"I don't remember the first week that I was there," Hinton Leichtle says. "It was almost like I was in a huge detox." Doctors surgically inserted a feeding tube and gave her more medications to treat the side effects of the narcotics, which had slowed some of her organs to a near-stop. "I went to this place to bring me back to life," Hinton Leichtle says. But even then she realized that her life had been saved by the same type of medicine that almost killed her.
When Hinton Leichtle started to improve, her family held a meeting. "We started having conversations about, 'What's going to be the plan so we're not back in this situation?'" she recalls. That's when Crystal, who'd been studying yoga and politely preaching about the body's ability to heal itself, spoke up. What about trying alternative therapies? she asked.
Chanda, age nine, before she was shot.
Anthony Camera
Fritz Haenel does physical therapy to help him stay strong and increase his mobility after a car accident left him paralyzed.
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"I was going off this intuitive feeling I had," Crystal says now. "I was like, 'Why isn't she getting more physical therapy? Why isn't she getting daily movement and different nutrition?' Acupuncture is huge for people with spinal cord injuries. It helps to stimulate their energy. There are 72,000 paths of energy in your body. When you sit in a stagnant posture, they get a little dim."
Hinton Leichtle had her first acupuncture treatment in early 2004, shortly after she was discharged from the hospital. "For the first time in three years, I had no pain," she says. "I had this idea of, 'Oh, my God, is this just in my head?' And then I stopped myself and I'm like, 'Oh, my goodness, if it is just in my head, I don't give a shit. I don't have any pain right now.'"
The acupuncture had no side effects, and after several sessions, the chronic pain episodes stopped altogether. Hinton Leichtle was charging the acupuncture to her credit card, and in mid-2004, she did the math and called Medicaid. At that point, she hadn't taken an ambulance to the ER or been admitted to a hospital in six months.
"My argument was, 'Hey, if you were to pull my claims...you're going to see a significant drop,'" she says. "Their answer was, 'Well, we don't fund alternative therapies.'" Frustrated, Hinton Leichtle asked to speak with a supervisor. The woman on the phone explained that it wasn't her supervisor's decision.
"She said to me, 'It's our legislative body that makes those decisions.'"
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The year 2005 was a big one for Hinton Leichtle. She graduated from the University of Denver, won the Miss Wheelchair Colorado competition and met her husband, Paul Leichtle, at a fundraiser for an organization that helps athletes with disabilities. Paul races road bikes and was there in support of a friend and fellow cyclist who was hit by a car and paralyzed. Hinton Leichtle had come in her capacity as Miss Wheelchair (she wasn't wearing a tiara or sash, she points out), and the two started talking. That year, she also founded the Chanda Plan Foundation and was introduced to Andi Leopoldus, a Colorado lobbyist who built her practice advocating for people with developmental disabilities and kids in the foster-care system.
Leopoldus describes Hinton Leichtle as a natural when it comes to politics, despite her initial naiveté. "You can spot the naturals really quickly because they're comfortable and not intimidated by the process," Leopoldus says. "And that would be Chanda."
Hinton Leichtle had two goals. Long-term, her sights were set on convincing Medicaid to see it her way. But in the meantime, she decided to start a foundation to help people who were suffering at the moment. "I was in a place where I was feeling really good, and I started to...picture people in acute episodes — bed-bound, depressed, isolated — and they can't wait for the law to be changed," Hinton Leichtle says. "They need services now, and if we can start a nonprofit and raise money, we can touch some of those people."
Smart, likable and passionate, Hinton Leichtle is, above all else, determined. But there's a joyfulness about her doggedness. She laughs often, and when she does, she throws her head back and opens her mouth wide, scrunching her pretty face. She loves the outdoors and owns both a handcycle — a bicycle operated by hand cranks — and a ski bucket for adaptive skiing. Her nights and weekends are filled with dinner parties, drinks with friends and, before she was married, trips to the Stampede country bar for ladies' night. She gets asked often about her sex life and isn't shy about answering. "We totally have sex," she says of herself and her husband. They've even given talks to newly injured people about sex after injury.
Hinton Leichtle also has a knack for finding the right people to help her achieve her goals. "I met Chanda at a birthday party of a friend," says Virginia Carducci, the director of rehab and behavioral health services at Boulder Community Hospital and the Chanda Plan's current board chair. "She sat beside me and looked over at me and said, 'I have to have you in my life.'"