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| Uh oh. There's no soft place to land. |
Our feet propel us out the door in the morning. (Coffee
helps, too.) The same feet and legs carry us through the workday and take us on
errands, a meet-up with friends, and home again. If those feet and legs fail,
we don’t have pinch hitters or understudies to take their place.
My mother recently hurt her ankle and leg and has to use a
walker and go to physical therapy.
She’ll recover, but simple tasks aren’t simple anymore and getting out
the door involves a three-step forward, two-step back minuet.
I’m seeing my mom’s surroundings through new eyes: a
staircase morphs into a mountain trail. A door that opens onto a tiny vestibule
that opens to another door is a trap designed to snare the wheel of a walker. A
broken sidewalk qualifies as an obstacle course. Ever notice how many sets of steps lack
handrails? Me neither, not until my mother needed a walker.
My mom’s situation is no fun, but what writer can resist
stepping into another person’s shoes--and ankle compression brace? I’m learning
a lot and, to my shame, realize I could have been a lot more patient in the
past with people who navigated slowly due to walkers, canes, and scooters. The nicest words I heard recently were “Take
your time,” spoken by a woman who held back her kids so my mother and I could
cross a parking lot entrance.
Has an injury, yours or someone else's, changed the way you view your surroundings? If
so, did the change last past the recovery stage? Where do you stand on handrails:
necessity or spoiler of clean design?
