Wheels on the Ground

Reprinted with permission from the West Side Rag.

A walker landed with a thud at my front door a few months ago. All my good-girl positive plans to accept it gracefully fizzled immediately.

Instead, I had a bad attitude and a headache.

I foolishly thought I had made peace with having multiple sclerosis years ago. I had mastered using a cane, after my initial resistance. I had even amassed a colorful collection of fashion canes, giddily proclaiming my adjustment to my new reality.

But this monstrosity was a step too far.

I had made it worse by not listening to my doctor earlier. He had told me softly during my last visit that I needed a walker. I had loudly replied, “No way.” How could I continue to report stories with such a sign of decrepitude and age?

Three weeks later, I fell flat on my face on the corner of Columbus and West 72nd Street. Tired but cheap, I had resisted taking a cab home. Instead, I found myself cheek to ground on the sidewalk, a few feet from a garbage can.

Above me, a dispute broke out. “Get up!” one loudmouth ordered. “Don’t move!” said another. The Good Samaritans argued. How Upper West Side, right? Even in my prone position, it struck me as funny. Then, I was in a police car being driven one block to my building by two of New York City’s finest.

By the next day, my face was black and blue, my cheekbone aching, my wrist throbbing. The whole day was taken up by X-rays and a CAT scan. Amazingly, nothing was broken. By then, I was counting my blessings. I could have broken my front teeth, my nose, or worse.

I silently apologized to my doctor.

It took a village to get me going on the Drive Rollator—yes, that’s the brand name of the walker. It has wheels, a seat, and hand brakes. I needed a rehab doctor to treat me and physical therapists to order and teach me how to walk with it.

Some days, I felt deeply grateful. Other times, I felt like a toddler.

Once I timidly ventured out on the street by myself, I was stunned. Many strangers seemed to know when I needed a hand, and hurried to help. Opening doors is a particular problem, but high-school kids and old people with canes opened doors for me without being asked. Chivalry is not dead – one man unwisely stood in the middle of West 76th Street to give me passage from oncoming traffic. Sometimes the degree of my disability was overestimated; one young woman approached me and almost begged to push me down the street.

Bus drivers were generally agreeable about lending a hand (all but the one who hissed to the whole bus that I was blocking the aisle). I soon learned the terminology, “Lower the ramp, please.” Even most cab drivers were willing to go through the trouble of picking me up and tossing – er – hoisting the walker aboard. 

I learned not to speed across bike lanes or to race across streets like in the old days. I reluctantly gave up walking alone at night. I grumbled sometimes about the inconsiderate mobs of teenagers who jostled me. I opined sourly that distracted parents with iPhones who take their offspring on busy sidewalks with scooters should be arrested.

As I’ve made peace with my walker, though, I think I’ve become a little less self-absorbed and more open-minded. There are plenty of others in the neighborhood with canes and walkers and wheelchairs because of age or infirmity. I assure you that none of us signed on with enthusiasm, but we’re trying to meet the moment with grace. At times, we exchange knowing smiles with each other as we pass on the sidewalk. In the front of the bus, we kibitz. 

And I can walk more easily now. The walker glides over most jagged New York City sidewalks. Some days, I even exercise by going 45 minutes or an hour on the walker without fading. When I come back from one of those walks, I feel exhilarated, reborn. 

I bet you think I’m about to say I’m glad I now use a walker, because I’ve learned so much about myself. Ha! I still wish I could run the New York City Marathon. 

But if you see me on the street with a reporter’s notepad, please give me a wave. I’m the one whose walker has a bumper sticker that says, I IDENTIFY AS A FERRARI.

Andi can be reached at andrea.sachs1@gmail.com.