ability to explode upwards, ability to have good form (and more).

My delusions about being any good at throwing were put to rest the first practice. In those days, we were still allowed to throw indoor shots in the small gym. From one end to the other is thirty-plus feet. I didn't even make it half that distance; the other throwers were starting to approach the wall. It was a sort of wake-up experience.

After practice that day, my mother had a chat with me as to my logic of deciding to join the throwers without any conditioning (or, more specifically, any upper body strength). In the end, she agreed that I could stay on to gain some strength.

So I stayed.

The first year was pretty straightforward, at least compared to the other three years I've participated on the team. I was able to do every throw assigned to me (the basic power position in both shot and disc, a shuffle step in shot), was able to head down to the weight room with the team, was able to compete. As I said, pretty straightforward.

The first meet of the year was an indoor meet at one of the colleges around the Twin Cities. I can't remember which college for sure, but the indoor track was a vast space and, to my untrained eye, the meet was a horribly complex affair. We brought our indoor shots and threw.

I think my first-ever mark was sixteen feet, one inch. Of course, this was good for dead last. And yet…and yet I was kind of proud of myself. Sure, 16'1" wasn't great, but it was a start. There was always next time to do better. Since I'd only thrown at (I believe) one practice, my form could also use some help. I felt optimistic.

I asked our coach how much farther he thought I could go in the season. He told me that twenty feet wasn't unreasonable. In that moment, he set a bar I would be chasing for the next twenty-five months as my nascent throwing career was buffeted by factors such as surgery and a complaining hip.

The next few meets saw me making little progress. During practice, I bonded with my fellow throwers, learning all their names, whether they were gliders or spinners, how far they tended to throw. I got somewhat of a reputation for taking more throws than strictly necessary, jumping into the circle at every available opportunity regardless of if it was my turn to go or not.

My next breakthrough came a few weeks into the season. We had moved outdoors for practice. Our discus ring had opened up and I was starting to come to terms with the basic concept of holding a disc. The weather had taken a decisive turn for the nicer. There had been, I believe, two meets since the first. One I failed to surpass the 16'1" mark; the other I did so by a couple of inches.

On the bus to my breakthrough meet, another thrower, a girl in the grade above me, made projections for everybody's performance. She had me getting a PR, landing somewhere near seventeen feet.

Halfway through my four shot put throws, I realized that maybe it would be helpful if I aimed the shot up. During practice, I'd received the "don't throw at the ground" lecture a few times, but apparently the words had never managed to sink in.

The thing went about two feet farther.

For all intents and purposes, my season failed to make significant progress from there. I added some distance, not a lot. There were good practices and bad practices and practices where the conditions were just not good. Looking back, it's remarkable how much has changed since then. Of the group that threw in my first year, this year only two remain. There's me, not allowed to throw but allowed to help keep time and try to watch the other's forms. And then there's Jake, in eighth grade when I joined and now an unbelievable athlete with a school record in shot put.

And, of course, there is another thing which changed.

It was in the spring of my freshman year while I was doing track that I had my first appointment with Dr. Sundberg. I thought of him then as a sort of replacement Dr. Abel who would, if needed, operate. I assumed the operations would be rather not-scary (which mostly means that I assumed there would be no hardware poking out of my body).

First time in, he orders an x-ray taken of my leg. We return to the room and he pulls the image up on the computer monitor, starts drawing lines on it and proclaims that the one leg is crooked and the best way to change that would be a Taylor Spatial Frame. He then began to describe the Taylor Spatial Frame and offered to show us pictures of a girl whose legs had been corrected with one of the devices.

I panicked and asked to leave the room. I breathed deeply in the hallway until I was given the all-clear: the topic of conversation had shifted.

Two years later, I would return to Dr. Sundberg. And less than a year after that, I would undergo surgery to have a Taylor Spatial Frame placed in my leg. And less than five months after that, the frame will be removed, leaving me with a straight leg.