I used to be
depressed when I went to a certain assisted living facility in town. Everywhere
I turned, people wandered the lobby and halls on walkers or oxygen. Not for me,
I thought smugly. Now I’m on a walker.
Acquaintances who
don’t know my story try to encourage me that I’ll eventually walk unassisted. “Baby
steps,” said one friend recently. I’ve gotten so I bring the truth right up
front: my surgeon says the walker is my friend for the rest of my life. My
balance is not good, and he’d rather have me protected than risk another fall
that might do irreparable damage. He tells me I don’t have to explain that my
surgery was way different than an ordinary hip replacement, so I’ll spare you
that tale. Just take my word for it, please.
Yes, it’s a
nuisance. I can’t jump up from my desk and run to get something from the
kitchen. At parties, I can’t mingle and meet. I’m relegated to a seat where I
hope people will come to greet me. It leads to some wallflower moments. There
are places that I cannot go because they are inaccessible, and some public
bathrooms are a real problem with tiny stalls. If I get me and the walker in,
then I can’t close the door.
I so far have not
been allowed to drive, though I think that’s just around the corner. I did
prove that I can go from house to car, stash the walker in the back seat, and
get into the car. To prove to my kids that this is all okay, I’ll have to check
in with the rehabilitative driving program at Baylor. But driving should free
me of my dependence on others to some extent.
I don’t think I’m
being over-sensitive when I say I notice a change in some people’s attitudes
toward me. I have become the old lady who can’t get around much, who is content
in her cottage. But I am blessed with friends and family who see me differently
and, with the help of others, I have a fairly active social life. As a friend
said to me the other night at a party when I said my piece about being on the
walker forever, “At least you’re here.” I agree. It’s not the end of the world.
I can still keep y
cottage fairly neat, dress myself, work at my desk, and cook—all big parts of
my life. It’s not as though I retired to a recliner to watch TV all the
livelong day.
Before this
happened to me, I did not have good balance. Never. In my whole life. Steep stairs,
for instance, made me nervous—now people kindly help me up and down them. Open
spaces made me uncomfortable—now I have a cage around me, so I know I won’t
lose my balance. In short, I don’t have to stretch myself to do things that
bothered me before, though I do try to stretch just on general principles.
I don’t know how
to explain it without sounding like a wimp, because I try never to trade on
being “handicapped” and yet in some ways life is easier. I do try to be as
independent as possible, but still….not sure where to go with this, so I’ll
quit.
Just please don’t
pity me. And don’t treat me differently. And don’t call me old. Thanks.
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