PixelatedImage Blog

I saw this man in Ethiopia 4 years ago. Kneeling on one leg, missing the other, letting nothing stand in the way of doing what he was there to do. Not the strongest photograph I’ve ever made, but man do I like this guy’s style.

I can’t begin to properly tell you how my time in physical rehab is affecting me, but I’d like to try. Every day I am surrounded by nurses, physiotherapists, and a crew of misfits missing limbs, learning to walk or perform basic tasks again. Each day I walk laps in the gym, beside others, all wrestling with a piece of the puzzle, something standing between who they once were and who they are becoming. Some are having prosthetic legs fitted, some are taking dizzying first steps, others are doing things with two prosthetic legs that I struggled to do even before my accident. Everyone cheers each other on. Everyone stops to smile or talk. Everyone faces what they can not do with a disarming (forgive the pun) degree of humour, knowing if they don’t laugh the only alternative is tears, and they’re honest about those too. No one here is “all that and a bag of chips.” No one here is a “pro” and there are no “amateurs”. There is no fixation on gear anymore than for the purposes of finding what works. Some use chairs, some use crutches, some canes or $60,000 prosthetics. There are no camps. Everyone I have met cares about one thing. They want to walk.

So we show up every day and do the work. For some that’s calf exercises, or ankle mobilizations, for others it’s repeating one step over and over until the mechanics become muscle memories and stick. No one here does it because they love rehab. They do it because they just want to walk.

My PT keeps asking me if I want to walk the gym. She’s not really asking but likes to let me pretend I have a choice. I keep telling her I won’t learn to walk by not walking. So I walk it. Over and over again. Last week my goal was to walk a kilometer. I walked it, and then some. A couple times. There are guys here that could do twice as much in half the time. Others who would give anything to walk as well as I now do. But they don’t compare, they do the work. And they celebrate hard when they get there. And then they move on to the next goal. They don’t sit on their laurels, though if anyone ever deserved to, it’s them

I find myself wishing we all, including myself, approached photography, maybe life even, with as much grace; wishing we could find a place where there were no comparisons, no gear addictions. Where nothing matters but the people and the photographs, where we cheer each other on in their victories and encourage them in their struggles. Where the gear is nothing but a prosthetic limb we endure as much as it accomplishes its purpose. Where comparisons and bragging and all the ego-drivel is irrelevant and seen for what it is – wasted energy that might otherwise be spent on making art. Can you imagine the art we might make if we were more concerned about being ourselves and doing the work we alone have been given, if we showed up and just made photographs, day after day, without regard for the brand names on our cameras or who said what about our photographs on Flickr or 500px?

I’m really not going anywhere with this; I just wish you could be here in this amazing place with me. Hard? Yes. Struggles? Absolutely. I don’t mean at all to paint rehab with a romantic brush. It’s sweat and hurt and everyone there came to it honestly – through pain and calamity. Some from roadside explosives in Afghanistan, some on motorcycles, others through the betrayal of their own body. Life has rubbed them hard, but you should see them shine.

Some details on other things, for the curious. I’m about to begin week 3 in rehab and have a hard push to the end because they boot my ass to the curb on Sept 01. Next weekend my father and I are driving down to Jeffrey Chapman’s place in upstate NY to pick up Jessie, brought all the way from Atlanta on a flatbed by Vasily Lantukh, for which I am very grateful, and oh am I looking forward to having the pieces of my life reunited. On September 07 I fly to Cambodia and Laos for the first trip since the accident. After the adventure in Laos and Angkor I’m sitting on a beach in Thailand for a week before coming home to tinker with Jessie and get ready for trips to Oaxaca, Roatan, Antarctica, and Africa. And in there somewhere I’ve got one more surgery to fine-tune my ankle. So excited to get back to traveling, but oh my gosh is it about to get busy!

Winston Churchill, by Yousuf Karsh. I love his determination and defiance.

The Rehab Centre in Ottawa, in which I am currently imprisoned – I mean, ahem, a resident – has hanging on its walls an amazing collection of large prints by Yousuf Karsh. Karsh has long been one of my favourite photographers, and his influence was one of those that pushed me to do now what I do. I’ve now been here a full week, minus the weekend which I spent at the cottage on Haliburton Lake listening to loons. I’m up and down these halls several times daily surrounded by well-known portraits of people who’ve changed the world – Winston Churchill scowling down at me, the pensive – almost prayerful- look of Albert Schweitzer, and others. I eat breakfast with Pablo Picasso staring at me, the Spaniard’s gaze almost daring me to make art of my recovery and to do it boldly. On the wall of my room, which I share with 3 other men (all of whom are in bed before 9) there is a white board. “My Goals Today…” it says, and on which I’ve written, “Same as everyday: Conquer the world.” The nurses laugh, think I’m kidding.

Rehab’s going well. My discharge date is September 01 and my PT says I’m way ahead of the game already. Last week I walked over half a kilometer, crutches hanging somewhat loose at my side. This week I’m gunning for the same goal, but with my cane. I get beat up for almost 4 hours a day, reminded by friends, like my buddy Anita, that pain is temporary, but quitting lasts forever. Every day is one step forward.

So it is with all of us. Or it could be. Most everyone that reads this blog wants to move forward in their art of their career as artists. We often think big: In 5 years I want to…. But in the rush of day to day living whole weeks pass by without taking a single step towards that goal. In rehab they don’t just teach you to walk by making you walk. They break it down into steps. I’ve spent hours now doing heel raises and ankle rotations. Stepping forward, stepping back. Up one stair, down one stair. The question on my white board is more relevant than my seemingly sarcastic comment about conquering the world might imply. If you want to be a full-time artist in 5 years, what are you doing now – today – to get there. Don’t reply with “getting new gear.” If you aren’t learning to edit now, you won’t magically be able to edit later. If you aren’t taking time to shoot now, your portfolio won’t magically appear in one year or four. Whatever you’re burning to do – start now, break it down, and get on it. The days add up and the small steps become a half kilometer before you know it. But you can’t sit on your ass and just one day be able to walk that 500 meters. Start today.

I gotta run. My beating is about to start.

It’s my second full day in physical rehab. Monday was spent doing intake and assessment. Tuesday and Wednesday were spent kicking my ass. I went to bed Tuesday exhausted, but having walked 16 lengths of the gym. Today I did 20. Tomorrow I’ll do more.

Before bed this evening I went for a walk around the ward, made the photograph above. And I kept walking. Did 5 laps. A man on the ward stopped me and said, from his powered wheelchair, “I’d give my right arm to be able to do what you are doing right now.” I am in the minority – one of the few that either has 4 limbs or will walk out of here this month. It’s not hard to see why I’m so grateful, so exhilarated to be able to walk a handful of slow, sore, and graceless feet or metres. Because I still can. And those few feet will become kilometres, they’ll hurt less, and I’ll be dancing before some of these people walk. It’s deeply humbling.

Heading to bed now. Just wanted to check in and say Hi, let you know I’m alive. Tomorrow’s a new day and I’ll be up early. You don’t learn to walk again by not walking These folks are good. I’m very blessed to have the PT that I do and the support I have from all of you. Thanks again.

Just a quick note to let you know an unexpected spot has opened for me at The Rehab Centre in Ottawa. It’s a residential thing, so tomorrow I’m moving back to the hospital for the month of August. There they will kick my ass for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. Then they’ll let me go home for the weekends. I am really excited about this – it’s a world class facility and they’re my best shot at walking as normally as possible again. I will have wifi but things are going to get quiet here for a bit. If I can I will post updates, but the other day my physiotherapist kicked my ass for just one hour and I was exhausted. I’m not sure how I’m going to survive 8hrs/day. Please do check in; I might be sending desperate pleas for someone to come rescue me!

Thanks again for all the support you’ve shown me. I know none of this was in the plans and y’all thought the adventure of this year was going to be full of great photographs. Instead you got stories about bed pans. You’re to be commended for hanging in there as long as you have

One more month. Then I’m off to Cambodia, Laos, Thailand. Might be crawling down the aisle of the plane to get there, but I’ll be traveling again soon!

Rio Grande, NM. 2011. Size: 1920×1200
Click the image to access the larger file.

What an amazing 3 months. It’s now almost 15 weeks since my accident, and there have been times I didn’t think I was ever going to walk again. I’m still nervous. But I have hope. My casts are off, I’ve been off the sleeping pills and pain meds for weeks and finally sleeping through the night. Until Tuesday I’d taken a couple dozen nervous first steps without crutches. After wondering, at points, if I’d ever walk again, those dozen first steps and few more since then, were amazing. They gave me hope.

On Tuesday I was cleared for 100% weight-bearing on both feet, which means I’m now walking. It’s a sore, nervous, and painfully slow walk, but it’s a walk all the same. I’m now, as of today, 3 months post-op and should be in full-time rehab as soon as space becomes available.  I’m  using a cane part-time for small distances, though walk with a pronounced limp. I’ve always been a fan of Dr. House, so now all I need is a Vicodin addiction and I’m nearly there.   A second surgery in October to shave off some bone, and pull a plate and some screws, should help with the limp and make walking less painful and limp-y. It’s been a hard three months, at times I didn’t know if I had the strength to do it, but I’ve had more time with family these last two months at home than I have in 20 years put together. I’ve had time to write, to connect with friends and readers. I’ve taken in a few great exhibits at the National Gallery. I’ve learned to slow down. And I’ve learned what I’m capable of.

Updated: I shot this this evening with my iPhone while taking a short walk. Wanted to include it here, if for no one else but me

I wanted an adventure when I set out this year. What an adventure it’s been! I’m still not out of the woods, but I’m getting there and Jessie should be waiting for me when I am. She’s meant to be coming north on a flat-bed trailer, thanks to a friend in Atlanta, and will get dumped on Jeffrey Chapman’s lawn for a week or two, and just as soon as I can, my Dad and I will do the 4-hour drive together and bring her home. Then we’ll fix a couple things, get her licensed here in Ontario, re-fit her with some better gear and after my travels this fall, and a month in Africa in January, we’ll be back out there. For the first time in months it feels possible again.

I’ve learned a lot of lessons through this but none more than the incredible capacity to endure, and thrive, through things I never thought I’d be able to endure. I’ve had moments of unbelievable pain, and nearly unbearable humiliation. There were nights I’d cry myself to sleep because it hurt so much. There were weeks when the only way – and forgive me for the details – to go to the toilet was to hang, after an enema, from a bar over my bed, perched carefully, with a broken pelvis, on a bed pan, and hoping to God I could make it happen, while the other two men in the same room suffered through the change in air quality. Sadly, I listened to Cee Lo Green on my ipod during these experiences, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to listen to him again. But add sh*tting while hanging from a bar to my resume.  There were times I lay in bed unsure I could do it all for one more day yet alone one more week or 3 more months. But if we choose, we can thrive even through the trials. Whether we can or can’t get through struggles like this is up to us. Whether we do it with a sense of humour and taking joy in the moments, whether we do more than just survive, but thrive, that too is up to us. I’ve learned I like a challenge and the more I’m told I can’t, I do. The more I’m told I won’t – even when it’s my own voice doing the telling – the more I know I will. Because you and I, we’ve got one life, and I’ll be damned if I’ll choose to lose one moment of it to misery or self-pity, if choosing to be happy and to make it through, is up to me.

But I didn’t do it – am not doing it – alone. I know I’ve said it before, but you all never cease to amaze me with your generosity of heart. Thanks for being with me; you’ve all filled my inbox, blog, Facebook and Twitter streams with encouragement. Thank you. I’m indebted to you for your kindness. You’ve walked a long hard road with me and I’m grateful.

Today marks my 1000th post, more if you count some of the drivel I edited out when I moved this blog over from Typepad years ago. I had all kinds of ideas about how to mark this 1000th post, but none of them were exceptionally good, and to be honest all I really want to say is Thank You. I’ve said that a lot lately; I’ve got a great deal to be grateful for, and your kindness, support, comments and readership mean the world to me. This blog has put me in touch with a huge community of amazing people and in turn that community has allowed me to keep building this thing, one post, one eBook, one printed book, at a time.  I’ve met so many of you, emailed others, and I’m not exaggerating when I tell you I feel like the luckiest man in the world. Thank you.

Speaking of luck, it doesn’t always hold. 10 weeks ago I fell off that wall in Italy. 10 weeks! Here’s a quick update. I’m now almost 9 weeks post-op after the surgeries to fix my feet. My cracked pelvis is now healed. Every day I’m a step (metaphorically mostly) closer to recovering. Two weeks ago my surgeon cleared me to begin putting weight on my left foot (50%) and in two weeks I can put 100% on that foot and begin putting some weight (25%) on the right.

June 22, 2011, First day on crutches.
Smiling on the outside, scared of falling down on the inside.

Learning to walk again is a terrifying thing, but each day brings a little more confidence and a little less pain. I’m scheduled to be in rehab as an in-patient for much of August, and by the time I get on a plane to Laos, Cambodia, and Thailand in September it’ll be 4+ months, and I’ll likely be traveling light (think Fuji x100, small tripod and an iPad), possibly with a cane.

Somewhere in there I’ve got to get back to Atlanta. I almost feel I left my heart there. Jessie is still there and if there’s one thing that’s been hard about all this it’s knowing that my plans have gone completely sideways. That part’s OK; an adventure that goes to plan isn’t an adventure, it’s just a plan. But the two months I had on the road were among the happiest I’ve ever been. Not easy, but amazing, waking every day to a feeling of “this is what I was created to do.” I miss that adventure and while Jessie sits waiting I’m scheming and filling my poor mother’s home with the expedition gear that will prolong this adventure through 2012 once I’m back in the saddle. Anyways, as this whole thing went in a different direction than planned I’ve decided to spend most of 2012 in the American West, but I’ll take some time getting there this time. And if I can do a whole year without falling off a wall, I’ll spend 2013 in Europe with Jessie or her cousin. But you know me and plans these days, so….

Jessie and I on the first day of our adventure, in Tofino, B.C., back when I could walk and stuff. Can’t tell you how excited I was. Jessie’s parked in Atlanta, and overstaying her welcome, with a friend right now. Sit tight, lass, I’m coming!

Through this I’ve been stunned by your support and kindness, so again, thank you. I am so luck to be alive, so grateful to have avoided paralysis. This whole journey has given me all kinds of unexpected gifts, new friends, profound lessons, time with family, and a deeper appreciation for the grace to live life moment by beautiful moment. I never in a million years imagined that starting this blog would give me what it has. I wanted readers; what I got was colleagues, friends, the odd stalker, and a handful of people that feel suspiciously like family. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Raising my glass to you and hoping you’ll join me for the next 1000.

Over the last week I’ve done podcast interviews with two great guys. The first was with Matt Brandon, a great friend and collaborator. The second was with a new friend, Martin Bailey. Both interviews touch on similar themes and gave me a chance to talk about my accident, the brevity of life, and other topics that gave me a chance to sound off. As always I probably talked too much but that should surprise no one that knows me. Wind me up, let me go, and I seem to talk excessively until the batteries run out.

Anyways, if you’ve got time on your hands, both these gentlemen do great interviews and I can think of worse things than spending an hour with us (I can think of much, much better things too, but these are free, so they bump the other ones out of first place. )

Listen to Matt Brandon’s Depth of Field Interview HERE

Listen to Martin Bailey’s Podcast HERE

June 01, Coming home and crawling.

On June 01, the good folks at The Ottawa Hospital kicked my ass to the curb, threw confetti in the air and told me to come back some time when I couldn’t stay quite so long. I’d been there for 34 days, and left hospital a full 40 days after the accident. It’s fantastic to be home.

It’s hard to put into words what this experience has done for me. It’s been, at times, frustrating and painful, and scary. There were times when I felt I’d reached the absolute bottom, most of those involving humiliating efforts to move my bowels after the narcotics had plugged me up and I couldn’t get to a toilet. At one point my nurse, God bless him, gave me an enema and as he, uh, drove it home, he said. “Up yours, David.” Funniest thing I’d heard in days but it turns out enemas and laughter aren’t a great combination. I’ve learned to rely on people for the simplest tasks, a challenge for someone so usually independant. I’ve learned that recovery doesn’t happen to you, you bring it. You make it happen. And I think the same applies to life. I was sharing a room towards the end with a man determined to be miserable, and his presence in my room taught me more about living life than watching Dead Poets Society a hundred times might have. Life happens to you, what you do with the hand you are dealt is up to you, and it’s there that you find the choice to be happy, to find meaning.

My first set of stairs but aided by my official assistance cat, Cocoa, aka The Brown Bastard. Hey, don’t look at me, I didn’t name him that. (Or did I?…)

Of all the lessons I’ve learned over and over it’s that life is made of moments. They add up to create a life. So to wish any of them away, to not look for something in each of those moments, is to wish away a piece of life. And if you do so in hopes of something better coming around the corner, you could miss life entirely. I don’t want to get too Zen about all this, but man can life be beautiful. I am so, so grateful to be alive and I’m more than ever aware of the fragility of life. More than ever aware that life is what you make it. I watched UP last night and, aside from crying my way through the first 11 minutes, was reminded again that Adventure is out there! and that it’s up to us to seize it or not.

Anyways, I’m home. I won’t be walking again until August, I think, and I’m a little nervous about that. In the meantime I crawl wherever my wheelchair won’t take me. I’ve got more spare time than I’ve had in ages – time to write the first eBook I’ve written in over 6 months (look for it on the 28th), time to work on a series of Ltd. Edition prints – the first of my work I’ve put out in over a year, and time to answer emails, be more engaged on Twitter and Facebook, and just sit with my mother on the porch with a Gin and Tonic. I’ll be back at the Ottawa Hospital in 2 weeks for x-rays and follow ups and I’ll know more then. Hoping, perhaps a little too optimistically, that they let me weight-bear on the left leg so I can begin to use crutches.

Thank you all, again, for such kindness and support.

My collection of screws and plates. Click the image for a closer look.

This is just a quick update. I’m nearing 2 weeks post-up, and am nearing 4 weeks since the accident. The days are getting better, my mind is less foggy now that my pain meds have been significantly reduced, and each day contains small victories. I’m slowing down, learning to find meaning and joy in the moments that might otherwise feel like nothing more than a string of boring seconds assembling themselves into boring minutes and unending hours.  The image above is my recent set of scans. Feels like one of my surgeons finally found a place for all those left over bits from the IKEA boxes and just dumped them in.

Corwin flew out on Monday and we’re spending the days working and talking and catching him up to speed on my new dreams – really old dreams that have had to become somewhat more flexible than I imagined.

Flowers and cards, books and videos keep showing up, gifts from people, many of whom I really don’t know and as my feet heal I feel my heart changing too. Still overwhelmed, it’s stretching to accomodate the surplus. For all the unexpectedness of this, the setbacks, the change of plans, and the pain, I wouldn’t do this differently. I’m losing weight in ways I’d rather not, my hair is shaggy, and I’ve long stretches of boredom. I’m limited to cafeteria food. I still pee in a bottle and wrestle with a bedpan most of the time. But I’m also truly and unexpectedly happy.

One of the most unexpected aspects of this entire thing was my evacuation from Italy. Since I started travelling I’ve held a much-valued membership with MedJet Assist. I pay something like $200/year for my policy and it’s beautifully simple: if I am hospitalized over 150 miles from my home, they come get me and fly me to any hospital in the world. No fine print. So on the eve of day 4, when my two pilots and my nurses, Tiffany and James, came into my room I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to see anyone. That was at midnight. They assessed me, medicated me, and said goodnight to me. 6 hours later I was on my way to a Leer jet at Pisa airport. They were incredible. Gentle, professional, extremely capable, and – for the first time since I fell – I was in the care of people who spoke English, kept me in the loop, managed my pain and laughed with me. They are my new heroes, and when I last saw them they were leaving me at the Ottawa Civic Hospital and giving my mother a hug. I don’t know how I might otherwise have traveled home. I can’t imagine what it might have cost me. If you travel at all, let me put in my strong recommendation that you make a MedJet Assist evacuation policy a non-negotiable necessity. I always imagined I’d never use it, and if I did it would be from some near fatal gastro disease picked up in the Congo or something. I never imagined I’d call them to pick my broken body up in Tuscany. MedJet Assist is one of the most positive customer-service experiences of my life and I’m deeply grateful to them. If I could buy a lifetime membership right now I would.

More information on MedJet Assist HERE.

San Francisco through the raindrops on the window of the Top of the Mark. Hard to believe it was a couple months ago. To my right, eating dinner, was Robert Duval. Today it expresses my mood.

At the risk of popping bubbles, the truth about my condition right now has been revealed only partly in good-humored tweets and blog posts about the great adventure of life, etc.etc. I’m grateful that people see that side of me, and I think overall I am coping with things well. But every comment that comes in has a sting on the back-end because the whole story can’t be told in tweets and soundbites.

The fuller truth is that much of the time this does not feel like part of a bigger story, it does not feel like an adventure. What it feels like is constant un-abating discomfort in better moments, and excruciating pain in others. It feels, from this tiny point in time, like a sentence that will never end. I can do literally nothing on my own, including roll over in the bed. The great accomplishments of my day include basic body functions and staying lucid long enough to get a blog post done, or a small piece of the next book edited. The nights are the worst. They last forever and have an unending lonely feeling about them. I cry myself to sleep, when I sleep at all.

It is easy to talk about living a life that leans into fear and risk in order to “live the dream” or whatever platitude we’ve attached to what it means to live fully. It is much harder to live through the darker moments life extracts from us as payment for the stories we will one day tell our kids, and the things we believe give our lives purpose. It’s the same way with art. The best of it takes work and self-examination and wading though fear and insecurity to get there. It, too, is scary and lonely at times.

Why am I writing this? Two reasons. First to state the obvious – things might be light around here awhile as I take some time off to wade through this. The second is merely to be more fully honest about it. This was not an easy post to write. Aside from talking about how hard photography can be, I am generally an upbeat and positive person. But lest anyone put me on a pedestal, right here and now it feels like I’d trade this pain and difficulty for a slightly easier story. Years later this will be part of the story that makes me who I become. These things will affect my work; they will create a new place from which I create my art. But right now it just hurts. Bravery and humor is easy to sustain for 140 characters on Twitter. In real life it seems to be much, much harder. Would I really change anything? Not at all, but if I’ve ever made this stuff sound easy, or as though it is within reach of only a special breed of people, I’ve wronged you. This is hard.

I’m learning, that’s for sure. I am learning that I am surrounded by amazing people; people (so, so many of you are those people) who think I am amazing, and what I wish I could do now is turn the mirror the other way, help them understand that they are the amazing ones – people whom I revere deeply for the size of their hearts. So forgive another meandering, emotional post, but authenticity is not a marketing strategy for me, it’s the heart of this community. The day I start faking it is the day I close shop.

As far as updates, I’m told I’m healing well and the team here is now talking about a transfer to Perth War Memorial Hospital here in Ontario. It’s closer to my parent’s home and I’ll spend about a month there. As soon as I am able, and a spot frees up, I’ll be moved to an inpatient rehab clinic, for who knows how long. A couple weeks? A month?

So again, my deepest thanks. Forgive me if I’m quieter than usual. Some days it takes too much energy to maintain the optimism and as I’ve previously been told my angst is exhausting, I’m wary of wearing you down with too much navel gazing.