I am not a Grandma

My nan uses one of those.

My grandad was told to have one but he refused as he didn’t want to be seen using it

My grandma has one

Each time I manage to squeeze the words four-wheel walker out of my reluctant mouth to share the new horror in my world, people spurt those words which make it tougher for me to acknowledge at the age of 57 I need more help with my walking.

A stick is no longer enough.

A feeling of dismay washes over me each time I glance sideways. It blocks my view of the garden so I move it under the stairs.

But it stares at me each time I walk past… whispering you are old now only the elderly use these…

If you google the words balance and falls the words older and elderly jump from every page. I have fallen too many times this year. But I am not old or elderly.

Six falls in July alone.

I tripped over my own feet, left my foot behind when I walked between rooms, I even lost my balance and fell to my knees on the moving walkway on our only visit to Tesco during this prolonged Coronavirus lockdown.

They came last week to assess me. My heart pounded and I clenched my sweaty palms, knowing I needed the review.

But I didn’t want them to come.

The nurse and physio from the Community Falls and Mobility service my GP had referred me to, stepped inside. They oozed professionalism and kindness, nodding understandingly when I burst into tears at their words.

It is unsafe to be so dependent on Mr H when you walk outside, because if you fall, you will take him down too...

It makes sense but my heart and pride don’t like the sensible option. 

They tell me the answer is a stable four-wheel walker with a bloody seat. The words I had assumed would be spoken but dreaded from the pit of my soul.

I now have new exercises to do daily to strengthen my leg muscles – maybe they will do the trick I pray – similar exercises I was doing at my weekly pre coronavirus exercise class for wobbly people, which needless to say hasn’t taken place since March.  A whole six months…

Things have gradually been getting worse over the last couple of years. It started with an increase in the number of my seizures. Making me afraid to walk alone across an open flat space for fear that one would swipe me off my feet mid-way. I started to walk close to walls – where there were any – giving me something to grab if a wobble or trip caught me out. Then a change in my epilepsy drugs which improved my seizures but I am convinced made my walking and balance worse. My Epilepsy consultant thinks not but we are tweaking my dose just in case.

In December I froze trying to get down the stairs at the cinema – something I have managed with Mr H until then. We needed the help of a third person, a kind stranger, to get me down safely as silent tears dripped off my nose while everyone there tried not to stare. My 88 year old Mum has had more stair rails installed for me. Not her!

A fall down the stairs at home followed with a visit to A&E, a CT scan of my head and a weeks’ worth of head spinning concussion smashed my confidence into smithereens.

Gentle slopes have become mountains. I feel as though I am in the front seat of a roller coaster ready to tip over the edge of a hundred metre drop before plummeting down to the ground. Vomit threatens to spurt out of my mouth when the camber of a pavement changes. I can no longer cross a road without Mr H. I grip onto his arm and stare at the ground while he checks for traffic before firmly telling me to walk. I shuffle like, yes, an old person. Fearful that stepping into the road will bring disaster. Another fall. A broken leg.

I prefer not to go out anymore. Yet I want to walk to the allotment…

The mask, apron and glove wearing Physio Assistant and Occupational Therapist come with the walker. They take time to talk to me with reassuring smiles, tweak the height of my kitchen perching stool so I no longer slip off.  With smiling eyes, the OT assesses our home to make it safer for me.  I now have appointments for walking practice outside and an order for six more grab rails to be placed around the home. A raised toilet seat, for god sake, to stop me pulling on the sink to get up and down off the loo. A step to make it easier to get into and out of the shower…

I am deteriorating. My brain is letting me down. My heart sinks each time I think about it. I don’t understand why. I want to scream and shout with sad tears running down my face.

The four-wheel walker is still there. Nausea rises each time I turn round.

I feel embarrassed. I dread the platitudes, the sympathetic looks and strained smiles as people look me up and down in surprise.

I dread more of the… my nan, grandma, grandad declarations. They DO NOT help me. I fear the jokes;

well at least you have a basket to carry the allotment produce back up the hill…

can I have a go? can I use your seat?

why don’t you just jazz it up

There are no young versions, they are all the same – metal and plastic, blue, black and grey

I need a new friendly name for my monster. It will never define me, it’s my enabler…