Archives For Hope

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Amazing Stories Can Begin In Unexpected Places

July 27, 2012 — 11 Comments

There’s a Culver’s restaurant two blocks from my house.

Without trying to sound overly dramatic, that’s where my life changed forever.

And I’m not referring to a fried cheese-curd experience.

In late 2010, I was eating dinner by myself (and loving it because I’m an introvert), when I noticed a little boy who had an arm just like mine.  “Cool,” I smiled to myself.  As I finished my meal and headed toward the door, his mom came running.  Slightly out of breath, she presented her son to me.  I remember it being as awkward as that sentence sounds.  He was wearing a Tigers shirt, so I asked if he played ball.  He did.  He explained that he didn’t have a favorite position, but that he played them all.  After a minute we said our “nice to meet yous” and headed toward our cars.

I remember feeling sad as I walked away.  The mom clearly loved her son, but she seemed worried.  It was like she was saying, “Look, son, he’s like you!”  I wanted to give them a hug and tell them everything was going to be fine.  I just wanted to help them.  And that was the very first time that I thought I could be helpful in that way.  Helping amputees and their families, I mean.  The truth is, I hardly ever used to see amputees.  Like, ever.  I honestly never even knew I was an amputee until I broke my short arm in 2008.  To me, the word implies a cutting off.  Like, you get run over by a truck and they amputate your leg.  I was born this way, so I never viewed myself as one.  Now I know the truth, which is that I’m a congenital amputee.

After that experience, I wrote a piece for RelevantMagazine.com called Finding – And Being – Good Community.  It is the very beginning of LivingOneHanded.com, even before I had the name.  In fact it wasn’t until nearly a year later that I launched the blog.  But, that experience was the crucible for everything I’m doing now.

Which brings me to the other night.

On a Thursday night, in the same Culver’s where it all began, I met with Luke and his mom, Jane.  Luke is going into 6th grade, likes to read and play soccer, and his right arm ends at his elbow.  Oh, and he often rides his bike to the Culver’s that is (did I mention this before?) TWO BLOCKS FROM MY HOUSE.  One day he saw my business card on the board there and took it home.  Turns out, our families live less than five minutes from each other.  Coincidences are so awesome.

Luke and I got sundaes and the three of us talked about life with one arm.  Luke told me about his bike (of which I’m totally jealous) and the fun he had at camp recently.  We talked about how it’s a little uncomfortable when you play games at school where you have to hold hands.  “But, if it’s someone I don’t know very well, I just tell them they can grab my shoulder,” Luke said.  His solution caught Jane off-guard.  She was so proud; it was adorable.

Jane told me about Luke’s great friends and also her concerns for him.  “Trust me, you have nothing to worry about,” I told her.  And I believe that whole-heartedly.  Luke is intelligent, polite, confident and funny.  I didn’t say this at the time, but I think Jane’s biggest worry will be keeping the girls at bay!

After a while, we moseyed out to head home.  We gave hugs, took a picture and promised to keep in touch.  As I got into my car, I’ll be honest…I was on cloud nine.  The visit was even better than I had hoped for.  And prayed for.  On the way there I had prayed that I’d have the right words to say, that we’d have a good time, and that it’d be encouraging.  I’m humbled that I get to be a part of Luke and Jane’s story.  It’s an honor.

Luke and me and the LOH-mobile.

What’s so exciting about this “circle of life” event, is that I know it’s still just the beginning.  I’m so excited to be a part of this journey LOH has me on and I can’t wait to see where it goes next.

And I encourage you to be on the lookout in your own life.  Amazing stories can begin anywhere.

Even at a family burger joint.

I’d love if you shared your story with us, particularly if it had an unexpected beginning!

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In Help, Hope
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We Must Lean Into Uncertainty

June 23, 2012 — 3 Comments

I’m a fan of familiarity.

That is to say, I’m not a fan of uncertainty.

And, to a certain extent, it probably means I’m lazy.

The thing is, I rarely take the time to figure out how to do things more efficiently.  When I was younger my parents got me a myoelectric prosthetic arm.  When you’re a kid, what’s not cool about a robotic arm, right?  Well, I’ll tell you: taking the time to learn how to use it when really you just want to be outside playing.  I never hated my myo or anything, I just didn’t need it.  I knew how to do the things I wanted to do already and didn’t want to “waste my time” learning a new way.

I’m still like that.  It’s not a conscious thing, it’s just my nature, I suppose.  For instance, I enter data on a compter all day long at my job.  There’s one particular sequence of keystrokes wherein I have to use keys on opposite sides of the keyboard and it’s quite annoying when doing it with one hand.  About FOUR YEARS into my job, performing this sequence day in and day out, I thought to myself, “Ya know, I could probably reformat my keyboard to put that Tab button from the left side to the right.”  It took approximately three minutes to do so and voila!  Now it’s the easiest sequence I use.

My first thought wasn’t, “Wow, this is great!”  It was, “YOU IDIOT!  You could’ve done this YEARS ago!”  But again, it’s just not in my nature.  I do things how they work for me and that’s good enough.

Sometimes I feel bad about it.  Like, I have one hand so I should be actively seeking out all the ways to do things more efficiently; finding all the one-handed tools people have invented to help me.  My mom brought over an electric pencil sharpener yesterday (for the kids) and I was all, “Oh, hey…nice.”  Truth is, though, I just use mechanical pencils or pens.  And we have one of those electric can openers, but 9 times out of 10, I just use the manual one.  It works fine.

One-handed pencil sharpener. So lazy.

And while I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong with my affection for familiarity, there’s something to be said for learning to embrace uncertainty.  At least that’s what my therapist says.  In fact, Brené Brown says it isn’t enough just to embrace uncertainty, we need to lean into it.  And while I struggle with that, I know I need to do more of it.  Try new things and see how they go.  There are about fifty things on my “Next Steps for Living One-Handed” list that I’m nervous to try, but I know I should just do them.  Setup those speaking engagements.  Write that eBook.  Make that appointment.  Record that podcast.  Pen that kids book.  Start the memoir.  These all sound exciting, but they are also unfamiliar.  The “What If” game steps-in and makes me hesitate.

Does that happen to you, too?  Do you get stuck in the familiar and stay away from the uncertain?  How do you push through it?

I’d love if you shared some of your successes and/or failures from leaning into uncertainty!

The truth is, and I know this from experience, if we live every day doing only what is familiar to us…life gets boring.  We need to embrace uncertainly, accept conflict, and get excited about what things are going to look like on the other side.  It can be scary and uncomfortable, but we need to do it.  I just don’t see any other way around it.  And I believe that the more we lean into the unknown and take risks and confront conflict, the more exciting and meaningful our lives will be.

Let’s make life exciting.

Let’s lean into uncertainty.

Tell about one practical way you can lean into uncertainty today!

(Join the LOH Facebook community and follow on Twitter, too!)

In Help, Hope
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Happy Father’s Day, Dads!

June 17, 2012 — 5 Comments

My kids are super funny.

Like when Claire, my 4-year old, explained away the pen all over her hand by looking at it cock-eyed and saying, “Oh, this?  No, I didn’t do that today.  It’s a stain from when I was, like, two.”  So brilliant, I didn’t even argue.

And while they’re hilarious a lot of the time, they’re also kids.  They fight and whine and get punished just like any other kids do.  But, they love each other.  Sam, my oldest, loves his little sisters so much.  He’s a sensitive little guy and when they hurt, he hurts with them.  I love his empathetic heart.

I love being their dad.

Classic Haack kids shot.

A couple years ago I learned how much I love my middle daughter, Anna.

The hard way.

I was reminded of it today when Bruno Mars’s “Just the Way You Are” came on the radio.

July of 2010, we were at the park for church and Anna, four at the time, darted across the bike path toward the lake…right as a bicyclist was rounding a curve.  Neither my wife, Julie, or I saw the accident (which the doctor said was a good thing), but the impact was so hard, the lady’s leg was stuck in her bike frame.  And Anna was in bad shape.  My pastor ran to me with her in his arms, blood everywhere.  A friend of ours, who happens to be a doctor, was in the shelter.  He looked Anna over and very calmly suggested we take her to the ER.

On the way over we tried to engage Anna in conversation to keep her awake.  Her responses her alarming.  Clearly she wasn’t right.  When he got to the hospital, everything went downhill.  Anna was loopy and wouldn’t keep her eyes open.  Then they tried to get an IV in her.

Worst experience of my entire life.

Four nurses, a doctor and my wife all tried to hold Anna as she shrieked and thrashed in her bed.  I stood there and prayed.  Then I dropped to me knees at the foot of the bed and prayed.  Nothing.  Eventually Julie grabbed Anna and held her to her chest…and Anna went limp.  Her head dropped backwards and her arms went limp-noodle.  “What’s happening?!” Julie yelled.  They took Anna, put her on the bed, and whisked her away.

We went out into the hall and as I held Julie, she crumbled in my arms.  It was terrifying.  All this from a bicycle??  I went outside and called my pastor to give him an update and as we were talking, I saw my dad and step-mom walking toward me.  I had told them we were ok and they didn’t need to come, but they knew better.  Strong move, dad.

I lost it.

I hung-up on my pastor and went to them.  I could barely stand and started crying.  No, not crying.  It was that thing where you’re drooling and snotting and kind of cough-wailing.  “What if…something happens to her?  I can’t handle that,” I cried.  They comforted me and assured me everything would be ok.

And it would be.

Anna was transferred to UW-Children’s Hospital and the minute we walked in we felt a sense of calm.  The doctors stabilized her in the ER first and then we were moved to a recovery room for her to rest.  It was a long night of listening to and watching her breathe.

At one point, the doctor talked to us about the resilience of children.  She assured us that Anna would be back to normal in a couple weeks.  I looked at Anna’s face and wasn’t so sure.  I want to post a picture here that I took in the ER, but I’m not going to.  Suffice it to say, my beautiful Anna had cuts and bruises that I thought would stay forever.  Would her self-esteem take a hit?  Would she be stared at?  I was thinking these thoughts as I drove home to change out of my bloody shirt when Bruno Mars’s song came on.  I started crying as I listened to the first couple of verses. (Up until 1:28, it’s not creepy. Then it gets weird. Just listen to the first 1:28 and think about me singing this to my daughter.)

Before we brought Anna home, we warned the other kids that she looked different, but she’d heal.  “Let’s not stare at her, ok?” I said.  When she got home, Sam and Claire gave her big hugs and treated her normally.  “I didn’t stare at all, dad!” Sam told me, proudly.  At one point Anna looked at herself in a mirror and it broke my heart.  What she saw scared her.  And made her sad.  All I could do was tell her she’d heal; just be patient.

Just as the doctor had said, Anna did heal.  Completely.  In less than two weeks.  It was utterly amazing.

My angelic Anna ‘Nana.

Like I said, I love my kids.  If you have kids, I bet you love them, too.  And while I don’t think it takes experiences like this to know how much you really love them, it certainly proves it.

So, if you have them, hug your kids today.  They’re probably going to make you cards or breakfast in bed and they’ll say all kinds of nice things about you today.  But, honestly, we know it’s really all about them, right? Tell them you love them.  Tell them how proud you are of them.

Tell them how much you love being their daddy.

Sam, Anna and Claire…

I love being your daddy.

In Hope
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Imperfect: An Improbable Life by Jim Abbott and Tim Brown

June 14, 2012 — 2 Comments

The ball felt good when it left my hand.

THUNK.

Apparently it wasn’t as good as I thought it was.

The kid at home plate dropped his bat, reached for the middle of his back, and crumbled to the ground in a heap.  He started crying immediately.  I just stood on the mound while everybody ran to him to make sure he was alright.  Starting to get emotional, I saw my uncle walking out to me.  “Did you mean to hit him?” he asked.  I said no, of course.  “I knew that already, because if you meant to hit ‘im you would’ve hit ‘im in the head,” he said as he winked and cracked a smile.  I smiled, too, through tears, and understood his point. I didn’t mean to hit him.  It was an accident.  That’s baseball.

Like any one-handed boy growing-up playing baseball in the late ’80s and early ’90s (that narrows it down some, doesn’t it?), I idolized Jim Abbott.  Every morning I flipped to the back of the sports section to see how the Angels were doing and if Jim was pitching soon.  I collected every one of his baseball cards and bought the Scholastic book from school.  The card shop owner where I purchased most of mine even surprised me one day with an autographed picture of Jim!  I still have it all.

Why did I sign my name like that?

I stopped playing once I reached my teens, but still loved the sport and followed Jim.  As his career petered out, Jim became a hero of days gone by.  A hero I’d still like to meet someday.  So, when I heard last year that he was writing a memoir, all those memories returned.  I’ve been looking forward to Imperfect and it did not disappoint!

Imperfect is such a well-written book.  Jim (and Tim) takes us through his no-hitter with the Yankees in 1993 one inning at a time, interspersed with stories of his childhood, pitching at the University of Michigan, winning a gold medal in the Olympics in 1988, and his professional career.  It flows nicely and each part seems necessary.  280 pages, no filler.

Reading Jim’s book was an incredibly interesting experience for me.  My lack of a left forearm has never been an issue.  Never.  It was never something I thought about, it never stopped me from doing anything, I never had horrible experiences of being or feeling like an outcast because of it, I never (consciously) felt like I had to prove anything to anyone because of it…never.

Jim did.

It was eye-opening for me to hear about Jim’s insecurities with his hand.  He was very self-conscious and perhaps more self-aware than I ever was growing-up.  “I remember points along the way.  I remember the faces, the events, the casual observations of classmates.  I remember the long stares.  And being glad my jeans had pockets.  I remember the kids who took one look at me and said, ‘Your hand looks like a foot,’ observations that amused them to no end and yet for me had become a part of te routine.  And I remember baseball coming to find me, pulling me along,” he writes.  He had a difficult time coming to terms with his physical condition and that was powerful for me because I’ve had such a different experience.

I admire Jim’s vulnerability in Imperfect.  He shares his successes and his regrets alike, both with honesty.  I was surprised to learn about the situation that led to his departure from the Angels and appreciated his candor in telling how much he wished it had gone differently.  And I laughed out-loud when he told about the impression he did when jogging to the dugout during his no-hitter.

The end of chapter 13, though, was my favorite part of Imperfect.  In it, he talks about…the kids.  “I didn’t see them coming,” he admits.  “I didn’t expect the stories they told, or the distance they traveled to tell them, or the desperation revealed in them.  They were shy and beautiful, and they were loud and funny, and they were, like me, somehow imperfectly built.  And, like me, they had parents nearby, parents who willed themselves to believe that this accident of circumstance or nature was not a life sentence, and that the spirits inside these tiny bodies were greater than the sums of their hands and feet.”  Amazing.  He goes on to talk about his routine of meeting kids in every city and how it affected him as a person.

I’ll tell you right now that the most difficult part of the book for me was reading Jim’s own recounting of his decline as a pitcher.  It was literally painful at times.  You can feel the desperation and frustration in his story telling and even though you know how it ends, you want to believe that fastball comes back.  It was even worse for me because I’ve grown-up a Brewers fan and that’s where he realized he was done; crummy ol’ County Stadium in Milwaukee.  I felt bad that he had such a crappy time in Wisconsin, but…they were really bad at the time.

Lastly, I was intrigued by Jim’s concern for his wife and daughter.  “I had accepted my disability.  I wasn’t sure if I had the authority – or the courage – to accept a disability for a son or a daughter, too,” he said.  He worried about passing on his disability and went so far as to get genetic testing to rule it out.  In this way, Jim is much more selfless than I am.  I never thought about any of that when my wife and I started having kids.  The difference, though, is one of experience, I think.  Mine was relatively easy, so it didn’t matter to me.  Jim’s was difficult, so he was much more aware and sensitive to it.

As a unique talent, Jim always wished to be known for his ability as a pitcher and not as a “one-armed pitcher.”  He desired normalcy, though came to realize that his normal, though different than others’, was and is just as important; if not moreso.  I love one of Jim’s conclusions as the result of his no-hitter: “In homes from Anaheim to Baltimore, in places where children wished only to be normal, to fit in, maybe the world took another step toward them, not away,” he says.

There is no doubt, Jim Abbott has made the world a better place.  Not just because he threw a no-hitter, but because of the man he was and is.

Thanks, Jim.

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Happy Memorial Day

May 28, 2012 — 6 Comments

“No, sir, I didn’t lose my arm in the war.  I’m only 13.”

When I was younger I’d always get confused when older men asked me if I lost my arm in the war.  What war would I even have lost it in?  Looking back on it, though, it makes sense.  That was their experience.  And that makes me kind of sad.

It makes more sense when they ask me these days, being that I’m older.  Usually it’s a grizzled veteran and I always feel like I’m disappointing them if I tell them I was just born this way.  Sometimes they’ll just give me the standard military greeting (marines, army, navy, air force…) and I’ll nod and smile.  I hope that’s ok. I’m not trying to take credit for something I didn’t do, I just know how important it is to them to connect in that way; to honor their brethren.  It’s important to me, too.

Today is Memorial Day in America.  A day we set aside to remember those that have served, and especially those that gave their lives, fighting for and protecting us.

My grandpa was a war hero.  It’s no surprise to me that he’s still around at 92.  The stories my dad tells me about him are unbelievable.  He was shot in the leg in New Guinea and still led his men into battle successfully.  That gives you an idea of how awesome my grandpa is.  I love the connection I have with him and the war, too.  See, he named my dad Calvin Douglas.  My grandpa served alongside Calvin Douglas and their bond was so strong that he vowed to name his next son after him when they got home.  My dad then named me Ryan Douglas and I was proud to name my firstborn Samuel Douglas.  And someday…no pressure, Sam.

Sam, Me, Grandpa, my Dad

I’ve yet to have the opportunity to meet a soldier who has had a limb amputation due to combat.  That’s kind of my fault, too, because I live fifteen minutes away from a VA hospital.  The truth is, though, it makes me a little nervous.  Congenital amputation is so much different than traumatic amputation.  I never had an arm to lose.  These brave men and women have lost a part of themselves; literally and figuratively.  The magnitude of the situation is not lost on me.

That said, I know they’ll face challenges, both mental and physical, that I believe I can help with.  Whether that’s devising new ways of completing simple tasks or just getting them to laugh, I’d be honored to be a part of their recovery.  It’s definitely something I’m going to look more into.

In the meantime, let me just say how thankful I am for those who have chosen to protect me.  And to the families that have lost loved ones in conflict…we grieve with you and thank you for your sacrifice.

Sincerely,

Ryan

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In Hope
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What Do My Own Kids Think About My Arm?

May 25, 2012 — 8 Comments

“I want to see your baby arm, daddy!”

Apparently my daughter, Claire, calls my short arm my “baby arm.”

I’ve never heard her say that before, but tonight she confirmed it.

“Because it looks like a baby!” she said.

“Really?” I asked.

“No,” she answered.

And that was it.

Me and Claire. And a kitteh.

Me and Claire. And a kitteh.

The funny thing is, we hardly ever talk about my arm.  None of my three kids ever bring it up and honestly, I feel weird when I do with them.  They’ve never known me any other way, so it’s natural to them.  I wonder if that will change as they get older?  When their friends start asking about it, will they be embarrassed?  Or think it’s weird?   I wonder.

For now, though, I like that it doesn’t make a difference to them.  In fact, they love coming-up with new ideas for videos.  The blog has actually made them more aware, I think.  Every once in a while I’ll watch Claire run to her brother’s room and hear her say excitedly, “Sam!  Daddy just buttoned my shirt with one hand!  Isn’t that cool??”  It’s fantastic.

A couple years ago I wrote a poem about my daughter Anna.  She was four and just started noticing that I had one hand.  She was fascinated by what I could do.  She never said anything, but I’d catch her watching every now and then.  It was super cute.

The poem ended-up being published and the timing was perfect.  Anna got hit by a bicyclist the summer I wrote it and we found ourselves staying with her in the UW Children’s Hospital.  Scariest couple days of my life.  So, after a long night of making sure Anna was okay, it made my heart so happy to get the email saying, “Your poem is up today!”  Hopefully you can see why.

Just Noticing

You saw me
sliding my belt through the loops
and were amazed
Your little mouth dropped open
Big blue eyes
widened in surprise
Concerned, your small
helpful hands reached up
and fumbled with the leather
My little assistant
It’s adorable how you’re
just noticing all of
the things Daddy can do
with only one hand.
My angelic Anna 'Nana.

My angelic Anna ‘Nana.

I love my kids.  I love that my limb-difference is normal to them.
And I can’t wait to hear what Claire calls my arm next.

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In Hope, Humor
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I’m A Congenital Amputee, Too

May 23, 2012 — 6 Comments

“I actually know exactly what you’re talking about. I’m a congenital below-elbow amputee myself.”

I don’t think I’ve ever said that on a call at work before.

But, I said it today.

A woman called to express her concerns about our health insurance company’s lack of available prosthetists (according to her). When I revealed our similarity, I could tell she was both surprised and relieved. “There’s not many of us around, ya know!” she said. I listened intently as she explained the situation and agreed knowingly when she described an issue she had with one of the providers. I promised her, as someone who understands the situation well, that I would get the information to the decision-makers.

At the end of the conversation I told her I have a website and she was so excited about it. She said she’s always looking for people, especially those with the i-Limb Hand. Then, somewhat randomly, she said, “Ya know when people ask how lost your arm? That drives me nuts! I didn’t lose it!” It was great! We laughed and talked about the funny things people ask, like, “Are you right or left-handed?”

The i-Limb Hand. Is that sweet or what??

My favorite part of the conversation was when she was explaining what the hand means to her. “Since I grew-up without my hand, the difference with the i-Limb Hand is incremental; not night and day. But, like, I’m the president of an association and last night I held my script with my i-Limb Hand and the microphone with the other during a presentation. I got to move! I couldn’t have done that a couple years ago,” she said.

It was a blast to talk to her and to hear her experience. We were both born missing part of a limb and raised well, but have very different perspectives. And they both work for us! I haven’t worn a prosthetic in over 20 years and she’s rocking an i-Limb Hand at the age of 65! Anything is possible.

As I tell all parents of limb-different kids (and will until I’m dead)…just love your kids and do your best. Everything will work out.

Trust me.

If you’re unfamiliar with the i-Limb hand, here’s a short video of one in action:

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We All Want To Be Known For Something

May 11, 2012 — 2 Comments

My wife and I were walking through the mall together when out of nowhere I hear, “Ryan Haack?!”  Since that’s my name, I looked in the direction the voice came from.  A young woman stood there smiling and waving.  “Hi!” I said.  I didn’t say her name.  I couldn’t remember it.  Eventually I figured out we went to elementary school together.  It was nice to catch-up, but afterward I felt bad.

“I hate when I can’t remember people,” I told Julie.

“Well, it’s not really fair,” she said.

“How so?” I wondered aloud.

“I mean, we all have an advantage.  You’re pretty easy to remember,” she said.

I stared.

“Because of your arm!  Jeez.”

Then I got angry.

Ok, not really.  But, she’s totally right!  You two-handers have the upper-hand (as it were) when it comes to remembering those of us with a limb-difference.

You’re welcome.

The truth is, anybody with a pronounced difference, physical or otherwise, is memorable.  Could be a big nose or a bald head, Leno’s chin or Angelina’s lips, Conan’s fiery locks or Arnold’s bouncing pecs.  Then there’s that total jerk.  Oh, and that super nice lady.  The one with the laugh.

So, what makes you memorable?

I was recently in Nashville at the StoryLine conference with Donald Miller and we talked a lot about living a better story.  To me, living a better story makes you different.  It makes you memorable.

We heard from a variety of people who are living better stories.  There was Al Andrews, a successful therapist who decided his dream was to become a philanthropist.  One problem: philanthropists need money in order to give it away.  Al didn’t have it.  So, he started Improbable Philanthropy.  His first venture was to write a children’s book and all the proceeds will be given to charity (buy here).  A noble beginning.  Then we heard from Jamie Tworkowski.  In 2006 Jamie met a young woman struggling with depression and self-injury.  He wanted to help, so he wrote a story and then put the title of it on shirts to sell and raise money for her treatment.  Eventually, Jamie founded the organization To Write Love On Her Arms; the title of his story.  TWLOHA “is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide.”  The reach of TWLOHA is growing exponentially and those in need are being helped.  What an amazing story!

Then there’s Bob Goff.

Bob is the kind of guy you just want to be around.  All the time.  I mean, his sweet wife would probably have to push me out of their bed if I had my way.  Bob just released a book, Love Does, wherein he shares some of his more famous stories.  Like how he became the consul for the Republic of Uganda…by accident.  Or the one abut the parade.  See, one year Bob’s kids were talking about how boring New Years Day was, so he asked what they wanted to do.  One of his daughters suggested having a parade.  Bob thought it was a great idea, so they dressed-up and out they went, inviting all the neighbors.  One rule, though: You can’t watch.  You can only be in the parade.  A perfect metaphor for life; we’re all in this together.  And for years now, the New Years Day parade has grown.  Families who have moved out of the neighborhood fly back to San Diego just for the parade! Here’s this year’s:

Personally, I was blown away when, as I walked-up to greet him, he looked at me and shouted, “Ryan!”  He gave me a great big hug.  “I love reading what you’re writing!” he said.  Me.  Ryan.  A guy he’s never met.  Bob knows thousands of people, many of them world leaders, and yet he recognized me from our few Twitter connections.  And I’m sure it didn’t hurt that I was wearing my LOH shirt.  Either way, I felt loved and cared for and encouraged by this man I was meeting for the first time.

Me and Bob

Me and Bob

Everyone says Bob is one of the best story tellers in the world.  But you know why that’s even a possibility?  It’s because he lives great stories.  He has them to tell, because he lives them.  And while it’s tempting to whine, “But he knows way more amazing people than I do and he has more money and influence and opportunity…I could never do the things he does,”  I implore you not to.  I’ve done it.  While reading the incredible stories of limb-different people like Josh Sundquist and Kevin Connolly and Jim Abbott, I’ve thought to myself, “Why would people want to hear about my life?”  Well, here’s a secret:

It’s not about me.

It’s about other people.  When we help other people, we live better stories.  And when we live better stories, people remember us.  Know why?

Because most of us aren’t living very good stories.

Most people are letting life push them around; me included.  It’s time to be more intentional.  It’s time to be known for more than a big nose or a strong chin or a missing left hand.  It’s time for you and me to choose to live better stories.  To discover good ambitions and overcome conflict and help other people; to make a difference in the lives of those around us.

I’m fine with being recognized because of my arm, but I’d like to be known for much more.

Don’t you?

(Follow me on Twitter @livingonehanded and “Like” the Facebook page!)

In Help, Hope , , , , , , ,
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The Start of Something Big

April 24, 2012 — 15 Comments

Today was amazing.

And yes, this post is going to be mostly self-serving, but gosh dang, I’m excited.  Also, I’m dramatic.

Today I spoke to my first class (of 3rd graders) about treating others with physical differences respectfully.  We talked about how it’s natural to notice differences, but not ok to stare.  We talked about being curious and how to ask questions politely and respectfully.  We talked about how important it is to not make fun of others.  And I left them with this thought: YOU are valuable.  Every single person is valuable.  I asked if they knew what “valuable” meant and a sweet little girl raised her hand and said, “It means you’re worth something.”  Perfect.  I think there were a number of kids in that room who might have heard they were valuable for the first time.  Or at least the first time in a long time.  I was honored to tell them.

I’ll admit that the five minutes I stood in front while the kids were coming in was somewhat uncomfortable.  One kid came right up and said, “You have one arm.”  “I know, right?” I said.  Awesome.  I told him we were going to talk about it and he seemed good with that.  There was a lot of staring going on.  And you know why it was uncomfortable?  I wanted to engage them all!  But I had to wait to be introduced, ya know?  Once Mrs. Robinson introduced me, though, it was game-on.  “So, you guys are all, what…7th? 8th graders?” I asked. “NOOOOOOOOO!” they yelled.  Putty in my hands.  Er, hand.  I was so comfortable with them and loved engaging them in the conversation.  And they had wonderful questions!  I showed them the jumping-rope video and they all laughed at the funny parts and clapped at the end of it.  I was never more proud of what I do.  “Wow…people really do like these!” I thought.  I mean, I know that already, but it was a totally different experience to see it; to see their reactions.

At the end I fielded questions and juggled for them.  They all ooh’d and aah’d as I juggled and cheered when I was done.  It was awesome.  And a mob of them came up afterward requesting LOH cards so they could go the website later!  One kid even said, “I wish I had an arm like yours.”  Was I really that good?  So good that I made fully-limbed children want to have less arms?  Eh, he was probably an exception.

But, my very favorite part was right as I was leaving.  I had demonstrated how I tie my shoes as they all gathered around me a minute before, so as I packed-up I heard one of the teachers say, “Ok, so I know you’re all very excited to try tying your own shoes one-handed, but we need to move on now and you can try that at home tonight.”  They were ALL trying to tie their shoes one-handed!  The teacher looked at me and playfully said, “Thanks a lot.”  I could only smile.

As I left, I called my wife. “Well…that’s it. Game over. This is what I’m supposed to be doing,” I told her.  And I believe that.  I need to be out telling kids and adults that they are valuable and helping them to see that this is true for everyone.

And this was as good a start as any.

(I’d like to thank my friend Pakou for inviting me to speak and the staff and kids at Leopold Elementary for having me!  It really was a life-changing experience.  See?  Dramatic.)

(I videotaped the presentation, but haven’t checked to see if it turned-out yet. I’ll let you know.)

In Help, Hope, Humor
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Tony Memmel at Redamté Coffee House

April 22, 2012 — 3 Comments

Tony Memmel played a show in Madison, WI last night and it was awesome.

I could basically end the post there, but I won’t.

It was a blast to connect with Tony again and finally meet his beautiful and talented wife, Lesleigh! They are just such kind and down-to-earth people. Plus, his beard…I’m so jealous. My wife and I brought our kids to meet them, too, and it was priceless to see my son Sam watching Tony’s every move. And later, my wife would say to me, “I wish we lived closer. They’re so great. Plus, I have about a MILLION questions for Lesleigh! She’s the only woman I know who is also married to a one-armed man!” Love it.

Haacks and Memmels showing-off our Lucky Fin bracelets!

Tony’s performance was fantastic. He made Redamté Coffee House his home and made us all feel comfortable. He even played One Week to Philadelphia, just like I “asked” him to! (I demanded it on Facebook, actually) Lesleigh sang with him on a few of the songs and their voices blend beautifully. The tour was sponsored by the Lucky Fin Project and Tony gave a nice plug and thank you from the stage, which was really cool. I hope to have video of the concert up soon!

After his performance, Tony graciously agreed to do a short interview for LOH. Enjoy!

Connect with Tony at his website, on Facebook and on Twitter!

Also, join the LOH fun on Facebook and Twitter.

UPDATE:  See Tony’s FULL PERFORMANCE here!  I’ve also made separate videos for each song.  Enjoy!

In Help, Hope, Humor, Videos ,
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