Not Fade Away: A Memoir of Senses Lost and Found by Rebecca Alexander, Sascha Alper Page A

back in, she had made me a surgery CD, and as soon as they started prepping me the headphones went on. By the time they wheeled me into anesthesia they had already given me a little something, and I was singing along heartily to “Joy and Pain” by Rob Base; I conked out right in themiddle of James Brown’s “Get on Up.” It was unbelievable that such a little thing made it all so much less scary and more bearable.
    When the doctor finally removed the cast, it felt as though my leg and foot didn’t belong to my body. Most of the bones in my foot were grafted from my hip, and I couldn’t believe that it was mine. At first I was terrified to move it, sure that I would somehow damage it. My physical therapy began, three times a week, and I looked forward to those days more than anything. We would begin with my hand, for which I worked on range-of-motion exercises, followed by a session for my foot, still so fragile and tender. When they first put me on the stationary bike I could only do ten minutes because my leg was so weak, but as the weeks went on, and my body got stronger, I loved being on that bike.
    Once I was finally in my walking cast I could drive myself to physical therapy, which felt like the sweetest taste of freedom. It was such a relief to be able to do something for myself, to be behind the wheel again, that I almost cried as I slid into the driver’s seat for the first time.
    I’d always been athletic, but after my accident I had lost a lot of weight, my left calf had atrophied, and my strong, sturdy body looked completely changed. It was the first time I became aware of the connection between my mind and my body, and taking care of it became a priority. It took the accident to make me realize just how crucial it was for me to pay attention to and care for my body. I felt the same way that I later would about my sight and hearing: that I had to appreciate my body for the gift that it was. It prepared me in ways for what was to come, and it helped me to realize just how resilient I was.
    When I wasn’t at physical therapy I worked to rehabilitate myself in the driveway, every minute that I had the energy for. Ihad never been so focused and driven. I still look back at that time to give me strength, knowing that, since I got through it, I could get through anything. My life was so stripped down that even the smallest movements became triumphs. I went from wheelchair to crutches—special ones, because both my hands were broken, and I couldn’t put weight on them—and then I graduated to a walking cast and slowly began to bear weight, at last, on my left foot. Lauren would sometimes come play in the driveway while I was out there, running circles around me on her strong little legs, the excellent athlete she would one day be already starting to emerge, and I longed for the time when I took for granted all of my working parts, and prayed for a time when I might be able toagain.

18
    A s I promised myself I would be, I was ready to begin college the winter after my accident. I knew I couldn’t go all the way to Michigan, since I still needed to see my doctors frequently, and I feared that the snow and ice would be a real hazard for me. I had been admitted to UC Santa Barbara, and we decided that I should begin there and move to Michigan when my body felt ready.
    I couldn’t wait to go, to be out of the guesthouse and back in the world of the living, and it felt like ages since I had spent time with people my own age. Lisa was at UC Santa Barbara, as well, and I was psyched to find out that we were in the same dorm. Without hesitation she welcomed me into her circle of friends, wonderful women whom I am close with to this day.
    Every day my body felt a little bit stronger. My friends and I would go to the gym together, and I appreciated it—even the StairMaster—more than I could have previously imagined. My friend Sophie and I would listen to the radio on our Walkmen, and when a song came on that we