rollin in my 6-4…

You may remember from my last post that I purchased a new set of wheels for my birthday a few weeks ago. I had been dreading taking my shiny new ride out for a spin in public for reasons I understood but didn’t want to acknowledge. Is it vain to care what you look like pushing a walker, or is that just human nature?

After a previous horrible DMV experience (really – are there any other kind?), I knew I wasn’t going back to the DMV without assistance. And I wanted to go back to the DMV for the sole purpose of getting out of identity limbo – the federal government knew me by my married name, but the state of California still thought of me by my maiden name. What was my real name? Who was I? I’m already prone to existential crises, and the lack of uniformity in my name wasn’t helping.

The morning of my appointment I loaded up the walker into my trunk and drove to the DMV before work. It almost feels oxymoronic that I can carry a walker down a flight of stairs and lift it into my trunk on my own, but cannot stand in line for ten minutes without it. Such is the nature of the beast called Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS). Once I reached the DMV and pulled it out, I took a deep breath and wheeled into the DMV, waiting for the stares.

I didn’t have to wait long. These weren’t the super self-conscious “I swear everyone is looking at me when no one really is” stares. Most eyes turned to me. We can all pretend they were checking me out, but let’s get real…I’m not THAT cute. Perhaps the other DMV customers didn’t expect to see someone dressed in slacks and a blouse, or someone in their 30’s, using a walker. Maybe they were searching for the “Your mom’s my other ride” sticker that is still noticeably absent from my walker. Or, perhaps it’s because I can’t help but make “vroom vroom” sounds when pushing the walker, even at a snail’s pace. I don’t know.

The line wasn’t long in terms of DMV standards, but was long in terms of POTS standards, so before too long I utilized the seat on my walker. As I navigated my way through the aisles and various lines of the DMV, I came face to face, or walker-to-walker if you will, with a gentleman 40 years my senior using a walker very similar to mine. We smiled at each other and nodded, acknowledging our membership in an exclusive club that no one actually wants to be a part of.

These days I tend to feel a kinship with people my grandmother’s age more often than with my peers. God bless the old people for accepting me as one of their own.

I accomplished what I intended at the DMV and loaded up the walker into my trunk, overwhelmed by simultaneous feelings of disappointment in being forced to use the walker, and appreciation that it was there for me to use. I sometimes think of my walker as an actual person that I hate because he reminds me of my mortality, but also love because he protects me in the way only someone who reminds you of your mortality can.

And, I refer to it has a “he” because – let’s be honest – any jerk that can make a woman feel such tormented thoughts must be male. I like to name inanimate objects, as Princess Consuela Bananahammock (my car) will tell you, so if you have any walker name suggestions, please be sure to include them in the comments.

As if the first ride in my walker wasn’t exciting enough, I also just had my first wheelchair ride. I returned from a short airline trip yesterday – my first since the honeymoon. The BF couldn’t join me on this one, and I don’t do airports by myself. When I booked my ticket with Southwest I specified I needed a “disabled” ticket. Once I arrived at the airport, I notified the first Southwest employee I saw that I had a disabled ticket and needed a wheelchair to make it through security. Seconds later I was sitting in a cushy chair as tears welled in my eyes. There is something surreal about sitting in a wheelchair, knowing you need it. Years of running up and down the soccer field, sliding into home base, sprinting ahead to pass the baton, flashed before my eyes before I settled on the one image I couldn’t shake: staring at my own reflection in a wheelchair.

As emotional as it was, I loved being wheeled anywhere in the airport I wanted to go. After obtaining my boarding pass we wheeled to the front of the security line where I made it to third base with a TSA agent. Then, my friendly Southwest wheelchair attendant wheeled me all the way to my gate and secured a preboard pass for me so I wouldn’t have to wait in line while boarding.

The proud part of me hated the wheelchair for supporting my continued decline, but my lazyass also loves being chauffeured around by handsome men.

Dilemmas.

“There will come a time in your life when you lose something that matters to you. You’ll fight for it and you won’t win. But what really matters isn’t the war you’re waging, it’s that you don’t lose the person you are in the midst of the battle.”  ― J. Sterling

Smell ya later.
– Linds