Thoughts on Walking and Not
This is a photograph
from the last summer I walked.
It’s the summer of
1976 and we’re at a cottage rented by my parents. Standing with me are my
little sister — then actually little — and my best friend AB. We’re spending
two weeks in this cottage made of wood, the exterior walls painted with some
sort of preservative classic to cottages of the time. The backyard is tall with
weedy grass growing in a sandy soil and surrounded by pines and the ocean is
within walking distance. In my memories, the sun was shining the entire two
weeks. That’s pretty unusual for Denmark, so it probably wasn’t. It was one of
my favourite holidays and to this day, the smell of sand and pines and sun are
among my favorite scents. Add a touch of ocean and I’m in heaven.
My parents had asked
the doctors for a two week reprieve before I underwent the procedure that was
supposed to help me walk. My juvenile arthritis had settled in my hips and
hard, already causing changes in the joint. My left hip was the worst — you can
see in the photo that I couldn’t straighten my leg anymore. I still remember
the excruciating pain in the groin that comes with a hip joint that’s
bone-on-bone. When I was walking, it was with the crutch and if we needed to go
for longer distances, such as the beach close to that cottage, it was with me
in a wheelchair. We did and once there, I walked with my crutches into the
water. It was also the last summer I put my feet in saltwater.
At the end of the
holiday, I went into the hospital and was placed in a body cast that went from
the tip of my toes to my chest. It was thought that giving my hips a rest from
moving would somehow stop the JA from its rampage. It didn’t. Instead, it
stopped my ability to walk. I don’t remember the moment when we found out, but
in my mother’s mind, it is vivid and she shared it in the Live
Bold Live Now documentary about my life.
I posted the photo on
my Facebook page, mentioning how it was the last summer I walked. Sallie, a
good friend and very wise woman, asked how I felt about it. My first instinct
was to say that it was fine, but my second thought wanted more time to figure
it out.
I haven’t walked for
38 years and I no longer have the muscle memory of walking. I see other people
do it and no part of me remembers how. I don’t remember how to make your body
walk, something apparently so natural and ingrained that no one around me seems
to have to concentrate to do it.
This weekend, The Boy
took out the garbage and I watched him walk down the hallway, counting his
steps. There are 62 steps from my apartment to the garbage chute and 62 steps
back and he took them with ease. On the way back, his only focus was looking at
me with a smile on his face, not on the 62 steps it would take to get to me.
I watch others walking
down the street, to shopping, to the bus, walking the dog, pushing a stroller,
or any other of the multitude of tasks that involve walking. I watch my
attendants as they carry my dinner from the kitchen to my living room. There
are days when I marvel at how you can all do this thing called walking without
having to think about it and moreover, without great effort and pain.
My last memory of
walking is less about the act of walking and more about the effort and pain
that were part of it, as well as so many other movements. Spending a month in a
body cast caused my hips to fuse, which took away the pain, as well as my
mobility. I got some of the latter back after my hip replacements at 16. I also
got my first power wheelchair and, as described in my
story Unbound, it gave me back mobility and freedom.
And it is possible
that it is because of that memory of pain, combined with two years in a
hospital bed waiting for my new hip joints, and then the freedom of movement
granted to me by a wheelchair, that I am fine with not walking. For me, the
wheelchair wasn’t about losing the ability to walk, it was about gaining
freedom. It was about finally leaving the hospital behind, about going home,
about becoming normal again.
Or maybe it is the 38
years that have passed, leaving the grieving of the loss so far in the past
that the wound has well and truly scarred over. Because I truly feel fine about
not walking. There is some truth to that saying about how can you miss
something if you don’t know what it is. I don’t remember how to walk, neither
in my mind or my body and so, I don’t miss it.
Oddly, both my mind
and my body remember dancing. And that I am not fine with losing.
Comments
You are truly amazing.
Sometimes just for a flash of moment I see other people walking without a cane and fear for their falling when their balance surely will give way. Followed by a flash of how do they do that? And then of a wistful, it would be cool, wouldn't it...
Then comes simply a great gratitude that the cane does me the good that it does. The world does not entirely spin now post-accident and I can walk again.
I agree with Donna - if you long to immerse yourself in the healing benefits of water (you know me! :) ), there's assistance available to do so.
Finally, I can't help but wonder if surgery will advance to the point where your ability to walk is restored. If that were possible, would that be something you'd want to do?