Esther

Walking is a gift.  Its one of the most apparent things about being human, being able to walk upright on two feet.  Despite what the average person thinks, it’s hard.  I suppose that’s why, like being born; we usually don’t remember how we learned to do it.  Learning to walk is traumatic, especially if you already knew how to do it once.

I completed my first half marathon in Miami Beach, FL four days ago.  I ran.  I walked.  I finished.  It took me 3 hours and 9 minutes to reach that finish line, but I did it.

Two years ago this time I was learning to walk again.  I was learning to balance, to fight against a lack of equilibrium and make myself stand upright without help.  But I needed help in the beginning.  And it came in the form of a clumpy walker I so appropriately named Esther.

I felt since walkers were for “old ladies” this one should have a proper old lady name.  I liked the name Esther and it seemed to fit.

I was still in the hospital when the physical therapist issued Esther to me.  I was first introduced to a cane, but my equilibrium was so skewed by my vision and weakness on the left side of my body, I needed something I could hold onto with both hands. So a walker it was.  The therapist had made sure Esther was a good size for my height and quickly ran me through how to use her.  For several days following I would get out of bed, assisted, and grab onto Esther white knuckling her hard padded handles as if I was driving a race car at a thousand miles an hour.  I pushed her up and down the hospital hallways relying on her to keep me safe.  I tried to not put all my weight on her but I usually did.  The therapist would walk beside me or behind me ready to grab me at any moment.  I remember thinking how ridiculous I must have looked.  A 35-year-old woman shaking and hobbling down the hall with this walker, clinging for dear life.  I just didn’t want to fall.  I was terrified of falling.  Keeping my head off the ground was a must at this point. 

Several navigation lessons with Esther ensued before I was released home.  The final lesson was stairs.  I looked at the wide hallway staircase and wondered how in the hell I was going to get Esther and me up them.  The instruction was baffling to me.

Apparently for someone with a walker to navigate stairs, you need to fold the walker, hold it sideways, and essentially use it as a cane while grasping the handrail on the stairs with your free hand.  The using both the walker and the rail, pull yourself up to each step.  Now, this doesn’t sound too difficult.  I’m sure as you read this, you can easily picture what needed to be done.  However you must lift not only your body weight upward and forward, but the walker as well.  Now, Esther doesn’t weigh a lot but it was simply an awkward method to force someone to practice.  Especially since I could barely hold myself up and centered.   I looked at the therapist as if she was speaking Swahili. I then looked at Keane, who stood there laughing because he most likely could read what was going on in the bubble above my head, and folded the walker while leaning against the stair rail.  I told my therapist that her method was simply ridiculous and proceeded to fling Esther over my shoulder like a purse, letting her rest on my back while I pulled myself up on the railing with both arms.  Both Keane and the therapist looked at me with a combination of alarm, amusement, and disbelief as I pulled myself up the entire flight of stairs.  I then told her it would just be easier to leave the walker at the bottom of the stairs and have someone bring it to me at the top.  It took too much damn energy to hold it or carry it.  Ridiculous.

Once I was home I spent a lot of time in bed.  I slept a ton.  Honestly the ICU is not a place for rest.  You get awoken every ten seconds so someone can poke you, prod you, take a vital, or give you medication.  Sleep was not something I got a good amount of in the hospital unless I was zonked out on meds or simply so fatigued I passed out for half a day. Which I am sure happened on a few occasions.  Being home was different.  It was so quiet.  Even with two dogs, the house felt like it was always silent.  Our bedroom was kept dark as I was, and always have been, visually sensitive to light. I was able to rest and save up some energy for the weeks of occupational and physical therapy that awaited me.   Esther stayed right by my bed, but I must admit I used her very little at first.  Partially because I could not move quickly enough to get to her situated and hit the bathroom in time, but mostly because it was easier to call Keane and have him just carry me.  Thinking that as I write this now I feel a bit bad about being lazy.  I should have made more effort to use Esther at home that first week, but I simply did not want to be bothered with her. Not too mention Keane could have broken his back hauling me back and forth. 

I began trucking Esther around the house. Doorways were challenging.  Stairs were also a challenge. My physical therapist asked me upon my release from the hospital if my home had stairs.  I told her two sets, one set of fourteen going from the first floor to the second and another set of fourteen going from the first floor to the basement.  She asked me if there were railings on the stairs and I told her no.   I had Keane rip out the railing when we bought the house because they were ugly and I was not putting any back in. She didn’t like that answer but Keane told her he’d install railings ASAP.  (Which of course he never did because I did not want them.)  So the stairs were tricky, but I managed.  

Esther became a brief extension of me.  I did not use her very long but she was handy when I did.  Truth is I acted as if she was a burden.  She was actually a gift.  I was grateful to have her even though I bitched about her daily.  And I know I was quite a sight pushing her around like an old curmudgeon.  I used to say, “No wonder old people were always pissed off, these things are terrible to use!”   Yet once I got used to her I let her become part of me.  I secretly enjoyed the security she provided to me and the piece of mind, albeit a small one, she might have given Keane.  

I only needed Esther for about five weeks.  Our tryst was brief, but it felt like an eternity at the time.  I was anxious to be rid of her.  When the time came I no longer needed her, I was thrilled.  Yet I could not bring myself to give her away.  I folded her up and placed her in the basement, where she still sits to this day.

As I ran in the hot sun this past weekend, thinking about the finish line, Esther came to mind.  I thought about how two years ago we met and how I hated her at first.  I didn’t want to need her.  I didn’t want to rely on her.  But I did.  And now I was running a half marathon.

Esther was not an apparatus; she was the beginning of the path to normalcy.  An inanimate hand to hold to get me to that finish line.  Although I don’t remember the first time I learned to walk, I clearly remember the second.  And I am more grateful for those memories than I can ever express. 

I completed my first half marathon in Miami Beach, FL four days ago.  I ran.  I walked.  I finished.  It took me 3 hours and 9 minutes to reach that finish line, but I did it.  Those very first steps I took towards that finish line, I took with Esther.