Stand tall

But technology can only go so far.

Scientists have not been able to replicate a positive mental attitude. Or heart.

"That's everything," says Hayes. "Especially in the beginning. Some people get depressed. They never get over the loss of their limb. Others see it (loss) as another challenge to conquer."

New ways, old dedication

Augie Sequeira is sitting in the employee break room at Hanger. Sequeira, in prosthetics circles, is something of a legend. He started in the industry 40 years ago, carving legs out of wood. He has witnessed all the major steps in the industry.

Sequeira is 73 years old. He is a prosthetics technician. He is a polite, dignified man, with courtly, Old World manners, glasses, a trim mustache, his scrupulousness buttoned up in a flowing blue laboratory coat.

"A lot of the old technicians are gone now," says Sequeira of his longevity. "I think I am the oldest one still working."

Sequeira is a native of Nicaragua. As a boy, he went to an industrial school and learned auto mechanics. Then, in 1966, at age 32, he immigrated to San Francisco, and got a job with a prosthetics company. In the beginning, he made hands out of foam, which were painted with natural skin tones and blemishes.

Since 1971, working for the then R.E. Hauck Co. in San Francisco, Sequeira has specialized in legs. Back then, he would hollow out a limb socket from a stump of wood, using chisels and drills. Ankles, feet, even hinged knees, were constructed of wood and dowels. It was puppetry.

Still, there are plenty of amputees walking around today on a simple, low-tech wooden leg attached with leather straps.

"Not too long ago, we repaired a wooden socket," says Sequeira. "It was cracked. We put in some acrylic resins, which made it stronger."

Sequeira ushers a visitor into the Hanger workshop, where he works with three other technicians. There is the sound of hammering, the smell of glue. The work stations are littered with tools, parts, metal braces and orthotic footwear. Legs, contoured, muscular, balletic, are held in the jaws of bench vises.

Sequeira is a proud man. He is proud of his work. His ability to impart mobility, stature.

"I love it," he says of his job. "I have seen people crying when they get their prosthesis for the first time and they are walking. When I see that joy, there is no way I can explain the feeling."

Adjusted mechanics, emotions

On yet another afternoon, the late sun casting elastic shadows, Don Harway is sitting outside of his favorite Starbucks, at the corner of Broadway and 65th Street. His right leg is propped up on a chair.

"I'm real happy with it now," he says.

Two weeks before, Harway was in the fitting room with Bryan Hayes, trying on this leg for the first time. This is not Harway's first leg. It's his second leg, third socket. Since his stump will continue to change, and given the wear and tear on the prosthesis, the likelihood is that Harway will need a new leg every five years, along with periodic tuneups.

Thus, he and his prosthetist, Bryan Hayes, have commenced a long waltz through life together.

Harway is big, balding, affable. He works as an advertising salesman and has a house in nearby Tahoe Park. Even now, he loves to water ski, play softball, skateboard. Single, he and his pals make the downtown club circuit. Young, active, in genial spirits, he is the perfect candidate for prosthetic success, for a normal recovery.

This was certainly evident in the fitting room, where Harway, slumped in a chair, stump exposed, was unembarrassed, candid, cracking jokes. At one point in the session, his cell phone rangs. He quipped, "Hey, I'm getting my new leg attached. I'll call you back."

The fitting was a fascinating process. Harway very much like a NASCAR racecar; Hayes the ace mechanic. With his new leg on, Harway stood up. He walked, he stooped, he shuffled. He stopped. He walked. Hayes, sitting on the equivalent of a mechanic's stool, watched every step. He made various adjustments with a wrench.

About the writer:

• Call The Bee's Bob Sylva, (916) 321-1135.