Mondays in May

 

The weekend was uneventful, which right now, is all that we ask for. The Fiance's condition is stable and The Princess will go to work and then visit him for the latter half of the day. Your prayers, emails, comments, and ecards are truly a burst of joy and love whenever I log on. Mr. Pom wants to know who the heck is sending me all this mail as he listens to my Blackberry binging away all day and into the evening. Such love from my little blog and art community, I have never experienced before.

 

 

The major role of caregiver, domestic god, and transportation router is still on Mr. Pom's weary shoulders. The Princess was in the mix the first week, and could be relied on her for dinners, dog commuting, and grocery pick ups. The second week, all bets were off as she had her focus shifted dramatically and now we were just concerned with supporting her needs, whatever they may be.

 

Mr. Pom, therefore, has been running non-stop, adding cab service to the city to his growing list of chores, and by last evening, I could tell that his good cheer was wearing after he grilled salmon no one ate, cleaned the kitchen, and then opened up a large briefcase of work at 7:00 p.m. and commenced to catching up on his career.  I'm not sure how he longed he worked because I went to bed at 6:30 (!).

Today, I hope to had better graduate to a cane once the physical therapist evaluates my weekend progress on walking with heels flat on the floor, right leg extension, and walking without a limp. The latter was cause for mirth on my part, as I haven't walked without a limp in about ten years, so used to it am I that when people  asked what is the matter, I'd have no idea what they were talking about. Oh, the limp? Bad knee.

Once she showed me how, I found out that with the walker, I can in fact manage a no-limp walk, albeit slowly and thoughtfully. Therefore, I was surprised by her resistance to letting me switch to the cane on Friday and her stern weekend assignment. My p/t doyenne  is a most remarkable twenty-something who weighs about 90 pounds soaking wet and can climbs off and on p/t tables in suede wedge heels as though part monkey.

 

 In my growing realization that my knee was much stronger by the end of week,  I grew vain  and refused assistance in going up and down stairs and conveniently "forgot" to ask someone to haul the walker  up or down for me, the bane of living in a two story house after a knee replacement. I hobbled around walker-less, scooting from living room to kitchen and even managing a trip out to the porch with a sketchpad. Consequently, later that day, the Percoset bottle was in regular rotation and ice packs were shuttled in and out of the freezer in alarming frequency. 

 

 

 

 

When it was agreed that I could accompany Mr. Pom and The Princess into the city to drop her off only if I sat in the back street, I was thrilled to get out of the houe into the sunshine. I was even more  thrilled when Mr. Pom suggested that if we found a nearby parking space, perhaps we could have a quick cappuccino at Via Quadronna. Sunday afternoon on the upper East Side is a good time to find street parking and one and a half blocks away seemed perfect, until that is, I alighted from the car to see Mr. Pom with the dreaded walker waiting for me.

 

 

Oh no, no, no, I'm not walking down Madison with a *&%%)# walker. Just hold my arm, no the left arm, not so high, just at elbow level, hold my purse, walk slower - s-l-o-w-e-r, and before I knew it, he'd whipped that damn walker out of the trunk and made me use it.  Who knew I had such vanity in me,  me the woman who had to have a gastric bypass?

Who knew I harbored such latent prejudice against - no, not the handicapped - but against getting old?

Because that was what I saw in my head when I imagined myself on Madison with a walker. Not the picture of a handicapped woman, or a post-surgery woman, no, it was the picture of an old woman, an old feeble, forgettable, easily overlooked, old woman.

I was prepared to hobble a block and half and pay for it by a sleepless night rather than use a walker on the streets of New York.  Before you throw email stones at me, let me first explain to those who have never used one, what a walker is like: noisy, unsteady, ugly, incapable of being utilitized with a purse in your hand or on your shoulder, and uncomfortably adept at finding every pebble, chewed gum, and variation in sidewalk surface and level  designed to make it skid to a stop and the user to go head over heels. And now, finally now, I understand what the freaking cut tennis balls are for on the back two legs: to allow the walker to glide and not make fingernails-on-blackboard screeches on most surfaces.

(The Fiance, before he went into the hospital, had threatened to get me a novelty license plate for it until I told him that if he did, he could expect something of similar, but much more tasteless, ilk on the wedding car as they drove away from the reception.)

So I took the stupid walker in hand and walked past Ralph Lauren's flagship store, (built at the cost of $50 million I overheard someone saying as we waited for the light) and began my first adventure in walker walking on the streets of New York. Here are my observations:

• Don't worry about pity looks, because everyone assumes you are not only walking impaired but blind, and thus you will not see them as they  cut  you off on the curb cuts.
• Strollers still assume they have the right of way as if a seated toddler wrapped in a blanket with a hat, visor, sippy cup, blankie, and thumb being sucked still has priority over a woman teetering on aluminum legs.
• Those curb cuts, the ones with the little raised dots, are not nearly wide enough to accomodate a stroller, wheelchair, walker, cane, joggers, and twenty-somethings with armsful of RL bags, all of whom assume the ROW.
• Averting the eyes and plowing through you appears to be a universal response to the sight of anyone in the City of New York who is not walking at the speed of light, with a cell phone, with a coffee cup, with expensive athletic shoes, leggings, and a Kindle.
• One and a half blocks is a long way away when walking one step at a time.

Now, I know you expect me to write about what a learning experience it was for me, how it opened my eyes to the plight of the handicapped and the elderly, how I will be more compassionate and caring the next time I need to cross a busy intersection and someone is hobbling across - and of course I will.

But if you expect this post to end with my realization that a walker is just a sign of a physical impairment that evokes unease and fear in those who dread illness, injury, and ageing, and that I will use it with pride, I am afraid you will be disappointed because when we reached the cafe, which is impossibly crowded and narrow, I pleaded with Mr. Pom to ditch the walker behind the front door in the bushes and he insisted on carrying it inside and handing it to the coat check guy, who then scrambled to pull out the table two feet from the banquette so I could slide in as if I had a cast up to my shoulder. Vanity triumped once again becasue I am, after all, just human.

And humbled.

The walker, however, is a wondrous thing. Not only does it grant  freedom to remain upright and  unassisted by others for those who otherwise could not; more importantly, it creates a barrier between the plate of food in your lap and the jaws of two ever-hungry labradors, and provides a convenient spot on which to hang the melted ice packs for your loved ones' retrievals. 

 

 

I can only hope the cane will be just as effective.

(If she gives me a metal cane with a gray rubber stop - or horrors - the kind with 4 claw-like feet, I will throw it into the bushes and have my sister/chauffeur drive me straight to the upscale pharmacy to buy an expensive woooden one that I will decorate with a gold Sharpie and hang tassels on, much to the embarassment of my children, thus firmly establishing my identiy as An Old Person.)