When my NHS home physiotherapy ended early last year, my physio’s parting words were: “Remember, this isn’t the end of your recovery – it’s the beginning.” It was a lovely message to keep in mind, but I knew what she really meant, though being far too well-brought-up to say it: “Get off your BOTTOM and PRACTISE WALKING WITH YOUR ZIMMER FRAME, you lazy cow!”
This is a difficult one for me. I know in theory that the more time I spend putting one foot in front of the other – albeit with the assistance of a metal implement which is a byword for infirmity, so not strictly my accessory of choice – the better it is for me. On the other hand, I’m loath to do it.
For starters, I’m phobic about falling – imagine my already broken body with a broken wrist! If I couldn’t write, I’m pretty sure I’d go mad. That’s the other thing: writing takes me out of myself. Losing myself in words – as I’ve done in public for half a century now – I forget my disability, even, miraculously, when I’m writing about it; it’s like the very process of writing alchemises the pain.
I’m meant to set an alarm and totter around on my frame on the hour – but that way I’d lose the transportation of creation. And I do see it as tottering rather than walking; I used to be such a long-legged swaggerer, who my friends would plead with to slow down. Now each step is a painstaking act of will – little wonder that when I see my mates these days, I simply take the easy option of slipping into something more comfortable – my wheelchair – and chirping: “OK – you push, I’ll pay!”
