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DAZE WORK: Mobility, mortality … aren’t they really about the same?
One timeworn adage claims that walking a mile in someone’s shoes is really just saying you need to spend some time trying to understand another person’s perspective.
Well, I’ve had the past four months to do just that.
Walk a mile in his shoes?
I’ve trudged a mile on my walker, thank you very much.
Trust me, your perspective certainly can often skew your opinion, which is something I came to realize long ago.
After all, the guy at the bottom of the pile has a lot different view than the guy on top of the football heap.
So seeing things through new eyes can be enlightening, as I’m learning so well.
For instance, when you’re incapacitated in some way, there are never enough handicapped parking spaces when and where you need them.
I used to think there were ample handicapped parking spaces around. When you’re hale and hearty it seems like handicapped spaces dot the landscape and nobody’s using them.
Walmart seemed to have gone overboard with its designated spots. But the day I needed to pick up my prescription on one of my first solo drives, every single handicapped spot there was parked full, and I got a lengthy walker workout for my ill-timed visit. It added about 50 yards to my walk, which doesn’t sound like much until you’re tired and sore from therapy and tethered to a walker.
Of course, when I hobbled back to my Jeep 20 minutes later, nearly every handicapped space was wide open.
Meanwhile, the north side of the courthouse square and the parking lot north of the Banner Graphic are two easy examples of lack of handicapped spaces. There isn’t a handicapped spot to be found in that lot or on that side of the square.
There is, however, a nice, convenient spot on the corner of Franklin and Indiana right in front of Dick’s Barber Shop. Used it to great advantage the day Wayne Lewis trimmed my beard after all those ragged weeks at Mill Pond.
Out at McDonald’s they have four spots on the west side of the building and they’re almost always in use. That either means the seniors who mostly park there either like the convenience or the iced tea.
My favorite handicapped space in town is the one serving the Breakfast Co., the new restaurant on the East Side. The space is located a few yards north of their doors. Oddly enough, right in front of Snap Fitness.
Hobbling around these past few weeks of recovery, I definitely have a new appreciation for those folks who are permanently disabled and need – if not our help or sympathy – at least our better attention to detail.
Of course this is all new to me, the walker (affectionately known as Walker, Texas Ranger in my house) a shower seat, a downstairs bedroom, a raised toilet seat and even a wheelchair. Added a cane this week since mobility is looking up.
At my Highwood home, my washer and dryer have been moved from the basement upstairs to the utility room and my 1930s bathtub now has been retrofitted with a shower. Just getting that ready for me to be able to live on the first floor of my home for a while has cost me $3,000, which actually was a real bargain after all those medical bills and ambulance rides. Thanks, Chuck.
Throughout all this I also have learned how kind and helpful people can be. From off-duty GPD Officer Ed Wilson leaping from his window seat at McDonald’s like he’d spotted a fleeing felon, only to come outside and hold the door open for me, to another patron volunteering to take my coffee cup to the counter for a refill, it’s been so encouraging. McDonald’s employee Dave Thomas (shouldn’t he be at Wendy’s?) has routinely doted on me, carrying my tray, getting me condiments and refills, even saving my seat when I have to visit the facilities.
The other day I took it to the next level, finally brave enough to use one of those motorized scooter carts at Kroger (they’re certainly no match for the World’s Fastest Lawn Mower, let me attest).
On my slow-motion rounds, I found where they hide the apple juice, got a mashed, reduced-price box of Honey Smacks, and my decision on canned spaghetti and meatballs became a mid-aisle public referendum on Kroger brand vs. Chef Boyardee. At a buck a can, I went with the latter, all the while jonesing for some real Mama Nunz mostaccioli (see ya soon, Nunzio).
After a busy Sunday morning of use, my cart seemed to be running out of juice quickly, yet I was able to ride it out to my Jeep (creeping through the crosswalk), where I could dismount, open the car door and grab my groceries. At least that’s what I envisioned.
That’s when an older woman getting into the next vehicle – she had to be at least 10 years my senior -- leaped into action, grabbed my bags in one deft move while offering, “Here, let me help you.”
Not that I didn’t appreciate her help, but geez, I’ve got to ditch this walker and its associated contraptions real soon.
It’s either that or I’m never going back to the grocery store again …