Walker

 

My son and his family bought me a device (very similar to the one in the pic) a few months ago. I use it a lot—though generally not inside, where I can grab or lean on familiar things as I move through the house.

Outside, though, all the time. Most of my "outside time" is taking a trip to a Dr.'s office. I don't drive anymore, so Joyce loads the device in the car, I wobble out, holding onto the car till I get to the passenger side and ease myself into the front seat. Then when we arrive, she sets it up for me—and off I roll to find out things I don’t want to find out.

PAUSE

I wrote the previous two paragraphs just before lunch, and as I headed out of my study, I fell. When I fall there’s no Oh-I’m-falling! Instead, it’s Oh-damn-I-fell!

It took awhile for me to get my equilibrium back—for Joyce to struggle to get me to my feet. She did, and then she was able to help me into the family room, where I flopped on the couch for about fifteen minutes, at which time I was able to help a little with lunch.

Fun.

RESTART AFTER LUNCH

I’ve noticed now, being mildly disabled, that not everywhere is “user-friendly” for folks like me.

Public restrooms, for just one example.

Some are fine—wide, automatic doors, plenty of space once I get inside. Bars to hang onto, etc.

But others—like the one I had to use this morning—are nightmares.

No automatic door is the worst. Using a walker, I have to kind of force my way in, hoping my balance will not desert me.

Occasionally, someone will see my situation and help me out. But rarely.

But that leads me to another observation—a more positive one. Lots of people are kind. They hold a door for me, let me go ahead, ask if I’m all right, etc. And I can’t tell you how comforting that is. Even more: how necessary most of the time. Sometimes I can’t avoid a tear ... or ten ...

I never thought I’d be like this—dizzy all day except in a chair or lying down.

Why would I be? I’ve worked out most of my life—I eat only healthful food. I neither smoke nor drink (having dropped both activities decades ago). I’m one of the Good Guys, right?

My body doesn’t give a damn.

And so here I am—wrestling with restroom doors, hoping a kind stranger (and, as I said, there are many) will give a guy a helping hand, the hand that Joyce employs, 24-7.