The Kindness of People

Occasionally I see in a thread on Facebook or somewhere else a lament about how the world at large treats people with handicaps—from indifference to cruelty. Well, I’m here to counter that. Since I’ve been on a walker, I have found most people go out of their way to help me—they hold doors even though I am sometimes painfully slow, they step back in line to let me cut in, they reach out to steady my walker if I have to go down a curb, they smile and greet me when just passing. And it’s not pity—more, I think it’s a recognition that I exist as a person above and beyond my inability to walk without assistance.

Today I wanted to drop something off at the cleaners. Jordan goes that way to take Jacob to and from school, but I wanted my one red sweater clean for the holiday which meant get it in now and get it back early in the week. I parked outside, thinking the phone number was painted on the window. It wasn’t. So I asked a young woman retrieving her cleaning to stick her head back in and ask if they’d give me curbside service. She willingly did so, and another nice young lady came to collect my shirt. She went back in to get me a business card and said they have several customers for whom they do this. “Just honk or call next time,” she said.

Then I went to Curbside Pickup at Central Market. I think I’ve already waxed eloquent about how great this service is, but today I had to exchange an item—they gave me Parmesan in a green shaker, which I despise (it has wood shavings in it to keep it from clumping, or so the cheesemonger told me) and I wanted fresh ground. Exchange made cheerfully, and an extra container of Parmesan included at their expense (I think I have a lifetime supply). Today they had substituted dipper chips for the corn chips I requested—I explained that really wouldn’t work because I was going to use them in a salad. “No problem.” The runner went and searched the shelves until she found a suitable bag of chips. We chatted, and when she learned about the walker, she urged me to use the comments opportunity on the order form to make sure I got exactly what I wanted. We parted on happy terms with a cheery, “Merry Christmas.”

At my doctor’s office, an aide comes out to make sure I neither fall nor get mugged (Jordan’s two big worries); at the podiatrist’s, his wife escorts me in and out. The lovely young woman who cuts my hair makes house calls and when I reminded her I was now driving, she said she’d rather come to the house—I think we both like the visiting time. Daily I increase the stores and other places where willing employees will come out to my car. Their help enables me to run errands without bothering Jordan—we reached sort of a turning point this week when Jordan said, “I need you to run some errands for me.”

I think it’s like anything else in life. Being on a walker or exhibiting some other handicap does make a difference in how people treat you. But the difference depends on how you treat others and how you signal that you expect to be treated. Got a chip on your shoulder? Others will sense it and react accordingly, but as my mom always told me, “Smile, and the world smiles with you.”

And these days when we hear so much about cruel indifference to others—the border patrol letting a young girl die on their watch, a judge trying to rob millions of health care, a congressman who wanted to cut food benefits to a million poverty-stricken agricultural workers to give them an incentive to improve their lives (really, he said that)—it’s wonderful to find that most people do indeed have a heart of gold. Just call me Pollyanna!

How Far Do You Bend?

We seniors are always being admonished to stay flexible—and I don’t mean physically. What we’re warned against is getting so set in our ways that any disruption in schedule or routine sends us into a tizzy/ Adaptability is the key. My adaptability has been tested twice in recent days.

The first was a test we all share, young or old. Our bi-annual adjustment from Daylight Savings Time to Central Standard and back again. I handled Saturday’s night switch quite admirably, thank you, by sleeping ten hours. But by Sunday night I was exhausted at 9:30. I told myself that my body thought it was 10:30 and it was really all right to go to sleep. But eight hours later, almost to the minute, my eyes popped open, and I was awake. I did not want to getup at 5:30 no matter if I’d had my eight hours or not. That sounded awful to me. I did sleep for another hour but was forced out of bed by both Sophie and needs of my own.

Sophie worries me every time the time changes, especially when we fall back. In her mind, when it’s daylight, it’s time to start the day, and she comes gleefully into the bedroom at a full run with a bark that says, “Get up.” She doesn’t even necessarily want to go outside, she just thinks I should be up and keeping her company.

I’ll adjust. We all will. We always do. But it takes a few days.

My other test came this weekend when I spent three nights at my daughter’s house. She went out of her way to make sure I was comfortable and taken care of. For instance, I didn’t take my gadget that helps me put on my left sock nor the stool I use to put on the shoe. So I’d go limping into the kitchen, one shoe on, the other in hand, to ask for help.

Going to the bathroom was a challenge because my walker wouldn’t fit between tub and sink, and I inched along holding on to the sink. Then I had to go to the kitchen to wash my hands because the guest bathroom sink has a problem.

There were other little things, none serious, that made me realize how Jordan and I have shaped my cottage around what I can and can’t do. Out of my own environment, I’m at a disadvantage.

I will brag that I handled the bus trip well. Couldn’t take the walker on board with me, so I walked holding on to one seat back and the other. With Jordan’s help, I even managed to go to the restroom without falling. (On my first Vonlane trip, solo to Houston, I had a spectacular fall—no immediate consequences but I’m sure the incident contributed to the overall deterioration of my hip.)

And I managed the walker on Austin’s hilly streets, though not without effort and frequent stops to rest. Uphill is not good.

How do I grade myself? Medium flexible but room for improvement—physically and emotionally. How about you?

Finding Chick-Fil-A, or the long road home

Reluctant to leave Tomball family this morning. Love being with Colin, Lisa, Morgan, and Kegan, and reluctant to leave their lake. We sat there last night at dusk, in the quiet—it really refreshes you. Okay, the flies are annoying (there’s a stable next door) and I am alarmed at the thought of property across the lake for sale as “commercial”—jet-skis on that precious getaway? Pray God not. Seize the moment, Judy, and quit bringing bridges up to jump. Last night it was serene and quiet. Colin caught—and threw back—a bass almost big enough to cook.

Reluctant as I was to leave, I was relieved to get home. With my compromised mobility, there are more things I cannot do for myself, especially in a house with many levels. I have to ask for more—will you plug my phone into the charger? Will you help me up this step, so I can wash my hair in the sink? Will you put on my left shoe because I don’t have the stool I use to do that? It’s frustrating for me and for those who love me. And occasionally—oh, only once in a while—tempers flare. Lessons learned.

I thought we got an early start this morning, but I misread the clock—it was ten, not nine. A little after eleven we were in College Station where we meet my dear friend Gayla, who brought me a carton of books (more about that later) and a much-appreciated hug. But lo and behold! We found the Chick-Fil-A we’d searched for two days earlier. From now on I’ll know it’s on the westbound side of the road at the William Fitch exit.

Back on the road, making good time through Hearne and Calvert, headed for Marlin, when Jordan says, “Where’s the exit? I missed the left turn.” I assured her we went through Riesel, some miles down the road, before we headed due west, “My map say to exit 7,” she said, “and that’s what I’m going to do.”

Now I have ridden that road between College Station and Waco dozens of times, literally, and I never ever knew anybody who got off at 7. But there we were going through Marlin, then Chilton, Robinson, etc., all on a two-lane highway.  It seems we were headed for the Baylor bookstore by what seemed a slow and roundabout method to me, but which Jordan’s map dictated—have you ever known internet maps to lead you around Robin Hood’s barn?  I have learned as a passenger to keep my mouth shut—but I couldn’t resist a comment when by gosh we crossed 6. If we’d gone through Riesel, we would have ended up at the same spot a lot sooner. “I’m following my map,” she said righteously.

We came to I-35, got on in south Waco, and after a bit exited—and there it was: the Baylor Bookstore. Jordan cheered for herself, so Jacob and I joined in.

Driving backroads like that is instructive. I realized again what poverty there is in small-town and rural Texas. Marlin, a town of maybe just under 6,000 and a falling population, appeared to be a town of deferred maintenance, with lots of boarded-up stores and shaky houses. If there was a “good” section, we didn’t see it. Beyond the town we passed shabby farmhouses, collapsing abandoned buildings—I saw one place with a skeleton of a building and the hand-lettered sign “Fire wood.” It occurred to me they were tearing the building down board by board and selling it for fire wood. Really?

Then again, we passed some well-kept, impressive homes, large and small. Texas, like America, is a land of contrasts between comfort and poverty. The landscape roused in me that old, slightly guilty thought: why am I so blessed when others need so much? I wanted to poke Jacob, but he was watching a movie and wouldn’t have gotten the message anyway. Too young. I suspect he assumes his blessed state of life as natural.

After that, ah, detour, we hurried home and made it in a little over four and a half hours for the entire trip. Not bad considering our detours. Hat’s off to Jordan and her good driving.

Everyone has a handicap—mine’s just obvious

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.