(3 of 9)
I had gambled on a job assignment and had my own damage-control problems. Skyler had reacted angrily when he first heard of my injury. "He lied to me, he lied to me," Skyler shouted, referring to my parting words when I left for Iraq. "He promised me he wouldn't get hurt." According to my estranged wife Judith Katz, Skyler had moped and cried every day until I came home.
He was the first one through the door when visiting hours began. He and Olivia bounded onto my bed, showering me with hugs and get-well posters. Dressed in camouflage pants, Skyler before long had grabbed a roll of gauze and wound it around his right hand. He was identifying with my loss, a gesture I saw as a sign of forgiveness. I had shaken his sense of safety, the security blanket only a father can provide. Skyler's act of generosity capped a day of pardons across three generations of Weisskopf males.
Five days after I arrived Ward 57, surgeons removed another 3.3 in. of my forearm. They needed an inch of bone to free up enough loose skin to cover my wound; I had agreed to lose another 2 in. to make room for an electronic component in my future prosthesis so that my artificial hand would have the capacity to rotate rather than just open and close.
Myoelectric is the non-sci-fi name for bionic. A myoelectric hand works off tiny electrical signals released when muscles are contracted. The signals are picked up by electrodes that line the inside of a prosthesis and cover the muscles of a stump. Electrodes send the signal to a computer chip that instructs an electronic hand to open, close or rotate.
For long stumps like mine, forearm muscles located 3 in. below the elbow drove the process. Flexing the one on the outside of my forearm signaled a hand to open. Tensing the inner muscle would close it. My first lesson with an occupational therapist, Captain Kathleen Yancosek, focused on how to isolate those muscles. Using a tool called "Myo-boy," Captain Katie strapped electrodes onto each of my forearm muscles and plugged the other end of a cord into a laptop computer. The object was to generate a spike on the monitor by flexing the right muscle. I jerked, twitched and turned my stump. Nothing happened. I pumped again, hunting for the right spot, but the monitor stayed blank. When I grew frustrated, Katie had me close my eyes to map the muscle in my mind. I contracted. She let out a cheer: "You did it."
I opened my eyes and saw a tiny streak on the monitor. I squeezed, again, sending the spike higher. Unfortunately, as I kept practicing, the computer indicated that I was firing both muscles at the same time. I finally managed to distinguish one muscle from the other. But manipulating those tiny muscles was exhausting. My hospital gown was soaked in sweat.
Over the course of the next week, I spent at least an hour a day working on the Myo-boy, graduating to new levels of virtual reality. Finally, I simulated the mechanics of a virtual hand, including the wrist rotation I had paid for with two extra inches of my arm. It took an extra step, hitting both muscles at the same time.