This piece was from a November writing workshop; the prompt was to write about a memory that has an emotional charge.
1. Before
I’m sitting in the purple recliner in the sunroom reading War and Peace. The house is quiet, no children here today. I am loving this book and never imagined reading it, but I’m lost in the story of Pierre, surprised by funny moments and not at all depressed by the scenes of war.
It is late August. I am nearly recovered from the surgery I had a few weeks ago. I have my iced coffee nearby, my ritual afternoon drink. The scent of honeysuckle wafts in, mixes with the smell of jasmine growing lustily on the pergola just outside the window. It’s a warm day; a fan is gently moving the air as it oscillates, occasionally blowing on me, then away to the right, then the left, like a hypnotist’s watch. I’m getting sleepy – it’s time for a nap.
Laurie is across the room reading her book (probably something esoteric). She is fresh from a bath and smells of mint soap and vanilla lotion. We talk about taking a walk. She’s learned to pace herself to my slow, deliberate walk, a cane my prop. First, I say, I need to nap. I don’t bother going downstairs to bed, just lean the recliner farther back and close my eyes.
I drift and doze and think of the kindness of the nurses during my recent hospital stay. They walk slowly with me too, up and down the hallways. One nurse questions me about my foot drop and neuropathy. I have no explanation yet, just guesses from the neurologist who has ordered every test known to Western medicine.
I wake a while later, ready for that walk. Laurie helps me stand, hands me my cane, which has become the symbol of my mysterious disability. Also useful for many things: pushing doors open; signaling to people in a crowd that I am not steady; pulling a dropped sock closer to me.
2. During
As I move toward the door I see a truck pull up. I can’t see the sign on the side, the wax myrtle blocks my view. I watch, stunned, as a man pulls a walker out of the truck and carries it toward our house. “Laurie,” I shout, “why is this guy coming here with a walker??” She doesn’t know. We think it must be a mistake and tell him so when he comes to the door. He looks at the address, the order sheet, asks, “Are you Teresa Grayum?”
“Yes,” I say, still puzzled. “But I didn’t order this.”
“Well,” he says, “someone at Providence Hospital did.”
I reluctantly accept this unwelcome gift and wheel it into the corner in the sunroom. I sit in the recliner and sob. Laurie puts her arm around me. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“Defeated,” I stammer through tears. It’s a symbol of disability, undeniable now. This is the marker, the next chapter, titled “You Are Disabled.” Laurie reminds me that it’s a tool that can make my life easier and safer – fewer falls, better mobility. And I know this intellectually, but I was not prepared for this change, this statement, this tangible diagnosis of disability. I just wish someone had prepared me.
3. After
The walker sits in the corner for a week. I glare at it from the recliner. It glares back, the screws on the handlebars like two beady eyes, daring me. I toss out a “Fuck you” every so often.
Into the second week I decide if its going to sit there in the corner, I’m going to decorate it. I dig out some plastic flowers and tinsel and drape the handlebars with kitsch. I find a bumper sticker I’ve been holding onto and slap it on the front. It reads: “I’d rather be dancing.” And I give her a name: Alice Walker.
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The inaugural walk around the block is more resignation than celebration. Yes, I’m able to walk farther and a tiny bit faster, but I still have to mind every step I take. And I can’t get past the feeling of having a blinking neon sign above me that reads “OLD LADY.”
In retrospect, I felt a similar defeat when I bought my first cane after a spectacular tumble down the back porch steps convinced me that it was time. Progressive disability requires progressively robust tools. It also requires emotional preparation, when possible.
It is all, truly, a balancing act.
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