“Is that thing even safe?” asks my son. He picked up his grandmother’s worry gene.
Well, we hope so.
“She sure seems to love it,” his wife adds.
Yes and no. It is snazzy, and it is red, and she does love it, to a degree. The silver one they sent with her from the hospital last year has two gliders instead of a back set of wheels (the red one is a 4-wheeler) and the gliders slow her down.
The physical therapist calls the silver one the very best, however, because there are so many ways to arrange the wheels, the height. You can even exchange the gliders for wheels. One visit with a physical therapist or an occupational therapist, and your whole way of looking at things changes. These people are geniuses.
THE STORY
FD and I took Mom to a wedding tonight. Dear friends of ours married off a daughter to a wonderful young man, and seeing people we haven't seen in many, many years, makes me delirious. My mother had a great time, we all did, and I took her up to her apartment in her independent living facility afterward.
On the way up she tells me the many different things she had worried about before the wedding, and how none of her fears materialized. (Crazy, I know.) "They seemed so happy to see me!"
Well, yeah.
As she settled into her nighttime rituals, I noticed she didn’t use either of her walkers. Not the trusty silver one with the gliders, not the new red one with four wheels.
“This is an accident waiting to happen,” I spit out. “They told you that you have to use your walker ALL of the time.”
“I don't want to become dependent,” she tells me. End of the matter.
Dependency is bad.
“It’s not like taking drugs. It’s good to have one or two of these things to depend upon.”
She gives me that look, as in, Well, some of us disagree.
“Would you rather be dependent upon a caregiver? Because all it takes is one good fall and this independence thing is over, a thing of the past. Maybe for good.”
She looks sad. I don’t want to turn a wonderful, warm, intimate evening with friends into a sad night. Bubble bursting is not our thing. But I can't help myself and continue.
“Think of it this way. Has your doctor told you , 'S. You should really try not to use that walker. Use it for emergencies, or when you go out, maybe, but it is better to avoid using it all the time because you might become dependent upon it.'
Has any health care professional ever told you this?”
She shakes her head.
“Nu?” I ask. (Nu, rhymes with Jew, Yiddish for So, already? or maybe What do you say to that?)
We're on a roll here.
“They all say, as a matter of fact, Keep it close to you. You need it. At your age, you need it. Everyone expects you to have one. No one expects you to still be here, pooh, pooh, pooh, at your age, and not have a set of wheels.”
She looks at me incredulously, for only six months ago she surrendered the car keys. The rant goes on.
“Think of it as a part of you. Think of yourself and the walker as one. It is an extension of you, the walker. You and the walker, one person. My walker, myself.”
No expression. Blank. No idea if she’s copping to this. I turn from her to set up her medicines for the week, she gets on pajamas. When I finish she is standing behind me. She’s holding onto the silver one.
therapydoc
