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dcnovice -> RE: Got Prayers? (Or Good Wishes?) (5/31/2013 8:49:20 PM)
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FR
I know my last few updates have been pretty bleak, so here's a happier one.
“We’re walking….” You’ve probably heard those words from a tour guide in a movie or on TV. Perhaps even in real life, though I’m pretty sure I haven’t. I do know I’ve never uttered them at Wilson House. Still, they came to mind this afternoon as I did something I hadn’t done since Lent—walk outside without a cane.
Back in March, you may recall, I fell several times during a nightmarish evening in my apartment. That led to the first of four hospital stays (three at Georgetown, one at National Rehabilitation Hospital) that occupied the better—or worse—part of a month. After my discharge from the first stay, my wonderful sister and I drove back to Dupont, where we decided to get a bit of non-hospital food at my diner. She let me out of the car, and I tottered toward a table while she looked for parking.
By the time I sat down, I felt like I’d scaled Everest, sans Sherpa. As I gripped the patio railing and backs of chairs, I thought, “Oh dear God. Did I just make a terrible mistake leaving the hospital?” My sister, it turned out, had the same thought as she watched me. Great minds, eh?
The first order of business after lunch, we swiftly agreed, was getting yours truly a cane. Maureen, God bless her, dashed off to CVS and returned with a spiffy, metal “third leg,” as Woodrow Wilson would have called it. It’s a snazzy burgundy color, and it’s been my most prominent accessory ever since.
As the weeks rolled by, I noticed something interesting: my handy new accessory could also be a bit of an annoyance. It slowed me down and made me (for the first time in my adult life) lean to the right. I also found that I’d forget to pick it up if I was going a short distance, say from the kitchen to the bedroom at home or from my desk to the copier at work. Before long, I was pretty much parking the cane whenever I arrived at the office or the apartment and tooling around just fine without it.
But home and work are flat, familiar spaces. They’re safe. I continued to feel the need for my third leg when I ventured outdoors, particularly on the sloping, crowded walkways at the Zoo. Even there, though, I noticed lately that I’d started to hang the cane in the crook of my left arm rather than use it in my right hand. And I seemed to be doing just fine. Still, I liked having my security blanket handy, particularly for when I was tired or sore or stressed.
The past few days, though, I’ve been thinking it’s time to consider shedding the cane. So I decided to do a “test drive” this afternoon. I was meeting a dear friend for coffee at the Starbucks opposite the Zoo’s main entrance. It’s maybe a 25-to-50-yard walk from the Visitor Center (where I work), up the mild (at that point) incline of Olmsted Walk, and then across what I’m pretty sure is the world’s largest crosswalk. With only mild trepidation, I left the cane hanging on my cube wall.
And I walked. And it was good. (And I probably shouldn’t start two consecutive sentences with “And,” but, hey, I save the prescriptivism for other people’s writing.) I got a little nervous stepping down the curb onto Connecticut Avenue, and felt mildly wobbly after walking my friend to her car (which, alas, sported a ticket; gotta love D.C.). So I’m considering my experiment a success and will attempt longer forays under my own steam.
Tomorrow brings another “test drive”—my return to Wilson House. I’ll be volunteering in the afternoon (1-5), when we’ll be in open-house mode as part of the Dupont-Kalorama Museum Walk. If you’re in the neighborhood, please drop by. I haven’t decided whether the cane will join me. Oddly enough, I often feel more wobbly standing still (as I will be tomorrow) than walking. So we’ll see. I supposed I could borrow one of the President’s hundred or so canes, though I’m not sure how well that would go over. At least it would be an improvement on last year, when our curator had to separate two kids who were using them to sword-fight!
Despite his large collection—mainly gifts from friends and admirers who wondered “What can I do?” after his paralytic stroke in 1919—Wilson was a creature of habit and tended to use the same one most of the time. Ironically, I think that’s the only we don’t have. No one’s quite sure where it went; perhaps a relative claimed it as a memento.
We’ve now been walking for almost two pages, and your eyes are probably tired. So I’ll sign off, with my usual thanks for your kind e-listening. Love to you all!
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