Lynne Cox

In 2018, Lynne made one of the hardest decisions of her life. Complications from a knee replacement surgery led to pain and reduced mobility. "I could see that I wasn't going to be able to do my job," she says. "So I chose to retire earlier than I wanted to. I didn't want the kids to not get what they needed because I wasn't able to do what I needed to do." She pauses. "But it broke my heart for a while there. It devastated me. Still does, to a certain point." 

Lynne underwent a below-the-knee amputation—and later, a second surgery that took more of her leg. It was a lot to absorb. But even then, her focus was on what came next. "Nobody wants to have more leg taken off," she says. "But being able to get up on it and walk and do things—that was wonderful." 

Her husband John watched it all unfold with equal parts awe and love. "Her resilience and how fast she bounced back—to me that would have been devastating," he says. "But she just had that mental attitude right from the start: we're going to get through this, we're going to conquer this. I'm not going to spend my life in a wheelchair." 

Life in Martinsville now is full—exactly the way Lynne wants it. Her weeks are shaped by the things and people she loves most: her grandchildren, her husband, her sister, her church, and, of course, her music. "Kind of a boring life to some, I suppose," she says—though everything about how she says it suggests she disagrees. 

At the heart of that life are her grandchildren. Lynne and John are deeply involved grandparents, and several days a week Lynne looks after Lorelai, her five-year-old granddaughter. Their days together have a gentle, unhurried rhythm—mornings in the garden pulling weeds and planting, afternoons in the kitchen measuring flour and decorating cookies. "Her play is her learning," Lynne says. "I let her measure when we make the cakes or the cookies. That type of thing." The teacher in Lynne has never really clocked out. 

The garden has become a special place for the two of them—somewhere Lorelai can dig in the dirt and watch things grow, and somewhere Lynne can move at her own pace, on her own terms. It is exactly the kind of activity she once feared amputation might take from her. Instead, it has become one of the things she treasures most. 

The other grandchildren each have their own corner of Grandma's world too. Hunter loves Play-Doh. Brooke is still discovering what she's drawn to, and Lynne is in no rush. "My teaching has helped me see things I can pull out—crafts we can do together." John sees it clearly: being able to be present and active with the grandchildren has been one of the most meaningful gifts Lynne's mobility has given them both. "It's good to see her become more independent and be able to do more things," he says. "It helped her mental health—and not having to rely on me to have to do this or that." 

At church, Lynne has taken on an ambitious new role: organizing the Wednesday night community dinners. "It's a pretty big time commitment," notes a fellow church member. "Takes a lot of energy and work." That she does it with a prosthetic leg is, to those who know her, simply part of who she is. "She's more active than most people I know," says another. "Her prosthetic leg does not stop her from doing anything." 

Because of her level of activity, Lynne's care team moved her to the Power Knee relatively early in her journey. "You have to demonstrate the things you're going to do and that you are active, you're going to stay active, to get that Power Knee," John explains. "And that's really propelled our life a lot." 

For Lynne, the shift to the Power Knee marked a turning point in her independence—something she had fought hard to reclaim. In the early days of recovery, the people who loved her most were also her biggest obstacle. "Nobody wanted me to do anything. They were so afraid to let me do anything," she says with a laugh. "And I said, well, nobody wants to fall. But that's what's going to have to happen until I get to the point that I can do what I need to do." 

Then came the moment she'd been working toward. "All of a sudden I could just walk, and I thought—I don't need this cane. Let's just get rid of it. And I did. I just pushed it off to the side and started walking. And it just was so wonderful to not have to have something in my hand or something helping me." 

"Going to church. Going to concerts. Going up into an auditorium. Those ramps are horrible sometimes. But I said, these are things I need to do. The independence was a struggle—but I finally got people to realize that I can do it." Because of her level of activity, Lynne's care team moved her to the Power Knee relatively early in her journey. "You have to demonstrate the things you're going to do and that you are active, you're going to stay active, to get that Power Knee," John explains. "And that's really propelled our life a lot." 

For Lynne, the shift to the Power Knee marked a turning point in her independence—something she had fought hard to reclaim. In the early days of recovery, the people who loved her most were also her biggest obstacle. "Nobody wanted me to do anything. They were so afraid to let me do anything," she says with a laugh. "And I said, well, nobody wants to fall. But that's what's going to have to happen until I get to the point that I can do what I need to do." 

Then came the moment she'd been working toward. "All of a sudden I could just walk, and I thought—I don't need this cane. Let's just get rid of it. And I did. I just pushed it off to the side and started walking. And it just was so wonderful to not have to have something in my hand or something helping me." 

"Going to church. Going to concerts. Going up into an auditorium. Those ramps are horrible sometimes. But I said, these are things I need to do. The independence was a struggle—but I finally got people to realize that I can do it." 

Of all the milestones Lynne has reached since her amputation, one stands above the rest. It had been at the top of her bucket list from the very beginning: to dance with her son at his wedding. 

"There wasn't a dry eye that night when she took the dance floor," John says. 

Lynne smiles at the memory. "That was very emotional. That was one of the biggest things on my list. Being able to dance with my son at his wedding, to enjoy that time with him, to enjoy his day. So yeah. That was very important." 

John credits the Power Knee with making moments like that possible. "It's been a marvel to us—to be able to get her increased mobility and back to semi-normal. As normal as we're ever going to get." He adds: "It might take you a little longer to get dressed in the morning or get ready for bed. But you can still live your life." 

Lynne's advice to others navigating a similar path is simple and hard-won: "Be positive. Always have some people in your corner that you know are going to support you." 

From a childhood filled with music to a classroom full of kids, from a surgery that changed everything to a dance floor at her son's wedding—Lynne Cox has met every challenge head on. Her Power Knee hasn't just restored her mobility. It's helped her keep moving toward everything that matters most.