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.

Widening the Circle

Almost forty years ago I was housebound with phobic fear—technically called agoraphobia and sometimes defined as fear of fear. Today it’s often called chronic anxiety disorder. No matter the name, it leads to unease, anxiety, depression, and too often panic attacks. The end of the driveway was as far as I would go alone, and I wasn’t really comfortable out in the world with other people. I’m not sure what triggered it—perhaps my father’s death, perhaps a lifelong tendency toward fearfulness. A lot of group therapy helped me past that point, but I know too well it’s a question of pushing back on the circles of fear that enclose you.

So today, after a week and a half at home with various back troubles and a bad scare with my back—which isn’t as bad as I initially believed—I am once again beginning to push back the circles. Today was my first venture out in the world—a full day.

It began with a haircut person. Rosa, who has done my hair for at least fifteen years, promised to come out to the car to meet me. I was fiddling with my phone, trying to find her number, when I looked up and she was standing by the car. So I got a cute haircut (if I do say so), Rosa walked me back to my car, and I headed home.

Then I met an old friend I probably haven’t see in twenty-five years for lunch at Carshon’s. I have a favorite space to park there—easy for me to get into the deli—but I was uncertain of footing once in the restaurant. Enjoyed lunch immensely, my friend walked me to the door, and I was headed home again.

One more outing, for supper with friends Sue and Teddy. This time I was truly spoiled—Teddy picked me up, shepherded me when I was at their house, and brought me home, all the while praising the way I was moving about. That’s the kind of positive enforcement I need to hear. Sue fixed a delicious dinner, her teenage son joined us, and we enjoyed good food and great fellowship.

All in all, it was a big day and a giant push outward on those circles. Jordan said she saw great improvement over a week ago. So I’m feeling optimistic tonight. And tired. But, no, I don’t want to be a recluse.

The words that come out of our mouths

The other night I was talking yoga with a friend of Jordan's, and said I did my yoga routine alone in the sunroom. My neighbor walked up and said, "Why don't you go to class?" I retorted, "You know I don't like to go out!" The minute I said it, the words echoed in my head. They weren't exactly what I meant--I don't like to do yoga with a lot of other people, and I don't want to deliberately take the chunk out of my day that it takes to come and go.
But did I really mean it? I love people, I feed on company, and too much time alone makes me a tad depressed. But as a friend said to me, "You don't go out. You bring people to you." I've long been aware of a tendency toward reclusiveness that lurks in me, even though I love to go to small parties, restaurants with friends, etc. Increasingly I don't like to go out alone.
Almost forty years ago I was housebound by agoraphobia--sometimes defined as a fear of open spaces but best defined by me as a fear of fear. Phobics gradually draw the circle more tightly around them--the limits of where they'll go get closer and closer until one day you just don't go. If you don't understand panic, you'll have to trust me on this one--I  understand it too well. I spent years pushing back that circle, enlarging it.
But recently I've felt it closing in a bit, and especially during the two weeks I had whatever I had. I stayed home--and pretty much liked it. So when I heard those words--at a party significantly in my own comfortable "safe" house--I knew it was time to start pushing back again. Jacob got caught in my push and we went to church yesterday (once you're out of the habit of going, skipping church gets easier and easier). He tried mightily to talk me into leaving before the sermon, but I insisted and he went grumpily off to the children's sermon. I was glad I stayed because the sermon was good and the music glorious.
Today I had errands to run but found myself contemplating putting them off. That's when I got high behind, dressed and set off to Goodwill, liquor store, grocery and cosmetics store. A bit conscious of myself as I did those things (am I anxious or not?) but I did them. And each small step is a victory. This week, I will make it a point to get out of the house every day.
I'll get my balance back, and my circle will grow. Many people have problems so much worse. How can I complain?