Life with a walker

 

Me in my purple walker, with a doggy friend

A silly instance with my walker tonight got me to thinking about life with a walker. I was sitting on the bed changing into pajamas, had one leg into the pajama bottoms when I realized the other leg was entangled with the wheel of the walker, which was sitting in front of me. For a moment, I was puzzled--how could it possibly have wrapped itself around the wheel? Then I realized it would be a whole lot easier to deal with the situation if I were not attached to the pajamas. So I pulled my leg out, lifted the walker a bit, and unwound the pants. But it reminded me of another instance recently—my transport chair, a much heavier thing that refuses to stand on its own when collapsed, lives at the foot of my bed, propped against the high footboard of the antique bed. I went to put something on the dresser, and somehow the wheels of the two walkers were entangled, and the transport chair came crashing down. For a moment I was trapped, couldn’t move, and had a fleeting thought of panic. But my cooler head—executive mind as one counselor calls it—prevailed. I sat in a chair that was right there, untangled the wheels, and was free. When Jordan came out, I asked her to right the transport chair. A physical therapist once told me never to go anywhere, even in my cottage, without my cell phone—and I didn’t have it either of those times. Lesson reinforced

I’ve been using a walker for seven years now, ever since my hip revision (not replacement—there’s a difference). I call it my chariot, which dismays Jordan. But I sort of feel that way. The walker gives me confidence that I never had before. All my life I’ve had poor balance—my mother bemoaned the fact that she’d never given me ballet lessons, but I don’t think it would have made a difference. If you believe in agoraphobia (fear of open spaces), you might agree that’s what I have. I have always been terrified by heights, had difficulty with stairs, walked around the edge of a parking lot rather than cutting across it. I read somewhere that people who are afraid of height need something to hold on to—and that’s me, for sure. I was always grateful for a good railing on a staircase. And now, the walker gives me something to hold on to. My doctor never uses the word agoraphobia but says I am wired differently than most people.

Oh, sure. There are things I want to do that are difficult to impractical with the walker, and I have learned to adjust to that. And sometimes I dream that I am walking as confidently as I did in my twenties. But for the most part, I am grateful for the walker. My surgeons says never to say I can’t walk but always to say I can walk with assistance. Too often I encounter people who really need assistance and stubbornly let their pride get in the way. Makes me almost angry. So foolish. What I know, as a survivor of too many falls, is that my hip would not have been such a severe case had I not fallen so often (the surgeon had never seen one like it and had to study to decide on his technique—I don’t mean to sound like those people who brag about how rare their condition is, but that’s what happened). In seven years since I’ve had the walker, I’ve fallen once, and that was because I fell asleep on the commode in the middle of the night and did a face plant on the bathroom floor.

At one point I had enough disability devices that I threatened to open my own store. Over time, I’ve gotten that down to three things—the four-wheeled walker I use daily in the cottage, an extra which is still in a friend’s storage unit, and the transport chair I use almost every time I leave the cottage. I guess I’ve become a pro at disability which is bittersweet. But I don’t think the walker has slowed down my appreciation for life or my enjoyment of it. It is a pain for family and friends to pack up the transport chair (it is so wonderful but so unwieldy), but I find most are willing. And I find people in general are anxious to be helpful, to hold a door, to stand back and let you pass. Being “disabled” (I don’t like that word) gives you a whole new perspective on life.

So the next time you have a friend who stubbornly refuses to use a cane or a walker, send them my way. Why, I even got my brother to use a walker! A major accomplishment.

A day of ups and downs

 

Last year's mums
I hope this year they will be as spectacular.

Today I read a post from a friend who was busy planting bulbs for spring in the garden in a house new to her, and I felt a bit guilty that I don’t do my own gardening. On the other hand, if I got down to dig in the dirt, I might never get up again. So mine is a compromise. And it made me happy today when the yard guys came to plant a row of gorgeous mums, already partly in bloom, in front of the deck.

I may have told this story before, but in summer they plant pentas in front of the deck, and most years they are glorious, about three feet tall with profuse color. This year, with the heat, they really suffered, despite Jordans watering. Some in the middle died, others maybe grew to a foot, but there were no blooms--none. One day when John Filarowicz, who owns the lawn service, came by he said they were the most pitiful pentas he’d yet seen. Just as I was about to say, “Gee, thanks,” he added insult to injury and said, “I feel like an oncologist delivering bad news.” So today the pentas are gone. The one mum on the end closest to me—naturally the one I see first—has a big dent in the top, like maybe something hit it. At first, I was disturbed, thinking the asymmetry would bother me all winter, but then I remembered the Zen concept of wabi sabi—the beauty of imperfect things. So now that mum will be my favorite

The guys also replaced the saddest decorative grasses I’ve ever seen. They were in two beds at the foot of the deck stairs and by the gate. For a couple of years I had lovely native grasses in those beds that grew to a good height, and when the wind blew, they danced. I loved to watch them. Then, for some inexplicable reason, they died. We replaced them with other varieties twice, but nothing took hold. The latest ones remained sparse, drooping on the ground. John was as puzzled as I was. So now we have native plants, though tonight the only impressive thing is one prickly pear. The other plants are low to the ground. Christian complained it is not what he expected—he wanted the plants more crowded. I explained they will spread as they take hold and grow—he’s a big gardener and should know that. So now of course I’m worried about the new plants but having the mums is a real “up” for me.

The down is literally a down. For only the second time in five years since my drastic hip surgery, I fell. Neither time was due to the hip nor weakness nor anything associated with the surgery. The first time I fell asleep on the commode in the middle of the night and took a header onto the bathroom floor. Luckily I was able to get myself up, take a couple of aspirin, and go back to sleep.

Today I was leaving my desk, holding on to the walker, when my foot caught in the cord to the foot massage machine that lives under my desk. Somehow the cord had worked its way to the front, where it does not belong. I actually thought I handled the whole thing gracefully. I held on to the walker and simply went down on my knees—ouch! Collected myself and sat cross-legged next to the walker. I considered getting up but decided calling for help was the better part of wisdom. Jordan was home, came out, and helped me get on my knees and over to my desk chair, which is more stable than the walker. I pulled myself into a crouching position and seemed stuck, so she had the idea to put the walker under my bottom. While she was trying to do that, I pulled myself to a standing position. Proud? I guess so. And not hurt, though my knees were a bit tender. I do admit I was a bit shaken.

I’ve always told myself that if I fell and really needed help, Sophie would go to the back door of the main house and bark like mad until someone came to see what the matter was. Know what she did? She took one look at me on the floor and turned and went into the security of her cage. Kind of a “I’m not messing with that” attitude.

Other than that, it was a good day. I wrote a scene in the new Irene book, and it turned out to be one of those that just writes itself. The words kept coming, and the direction things took surprised me. But I had my daily thousand words before I knew it. And felt good about them. A technician from the security company came to program a new key fob for me, and I attached a house key to a huge leather shape of Texas key chain I have. Hard to lose that one. And Jordan and I tried a new recipe for taco salad tonight—pretty good. I decided the lime juice made the difference in the dressing.

Our new taco salad
with a sour cream/salsa/lime dressing

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So now I’ve got an evening to read. Sweet dreams, y’all.

A cautionary tale

This is embarrassing and maybe the picture tells it all, but falls are such a dangerous threat for the elderly (that’s me) that I feel I should recount my tale. Last night, I fell in the bathroom in the middle of the night. Usually when I get up to use the bathroom in the night, I sit for a bit on the edge of my bed to sort of orient myself to being awake and make sure I’m steady. I can’t remember whether or not I did that last night.

But one minute I was sitting on the commode and the next I was face down on the tile floor. My family repeatedly asked today how it happened, and I honestly cannot tell them. It just happened—suddenly. Clearly, I was not paying attention. I had been sound asleep, and perhaps I dozed off for just a second. If so, it was a rude awakening. Perhaps my mind just drifted—I’m given to letting my mind wander when I’m awake during the night—get some good writing down that way.

My cheekbone took the brunt of the blow, and my theory is that the free-standing toilet paper holder fell on top of me, leaving a good-sized goose egg on the right side of my head. Christian gets the prize for the best question of the day. He asked, “Did it hurt?” Uh, yes—a lot! The rest of the night I slept only fitfully and was aware of throbbing in the cheekbone and pain all along the side of my head. I put ice on my cheek and took two Tylenol. By this evening, if I don’t touch my head and don’t look in the mirror, I can forget about it. But brushing my hair out of my eyes or scratching my head is painful—my scalp is so sensitive. And Jordan says the bruising is spreading.

There’s good news in all this. I had my phone on the seat of my rolling walker (Rollator), but I had no need to call anyone. With the help of the grab bar, I pulled myself up, got my feet under me, and was back where I started—on the commode. I bless those grab bars—there are four in my small bathroom. And I’m sort of proud of myself for being able to get up.

In truth, I was incredibly lucky and will look at this as a wake-up call. With my walker, I had gotten complacent about my poor balance. My fall could have had much more serious consequences—as it is, they are mostly cosmetic. It may be a while before I’m ready to make many public appearances. I will  go to church on the computer tomorrow morning, because I know I’d get questions. And what would I say? “I fell off the toilet” sounds pretty lame.

All you seniors out there, please don’t let down your guard. Please don’t think it won’t happen to you. It happens faster than you can blink.

 PS Keep your phone with you at all times. Yes, take it to the bathroom.

Dancing with my walker

A neighbor, sending an email about another matter, asked that question I hear too often: Are you walking yet? It was well intentioned, and I’m afraid my reply was a rant. Two years ago this month I had a rather bizarre surgery on my hip—the damage to the hip was such that the surgeon had to invent a new technique to repair it. And I’ll sing his praise loud and long, because  I have been walking, with a walker, since a month or two after the surgery, though full recovery took a lot longer.

But today I can dance with my walker—you should see my sidestep! (I have actually seen dance classes for people on walkers,though I don't' know of any around here.) The thing is, “Are you walking yet” is the wrong question. Yes, I’m walking. Is the walker going away? No, It’s a lifetime companion, and for a good reason. My balance was never a strong point all my life, and it’s shakier than ever now. And I have a semi-phobic fear of open spaces (and heights), so I’m a candidate for a fall. And before the surgery, I fell a lot.

Once before the surgery I fell in the parking lot at Central Market, and a man rushed to help, asking, “Are you all right.” I replied, “Oh, yes, I’ve fallen so often I’m used to it.” A bit taken aback, he said, “I guess, you’re a pro at it.”

The thing is that my surgeon has told me that another fall could render me bedridden, so he’s a big advocate for the walker. And so am I. It’s my security, my best friends. And it doesn’t keep me from doing much that I really want to do—I drive, I go out to eat, I shop, I run other errands. My life is full. So, “Ae you walking yet?” is the wrong question. I’m grateful for the interest, but the last thing I want is to be thought of as the “little old lady on a walker.” Think about hearing aids (yeah, I've got those too)--they don't change how you feel about a person, so why should a walker?

While I’m at it, the other questions I get is “How are you feeling?” Think about it. That’s not how you greet a friend who’s in good health. You may say, as my son did yesterday, “How’s it going?” or “What’s going on?” or, the question I like: “What are you writing?” Asking me how I feel implies that my health defines me, and I don’t want that to be the case. Yes, I’ve had some blips on my health screen—but I am over them, And to tell the truth, I’ve probably never felt better in my life.

I don’t mean to diss on those who ask, with genuine concern, about my health and well-being. I am grateful for the concern. But I am almost desperate to ensure that people not treat me like an invalid—or think of me that way. It’s an easy trap to fall into.

An unsatisfcatory day...and a wild dog

There’s no other word for yesterday—unsatisfactory. I capped it off by falling as I stood up from my desk. My shoe had come off, and I didn’t realize how slippery the brace bottom is—it scooted out from under me, followed by the walker, and I was flat on my back. Christian and Jacob came to get me up and are my heroes—after several tries, and after I calmed a bit, we got me on my knees and then Christian seated me on the coffee table. I rested, caught my breath, and headed for the bathroom which is where I’d been going all along. No damage done but it’s disquieting to fall.

Earlier Jordan and I had a good visit with my family physician—at least mostly good. He took over my meds and became traffic director which is just what I wanted him to do. But it turned out that what I saw as lovely middle of the flights of imagination, he was as hallucinations and changed a prescription. It was because of the dog.

In the wee hours Thursday morning I looked out and saw what I presumed was a plastic bag flapping in the breeze. It looked like some large and majestic wild dog—or wolf. I stared for a long time, and of course the more I looked the more real it became. I was convinced there was a wild animal—peaceful for the time, but who knew?

I called Christian who is a sound sleeper (understatement) and said, “Okay. I won’t let the dogs out in the morning.”

Me: You don’t understand. We have to get it out of there. You collect yourself, and I’ll call 911.

Christian: do we have to deal with this right now? (hear plaintive tone).

Just as I was about to say we did, I saw a bit of bag flap in the breeze and confessed it was, after all, a trash bag. “But be sure to tell Jordan just in case.”

Christian: Oh I will. I undoubtedly will.

I think what he intended to tell her was that her mother was bat-shit crazy. In the morning she quizzed me, and I asked if she couldn’t see the dog—I still could. No, she couldn’t.

I had no idea this would come back to bite me at the doctor’s office, but it did, and my protests that I wrote fiction fell on deaf ears. So now the doctor probably has the same opinion of my sanity as Christian does, and I left the appointment feeling neurotic. (There’s a sequel to te story, but I’ll save it for another day.)

I truly think the doctor thought it was a medication problem, and he adjusted things for that. But like the fall, or not, crossing a street canbedsietig \ was disquieting.

The dog was there again last night. Shhh! Don’t tell.

Pratfalls and Other Mistakes in Life

 No blog last night because, first of all, I was extraordinarily tired. Then, as I walked from my office to the kitchen, I suddenly found myself face down on the living room floor with a bloody nose, sore foot, and no ability to get myself up. I scooted on my derriere to the office phone and called Jordan and Christian, who arrived fairly quickly with Jacob in tow. They got me up and tucked into bed.

I woke at three because Sophie wanted to go out, hobbled to the back door, finally got her back in, and went back to bed, still exhausted. Stumbled into the bedside table and nearly fell again.  But I did sleep soundly until 7:30.

Today I can barely walk—foot is badly bruised—and feel out of sorts, cheerful enough but just not quite at my peak. Jordan came and got me tea, cottage cheese and a banana about eleven. I had slept from 9:30 to then and went back for a two-hour nap in the afternoon.

This morning, Jacob asked how I fell. I told him I had no idea. So he demonstrated various means of falling to me. None of them looked appealing. At noon Jordan and I discussed it, with some mention of wine. Yes, I’d had wine but not enough I don’t think to make me so tired or to cause me to fall. One idea I didn’t like entertaining: another, very slight TIA, which might account for the tiredness, even at dinner with a friend, and for what Jordan described as slightly slurred speech (I wasn’t aware of that). My mother had a series of small strokes that rendered her senile, and it’s always been my greatest fear. But my first TIA was three years ago, and Jacob could be right—I simply tripped and went down so fast I wasn’t aware of how I got there. My doctor advised being sure to take my daily aspirin. I guess it’s a mystery that never will be solved. Meantime I’m grateful that my speech and thinking seem clear today.

I cancelled the world for today and tomorrow and will stay off my feet. Should be a good time to get some work done.

Be careful out there, folks. It’s a big and sometimes dangerous world.

Food, bruises, and religious freedom day

Did you know this is Religious Freedom Day? So declared each January 16 by presidential proclamation. It honors the late-18^th-century proclamation of Virginia Freedom of Religion Day, but was enacted into law by the U. S. Congress in 1992 as an annual recognition of our tradition of worshipping, each of us as we please, and respecting how others prefer to worship. It’s a day of recognition worth taking to heart in these conflicted times of hate and prejudice.

My day started off well, a day laziness. I love waking in the night and realizing how much longer I have to sleep. But when I woke to go to the bathroom at seven this morning and crawled back into bed, Jacob demanded, “Juju, are you aware that it’s morning?” I assured him I was, and he asked, “Then why are you just coming to bed for the first time?” I told him I’d been in the bed all night long—and I stayed there until an anxious dog got me up about eight.

I’ve had a roll of food successes with Jacob, but it came to a crashing halt this morning. When his dad came to take him to a golf lesson, he told me Jacob said it was impossible to eat his breakfast because I put the fork in the middle of the waffles and it got all sticky. His father asked why he didn’t just get up, go to the sink, and rinse it. Later Jacob would explain that it was because I was always rushing him. He’s not the sweetest child in the mornings.

Tonight, however, I scored a food victory. Jordan was returning from Costa Rica, a business trip, and since Christian was to go to a party, she’d come here for supper. I bought salmon which she loves and he won’t touch. We ended up with Christian, who really didn’t want to go to the party alone, and Jacob but Christian brought their dinners.

What I didn’t tell Jordan was that I was cooking the salmon in anchovy-garlic butter—I figured she’d beg me to leave out the anchovies. Christian watched and said how good it looked—he wanted to try a bit, but “What’s the brown flakes in the butter?” I replied I’d reveal all after dinner. They both loved it, and he wants me to cook it again. You pan sear the salmon, skin side down, in the butter mix, then sprinkle capers on the pan and put it in the oven at 400 for eight minutes. The capers get crispy and good, and the anchovies are barely discernible but add a certain piquancy. I can’t believe Christian ate salmon and anchovies and lived to tell the tale.

My lazy day was marked by work at the computer, though I still have trouble posting books to Kindle. But I had a long nap and a nice cuddle with Sophie. The blot on the whole day was that I caught my toe on a rug and went down on all fours, badly bruising my right knee which now hurts like fire. I knew I’d have to explain my awkward, slow gait to Jordan so when she asked how my back was, I said I’d bruised my knee. “On what?” she asked, and I had to say, “The floor.” It’s one of those two seconds I’d like to recall and I’m sure I’ll be limping around here for a couple of days. Moral of the story: don’t shuffle-be sure to life your feet off the floor.

Falls, lessons, and the joy of teaching

I fell again last night. I’d been to dinner with friends who kept remarking on how well I was walking. And I did do well at the restaurant, etc. Came home and fell flat in my own dining room. I know exactly what happened—occasionally the ball of my foot hits before the heel, and it’s like putting the brakes on forward motion. I was down—splat!—before I could help myself. Friends were here, but I managed to get up on my own, and this morning the only damage was a stiff and sore knee and a fat lip where I must have rammed my teeth into my lower lip. Still, it is an unnerving experience, one I’d like to stop repeating.

This afternoon I had a long appointment in the department of manipulative medicine at the local osteopathic college. Two students worked on me for quite a while and did get some motion and ease into my hip. My brother, meanwhile, was being treated by the doctor I’d come to see, and eventually both of them came into the room where I was. More treatment ensued, but the wonderful part was that I saw my brother in action as a teacher…and he’s inspirational. I’m sure the resident in the room, with whom he mostly worked, won’t forget the lesson he demonstrated and had her duplicate about “reading the body.” I watched the joy in his face as he talked, watched, explained—I’m sure a part of him misses teaching. From what I gather, part of what he was trying to convey is that it’s intuitive—you get beyond thinking in terms of individual muscles and nerves and focus on the problem as a whole, the whole body. And me? I think I’m better, but I also think all that being worked on is tiring. I’m exhausted and ready for bed at 8:30.

I’ve been in front of the classroom enough times to know that I’m not instinctively a teacher—it’s not easy for me, and I think students sense that. I’m good at workshops, where everyone participates, but teaching a piece of literature or a literary principle—not my thing. I’m grateful that my brother found such joy in his teaching career.

Don’t like Central Standard Time. My body is not adjusting well.

Adventures in the Night and the blessings of friends

Lots of excitement—some good, some bad—at the Alter house this weekend. Jacob spent the night in the guest apartment with our new guest and her dog and enjoyed it thoroughly.  Here he and Lulu are watching TV.

Tonight I had a pot of soup almost ready for supper but neither the energy nor physical ability to finish it. So good friend Subie stepped in, added the needed basil, cream and Parmesan, and we had lasagna soup and French bread for supper, with lemon basil cake sent by a neighbor. A feast in a household where I did nothing today—didn’t even wash my hair or make my bed.

Last night I got down on the floor to give Sophie tummy rubs—our nightly ritual. Only I couldn’t get up. My left leg simply wouldn’t support me. I tried to pull myself up for an hour and a quarter—by which time I had exhausted every muscle in my body. Called Christian and got his voicemail. Finally broke down and, with gratitude, pushed my emergency button. They called to say help was on the way. So I crawled from the bedroom to unlock the front door so they wouldn’t break it down (Christian reminded me there is a key hidden outside and I should have told them where it was). It was a difficult crawl, and I stopped and collapsed on the floor a couple of times.

When that crowd of people arrived—parameds, firemen, three police cars—I was a mass of jelly. Couldn’t stand. When he heard my story, one fireman said, “She’s gonna be so sore tomorrow”—and oh my goodness, was he right! Another one said I should have called them much sooner—but I kept thinking the next time I’d make it up—never did. I have high praise for those first responders—they were courteous, kind, gentle, and reassuring. Took me to the bathroom and then tucked me in for the night. Somewhere along the way Christian and Jacob arrived and spent the night, which I found so sweet and most reassuring. By three or four in the morning I could hobble around the house—didn’t sleep much though.

One thing this proved to me, even if I couldn’t get up, was that I had the strength to try those countless times to pull myself up and then to crawl through the house. Not bad for a woman my age.

Today I moved ever so slowly and cautiously, from wall to furniture to whatever I could hold on to. Took a three-hour nap. And that’s why Subie fixed the dinner. So many thanks to her and to Christian and Subie for doing dishes. Tonight I think my muscles are loosening up, though I’m not ready to talk far, especially without something to hold on to.

Jordan, meanwhile, is in DC on business, hobnobbing with friends of mine who are there for three months, and eating lobster pasta.

Grab bars and gracefully aging--or falling

The other night good friends gathered at my dinner table. As I often do, I felt a little out of the conversation--maybe my hearing, maybe the fact that my family and friends are loud and all talk at once, and I get drowned out. But suddenly the conversation turned to me and safety in the shower--and I no longer felt left out. I was clearly at the center of the talk. (Jordan later said, "I didn't know you fell in the shower. When did you do that?" I explained I haven't--they were anticipating to the point they almost scared me out of taking showers.) Did I have grab bars? No, I have a towel rack in the shower. Oh, that would pull right out of the wall--they haven't seen the cement used to secure it in this old house. How did I get out of the tub? I hold on to the towel rack on the back of the bathroom door and step onto a rug. That would never do--too flimsy. Where was my monitor? Hanging on the doorknob within easy reach. And there's a non-skid rubber mat on the bottom of the tub. No, I need grab bars--can't figure out where I would put them that they wouldn't just make it harder to get out of the tub, but I will ask the contractor next time he's here.
I have fallen three times in recent months--once tripping over a flipped-back rug, once tangling my feet in the dog's leash, and once simply not paying attention and missing a single step down. None of those have to do with age; they do have to do with not paying attention, a lifetime habit. In fact, Colin, my oldest, said he would forgive me that single step fall in Jamie's house because he himself almost missed it a few times.
I'm grateful to have the concern of these loving friends but I suddenly felt like the really old lady at the table--the next oldest person is twenty years younger than me, almost to the day. And I was not at all sure how I felt about being in that role--no, I knew. I don't like it. I don't feel any older than these friends.
Over Thanksgiving, my oldest daughter fell while running--she tripped, as she said, "over nothing." Bunged up her knee, broke her cell phone, and put her hands out to stop herself--wrong, wrong! I know to roll with a fall and have not--knock on wood--injured myself badly. But no one made Megan's fall the subject of a major discussion.
I really don't want to be the old lady in the room. But then I appreciate concern. A dilemma.