Getting a power chair no longer seemed essential, yet those three weeks of torment had chipped away at my resistance to owning one and I figured there was no harm in starting to explore my options.

So I arranged to meet with an OT at my home.  After bombarding her with loads of questions and sharing my own ideas, she suggested a specific chair that might suit my needs and took my measurements.  She said it would take several weeks before it was available for me to test.  In the meantime, she wanted me to try a couple of mobility devices that could make me safer in my home and arranged to have them delivered within the next few days.

When I got home the following Friday, I noticed a Nexus Rollator and a Guardian Walker (with flip tray) had been delivered while I was at work.  Although I was happy the supplier had come the day my cleaning lady was around to receive the delivery, I wasn’t too thrilled at the sight of the bulky contraptions crowding my small apartment.

When I tested the rollator, I found that it swivelled too easily, throwing me slightly off balance.  Nor did I warm up to the walker, a dull grey eyesore, half wheels, half mini skis, spoiling the aesthetics of my colourful apartment. On top of that, it made an irritating rattling noise when I tried to pivot it.  I doubted that I would purchase either one of these mobility devices.

I did, however, find the ugly plastic tray on the walker quite handy.  Instead of taking my regular detour around the kitchen, holding on to the counters and stove, I could now cut directly across towards the fridge and load the walker with several items at once, eliminating the need to do multiple trips.  It was also great for transporting the hefty omnibus of George Orwell novels, a gift I hadn’t got around to reading because of its unmanageable size.  And late at night, when my exhausted muscles were just about ready to collapse from the day’s wear, it was a relief to lean on the sturdy Guardian walker as I shuffled along the hallway from the kitchen towards my bedroom with my freshly microwaved therapeutic beanbag loaded on the tray.

After a couple of weeks, the reliable walker had become as indispensable to my daily routine as my heated beanbag, which keeps my bed warm during the cold winter nights.

Meanwhile, the rollator parked in a corner of the room remained forgotten until two days ago, when, feeling a burst of energy, I decided to test it out again by doing laps in my living room.  Back and forth I went, doing figure 8s on my laminate floor.  While it helps me with my balance, I can’t lean on it the same way I can on the walker.  As a result, I end up working my muscles a little harder.  And unlike the walker, the rollator can be used on rougher terrain.  I see it coming in handy if I want to do a bit of outdoor exercise.

I haven’t quite made up my mind, but I am leaning towards keeping them both.  Of course, I’ll have to jazz up the walker to fit in with the décor…a project I’m rather looking forward to.

I thought automatic doors would be nice to have, but never got around to doing anything about it.  So it was with absolute joy and wonder, when out of the blue, as I was heading towards my car last spring, a lady from my building walked up to me to let me know that plans had been made to install automatic doors and that a woman called Penny would be contacting me to time me.

The day the doors were automated, I met Penny by the P1 elevators.  I felt like an athlete with my elderly and kindly coach as she held the stopwatch and measured the time I took to go through the first door, walk about 8 feet, then exit through the second door.  Coming back was trickier.  There was a parking cement block beside the entrance obstructing my path to the sensor where I needed to swipe my card.  So I would have to approach the door head on to get to it.  This wasn’t such a problem before, because a person about to open the door would usually see me through the glass window. But now, a person could press the automatic button at the first door, causing both doors to open simultaneously.  If I were unknowingly approaching the second door when they pushed the button, I could be knocked down.

The other problem was that I had to cram myself and my cart in the little space between the cement block and the wall to clear the way for the door to open.  It was awkward.  These automatic doors were turning out to be more problematic than the manual doors.

Thank goodness, Penny had a solution.  For $75, I could purchase a remote control to open the doors.  She suggested I borrow one from the management office to see if it helped.  So a few days later, I met with Penny again to try opening the doors with the remote.  It didn’t work.  We realized later that an ‘eye’ had to be installed first to receive the remote’s signal.

It took several weeks before the ‘eye’, as Penny called it, was installed.  Luckily, this all happened during my summer vacation, so I could simply avoid using the doors by staying home.  The few times I did go out alone, it was terribly nerve-racking each time I returned home and had to approach the outer door.   There was one close call, when the door started opening just as I was about to step into the danger zone, but other than that, there were no incidents.

Then I went away to visit my family and forgot all about the automatic doors.  I didn’t have to worry about them the day I returned because my parents were with me.

The next time I went out, I was with my friend Lisa.  We took the elevator to P1.  I pressed the automatic door button, proceeded to walk through the space between both doors, and just as I reached the second door, it started to close!  Even though Lisa was there to stop it, my heart just about flipped in shock.  Why was it closing so soon??

I was getting nervous.  School was about to start and the door problem wasn’t solved.

It turns out that while I was away, the building manager had requested the doors to remain open for a measly 13 seconds!!! But my worrying was pointless; the ‘eye’ was ready, and when I visited the office I was given a remote that was specially programmed to keep the doors open for the 37 seconds I needed.

The remote, which allows me to open the doors from a safe distance, has made my life so much easier!  For the first month or so, I was actually excited about my trips to and from the parking garage just so I could exercise its magic.  The novelty has since died down, but it is still hugely appreciated!

They eagerly pick up things I drop and jump out of their chairs to open or draw the curtains.   They volunteer to set up the art activities and clean up the mess afterwards.  They organize the cupboards and tidy up the storage bins. They offer to refill my glass with water, and fight over who can go to the office to heat up my lunch.  They bring my bell to me when the class is getting noisy and squeeze close to their desks, giving me space to move through the room.  They even lug the stepladders into the hall and spend their recesses putting up the artwork on the rock hard bulletin board.

And last Thursday, after I had stepped out of the class during my planning time and returned a few minutes later to a room full of lively energetic children milling about, fully engaged in a drama activity, my heart just melted when the kids who had noticed me cleared a wide path and started shouting at the others to stop moving so I could get back to my chair safely.

It’s a good feeling, being surrounded by so much enthusiastic kindness!

The pitter patter of a joyous child bounding up behind me paralyzes me with terror as I brace myself for a possible hug that might send me tumbling to the ground.

Movement seen through the narrow window of the underground-parking door alarms me with such force that it takes a few minutes before I can recoup enough energy to open the heavy door.  But first, I wait until the hall on the other side of the window is so quiet and still that the chances of someone unknowingly flinging the door open and knocking me to the ground are reduced to a minimum.

Rainy mornings are a nightmare, when all the kids are ushered into the school, crowding the halls as they wait for the first bell to ring.  With heart-thumping trepidation, I make my way slowly through the throngs, my senses on high alert for swinging backpacks and jostling bodies.  Often, I enlist a few students to guard my frame and clear a path through the chattering herds. Even so, when I finally reach the refuge of my empty classroom, the anxiety has turned my legs to jello, making it another arduous task to cross the length of the room where I can plop myself down on my chair and breathe a sigh of relief.

Kind people attempting to grab my grocery cart when it appears to be stuck in the grooves of the elevator entrance elicit a panicky yelp “DON’T TOUCH!”. And after I explain that my cart keeps my balance, it still takes them a while to recover from the shock of being treated like purse snatchers.  Meanwhile, the adrenaline that has shot through my body has left me all quivery and teary-eyed, perplexing them further.

Even the wind rustling the leaves puts me on edge as I remember how violent gusts have slammed me against my car on more than one occasion.

But the worst of all is when fear itself, for no reason at all, takes possession of my body.  It seems to happen every autumn.  Halloween in the air indeed!  A month ago, I was carrying on with my daily routine with confidence.  Then from one week to the next, my body suddenly starts freezing up in the middle of the parking garage or in front of the school bus, too fearful to take another step forward, as if I’ve suddenly found myself at the edge of a vertiginous precipice.  Sometimes, a good samaritan seeing my distress comes and rescues me with a lending arm, but most often I have to battle the energy-draining panic alone.   My turtle’s stride slows to a snail’s pace and my confused leg muscles, forgetting how to walk normally, adopt the gait of a slow Quasimodo, with the right leg leading by a few centimetres and the other one dragging hesitantly behind.  I can barely swing my leg into my car, I’m so scared of falling.  The fear has even followed me right into my home, breaking through the serenity of my haven.  Just crossing from one edge of a doorway to another leaves me dizzy with fright, and I have to hug the walls like Spiderman to move through my hall.  When I finally make it to the sanctuary of my bed, my body is utterly exhausted from the day’s terror, in pain from all the tension, yet relishing the promise of a good night’s peaceful sleep.

Enough, I say!  An exorcist is on its way.  I’ve already taken the first step in the process of getting myself a POWER!-chair.

You might have been surprised (possibly even revolted) to see unsightly mealworms crawling across their palms.

The first time I laid my eyes on a container filled with too many writhing larvae, it took a conscious effort to suppress the common reaction of repulsion.  Eventually, I came to view them as fascinating low-maintenance creatures, perfect for teaching the life cycle of an insect and the magic of metamorphosis; but I never touched them, always preferring to scoop them out with the reassuring distance of a spoon.  Until that special day last week.

It all started with Shannon, who came up to me one morning and whispered timidly in my ear to ask if the mealworms were slimy.

“I don’t think so,” I told her, “but I’ve never touched them.”

“Can I touch one?”

“Of course,” I replied, “but not now.  Maybe at recess.”

So at recess she came, eager to hold the wiggly critters in her hand.

The next day, during lunch recess, she returned with a following. Their enchantment with the mealworms must have rubbed off on me, because that very afternoon, as I was transferring the pupae into a separate container, I used my bare hands!  And I found myself as enthralled as my students—albeit slightly squeamish—by the tactile sensations of crawling mealworms and twitching pupae.

Amazing, I thought, how Shannon’s quiet fondness for the mealworms influenced her friends and her teacher, changing our perceptions from ‘eeew!’ to ‘cooool!’

It made me wonder how I might be influencing people’s perceptions of those of us who move differently.  If the feeling of awkwardness and the perception of ‘weird’ that sometimes arise were replaced by something a little groovier, it would make me very happy indeed.

“What bad luck!” cried the son.

“Maybe, maybe not,” responded the farmer.

A few days later, the horse returned followed by a herd of wild mares.

“What luck!” exclaimed the son, “we will be rich with all these horses!”

“Good luck? Bad luck? Who knows?” answered the farmer.

The next morning, the farmer’s son fell off one of the wild mares while he was trying to tame it and broke his leg.

“How will I help you work the land now?  This is most unfortunate!” lamented the son.

“Hmm,” said the farmer.

A week later, the army marched through the village taking with them all the young able-bodied men, for there was a war.  The farmer’s son was left behind.

“So lucky!” congratulated the other villagers.

“Maybe.”

I wasn’t feeling very lucky a couple of months ago when I received a notification in my school mailbox informing me of a mandatory PD session I had to attend at the end of April.  Not that I have anything against Professional Development.  It’s just that going to unfamiliar places makes me very nervous.  And planning for a supply teacher is a huge hassle.  Also, a student teacher was coming to work with me two days before the PD day.  It just didn’t seem right to be abandoning her so soon after her arrival.

But I did as the farmer would have done.  I swept aside any unnecessary stress and impelled myself to go with the flow.  I carried on with my days, mostly confident that all would fall into place.

Two days before the PD session, I sat down with the student teacher to plan for my absence.  It was much easier than having to write everything down for a supply teacher.  She was excited to have the challenge of directing the day, and the supply teacher was very happy to let her take charge.  Things were looking better than I expected.  Even the grade 1 teachers who were feeling disgruntled after having attended the same session a few weeks earlier—a waste of time in their words—did not dampen my spirits. As for my apprehensiveness with the possible difficulties I might encounter at the banquet hall where the training was taking place, I reassured myself that my kind colleague Fernand would be there to help me.

When I called his classroom the next day to get his cell number in case I needed assistance from my car to the hall, the thin shroud of calmness I had worked so hard to surround myself with completely evaporated.  An urgent doctor’s appointment was taking precedence over the training, so he would not be attending.  Such bad luck!!(?)  What was I going to do??!

I might have railed against this vexing condition, fumed over my principal’s lack of awareness, ranted about useless PD days.   I could certainly feel the mounting frustration leading me towards such a display of misplaced anger.  So I coaxed myself into believing this situation was simply a test.  Could I choose a positive attitude, regardless of the situation?

Once I had relaxed a little, I called Elaine, a teacher from another school who was also attending the conference and whom I had met a couple of times.  It was my colleague Susan who had suggested I contact her if I needed help.  Of course, life would be dull if it wasn’t spiced with a little drama:  Elaine had already left her school and could not be reached.  So I called Susan on her cell, but she didn’t answer. By this time, however, I had regained a foothold on optimism and I was warming up to the idea of an adventure.  I would go alone, I thought, with no friendly safety nets in place.  What’s the worst that could happen?  A curb blocking my way, maybe?  A violently windy day?  Pffft.  No problem.  I could always holler for help if need be.

Just as I was all psyched up to go alone, Susan called (despite the fact that I hadn’t left her a message) and gave me Elaine’s home number.  It certainly made me concede to Abraham-Hicks’ philosophy—stay positive and you’ll attract positive situations.  It turned out Elaine lives a mere 5-minute drive away from me, so we decided to go to the banquet hall together—and what a delightful ride it was!  This was even better than relying on Fernand to meet me when I got there.  Good luck indeed!

The next day, when I returned home, I was elated.  I had learned a few interesting points during the conference; but more importantly, I had really enjoyed spending time with the convivial and thoughtful people at my table.  Elaine was always there to help me up from my seat.  Nidhi kept filling my glass with water and passing me snacks, books, pens, whenever I needed them, and Melanie carried my plate from the buffet to our table at lunchtime.  I felt deeply touched by their attentiveness.

That night, as I was tidying up my kitchen and chuckling to myself about how I had dreaded this day, my leg twisted, and as I pitched forward, I could see the edge of the wall hurtling towards my head. . . a split second of terror, and the next second…I somehow lifted my arms to the wall and caught myself from falling.  WOW!! I AM SO LUCKY! I laughed out loud.  The farmer would have said maybe.  But I continued walking on smugly, congratulating myself on a great catch.

But there was no escaping fate. Two minutes after the close call, I lost my balance again.  It was a good fall.  It could have been better had I not banged my temple against the chair.  Or maybe not: the chair did stop my head from hitting the ground, allowing me to end up in a sitting position and get to the phone faster—I had dinner simmering on the stove and didn’t want all my hard work cutting up veggies to be reduced to ashes.

As I was scooting across the floor to call my neighbours, I was reminded of how I had neglected to find new emergency contacts.  I had known for a couple of weeks that Laura and Andrew were leaving the building, and I still hadn’t come up with another plan. Their moving date was in two days.

Laura answered.  (Unfortunately) her husband was not home to help me, and I knew she wouldn’t be able to lift me up, being 8 months pregnant.  She came anyway to turn off my stove.  We then thought up possible solutions to get me back on my feet.  She offered to get a friendly neighbour in her end of the hall, but I thought it might be a good opportunity to take Mario up on his offer.  He had startled me, one day many months ago, when he addressed me by name as we were chitchatting in the elevator.  When I asked how he knew my name, he said that he had inquired about me at the management office because he was concerned about my safety, especially since the new neighbours across from me had had some pretty violent fights that had spilled into the hall.  The thought that strangers were looking out for me had really warmed my heart.

Laura went to get him across the hall.  A few minutes later, he had lifted me up and given me his number in case I needed his help again.  He told me his wife worked from home during the day and he was always available in the evenings, and that I should never hesitate to call.

The perfect end to a perfect day.

Good luck or bad luck?  The PD day, Fernand’s absence, the fall, the bruised temple, Andrew being away…it all turned out positive.  The winning streak goes on.  I’ll try to keep that in mind as September approaches. I’ve been assigned a split-grade—a teacher’s tragedy—for next year.  I was devastated by the news at first, but now I’m thinking, it might not be such bad luck after all.

So I started eyeing canes wherever I went.  I noticed the dowdy quad canes and fancy wood sticks, the plain aluminium canes, the cuff crutches, walking sticks with wild psychedelic patterns and attractive clear Lucite canes.  When I walked through the aisles of drugstores, I surreptitiously tried them out, feeling a little strange as I held them and completely clueless as to what would work best for me.  I always left undecided and empty-handed.

One evening, while waiting for my physiotherapist at a rehabilitation clinic, I commented on the nice copper colour of another client’s cane and asked her where she got it.  She told me that after her car accident she needed two canes to get around, but that she was feeling stable enough to use only one now and that I could have one of hers if I wished.  I offered to pay for it, but she insisted that I have it.  My physiotherapist adjusted the height and that very night I went home, the unfamiliar cane in hand, and relieved that I no longer had to dwell on the myriad of available choices.

I felt a little odd when I walked into my classroom the next day with a walking stick.  Thankfully, the students didn’t fuss much about it.  I imagine they assumed that I now used a cane to avoid falls like the one I had had in class a week before.  And it proved useful to point to the maps and wall charts.

As time went by, I came to depend completely on my cane, until that fateful autumn, a year and a half later, when my stick no longer did the trick.  Open dark spaces like my parking garage were starting to elicit shaky panicky feelings from my body, and one day, my body won over my mind as it refused to step away from the comfort zone beside a wall or piece of furniture.  My doctor thought the rather abrupt change was caused by exhaustion and work stress so he prescribed some time off, which is what I needed to devise a new system to get myself back to work.

An occupational therapist visited me and suggested I get a power wheelchair—a complicated solution that created the additional unsolved problems of getting through the doors of my building and finding the appropriate transportation to lug my chair to school.  We tried a walker, but it was too bulky to manoeuvre through the heavy doors.  And finally I decided to try the grocery cart my friend Ken had given me as a gift some time ago. My cart is not sturdy at all, and yet, with both hands gripping it, my body is tricked into believing that I’m much safer than I would be with a cane.  I had never used it before because I was afraid of getting knocked down by the closing elevator door if it got stuck midway through the elevator.  So Ken had the bright idea to let the elevator door slam once against my cart to give me more time to enter.  With a little practice, I also found a way to keep the heavy building doors open with my leg while I wielded the cart through the doorways.  It required some tricky turning movements from my body, but it worked. Yet the sound of approaching footsteps always causes my heart to lurch with anxiety.  That a person in a hurry might neglect to look through the little window and open the door while I’m on the other side is constantly at the back of my mind.  Even if they open the door to help me, as I’m still holding on to it, I can easily be thrown off balance.  Luckily, the few times it happened, I was able to catch myself just in time.

It didn’t occur to me that I might have the strength to lift the cart into my car, so I always left it behind in my parking spot.  I came home a few times to find it repositioned.  According to my parking neighbour, a lady had been borrowing it.  He assured me that he had admonished her for taking it and had explained to her how I depended on it.  I didn’t really care that somebody borrowed it as long as it was there when I got back from work and that it was in good working condition, but I was grateful to him for watching out for me.

Looking back, I find it astonishing that for 6 months I relied on the arm of a colleague or the shoulder of a student to get to one distant wall from another.  Only once in a while, when the hall was empty, would I cross it alone, with the trepidation and cautiousness of a tightrope walker.

Of course, the sensible thing to do should have been to keep a walker at school.  Yet, I simply could not reconcile myself to the image of my body ambulating behind such a device.  Be it vanity or the fret of feeling like an old woman, I continued to stubbornly refuse my mother’s advice to bring a walker to work.  And I was absolutely mortified, when one spring day, the principal rolled one in while I was in the midst of a lesson.  My mom had dropped it off in the hopes that once it was at school, I would get over my hang-up and see how practical it could be.  And maybe with more time, I would have come to my senses and started using it.  But summer came quickly enough and I never touched the walker.  My students, on the other hand, had a hoot scooting around on it.

Soon after school ended, I loaded my little cart with a week’s worth of clothes and headed to the parking garage.  After I was putting my bags in the back seat of my car, I started feeling uneasy about leaving my cart behind for an entire week.  So I collapsed it and attempted to lift it into my car.  Ha!  It wasn’t difficult at all!  A little cumbersome, but it’s gotten a lot easier with practice.

Since then, I always take it with me.  Unless the weather is bad, I no longer have to call someone to meet me at my car when I arrive at work.  My very practical mother also had the great idea of putting the wire basket from the walker on top of the cart.  I put it on when I come to school, and take it off before I leave.  It’s the perfect height—much higher than when it was on the walker—and great for transporting books, notebooks and school supplies.  To finally be able to walk around the school and lug my stuff around with me, without having to depend on anybody, has been absolutely wonderful!

The cart is easier to manoeuvre between desks than a walker—although certainly not as safe—and I love the fact that I can lift it into my car.  However, it’s definitely not any more stylish than a walker.  But as time goes by, survival and freedom are surfacing as top priorities in my life, while my preoccupation with how others might perceive me fades slowly away into a disconnected memory.  When I pass staring youngsters in the hall, or parents who avert their eyes uncomfortably, I actually feel the slightest tinge of amusement.  And when a little boy asked me why I went everywhere with my cart, I simply gave him some quick facts—I have a muscle problem and can easily lose my balance if I don’t hold onto something—and I got a good laugh when he said innocently, “But I thought only grandmothers used those things.”

At different points in our life, a gust of inspiration might lure us off the raft and onto uncertain banks.  A trail ahead may seem rough and steep, but we hardly notice the effortful trek because the strong winds of desire pull us along.

Other times…our little raft might meander through a foul-smelling swamp or get swept up in treacherous waters and we’re forced into making a decision, taking a new direction.

In my teens to early twenties, it was the strong desire for new adventures and my aspirations to hone other languages that won over my insecurities and shyness, pulling me into new unexplored realms.

A decade later, my partner and I were enticed by the idea of a home sweet home.  Our desires outweighed our trepidation at such a huge financial commitment; and when we finally chose a house, we somehow survived the discomfort, upheaval and grime of living in the midst of major renovations, driven by our vision of a cosy space.

Not long after, doubt crept into our relationship, eroding at our commitment towards each other and sapping the joy around us.  The unpleasantness of our entwined lives forced us to face the fact that we were better off emotionally separate than together.

Yet, after we officially ended our relationship and without the pressure of commitment, our friendship was renewed and we carried on as housemates, floating along on the same raft quite agreeably.   Of course, we knew the next step was to reconfigure our living arrangements; yet we pondered different solutions without being able to pick one.

When we had first started living together in an apartment close to the city core, my condition was hardly noticeable.  I could still manage the long flight of steep stairs leading to our entrance and I didn’t mind the second flight up to the bedroom.  I was still able to run errands independently and grocery shop without a second thought.  Coming home on a snowy day and stepping onto sleet-covered asphalt was hardly cause for concern.  Four years later, the laborious descents into our new house’s basement became less and less frequent, and on icy days, I had to wait for R. to get home before I could venture out of my car and make my way safely to our front entrance.  I no longer went out unaccompanied, and R. was always around to lend a helping hand.

I had no idea if this weakened body with which I was barely acquainted could manage solo.   What if I fell when I was alone?  Was it safer for me to quit my job and move to my parents’ town?  I thought I might rent an apartment to at least experiment with independent living.  But finding an affordable and accessible apartment isn’t easy.  The ones with in-suite laundry facilities and underground parking were so expensive, it made more sense to buy my own place.  But taking on such a financial burden without really knowing if and how long I could cope seemed highly risky.  So back I went to contemplating moving in with my parents.  Round and round went my thinking.

With no clear answers and no pressure to leave my home, it was easier to stick with the known than to venture into the unknown.  So my ex and I continued sharing a house, as if it were the most natural thing.

But after several months, destiny grew impatient and started stirring up the winds.  I thought the cool and rational reasoning of my mind had all my feelings regarding R. satisfactorily under control…until I found out he was seeing somebody else.  I didn’t expect the news to rattle me as it did; suddenly, I couldn’t jump off that raft fast enough, sink or swim.  Thus began my frantic search for a place, any space, as long as it had in-suite laundry, underground parking, no stairs, and no balcony to clean.  I quickly realized other features were essential as well: reasonable maintenance fees; bathtubs that weren’t too high; and doors I could open—I had to rule out a few locations because the doors leading to the parking were too heavy for me to manoeuvre.

During those intense weeks looking for a suitable place, the distressing urgency to make a decision and the fear of making the wrong one fuelled absolute turmoil within me and left me completely frazzled and unable to continue moving forward.  I stopped looking and returned to the undesirable status quo.  A month later, my real estate agent called to see if I wanted to renew my search; he had another condo he wanted to show me.  I met him at the designated building, did a quick tour of the place, and right there on the spot I made the decision to buy it…even if it did have a balcony.  I was going to jump after all, and I hoped I could still swim.

It’s amazing how quickly doubts and worry vanish when I finally make a decision and take that leap of faith.  Once there was no longer any point to debating, second-guessing and agonizing, I felt very much at ease.  I could only move forward from here on and figure out things as I went.

And how needless all the worrying had been.  Every thing fell into place so smoothly.  Out of the blue, a friend of mine who was moving to my city asked if he could be my flatmate for a few weeks.  He stayed with me for 8 months and eased the transition towards living alone.  During that time, I discovered I was much more capable than I had thought.  It was liberating.

It’s been mostly smooth sailing since I moved almost four years ago.  There have been a few hiccups here and there, but solutions have always presented themselves at the right time.  In fact, I’m growing a little antsy with the rather stagnant waters of late.  Just a tinge—not enough to actively change anything in my life.  On the other hand, the slightest breeze of a desire is blowing in a new direction.  I wonder if it will give me the confidence to explore an untried path.

Others take a little more time to blossom.  There might be a bit of humming and hawing; you see how reliable and practical it would be, yet you wish there were more sparks.  Eventually it grows on you until you become inseparable, and you wonder how you ever hesitated.

The first time I saw the dance shoes, sitting atop a display case in a private store above a Montreal dance studio, it was love at first sight.   An elegant, open-toe black sandal on a slim platform with a flared heel and ankle strap—I knew they were perfect even before I had tried them on; and when my feet finally met the cushy insoles and I started prancing around on the 3 ¾-inch heels, I felt wonderfully tall and lithe and aware of the fact that I’d need new flowing pants that might not even require any hemming this time.

That was 12 years ago, when my passion for salsa dancing was at its height, and almost everything else—my studies, my new boyfriend, my friends—came in second. (Don’t worry Dad, family is always #1.)  I suppose even my health came in second, because hours of non-stop vigorous dancing in a smoky Latin club can’t be very good for the lungs.  I was so eager for new moves, new steps, new challenges…and I clearly remember joking half-seriously that I would never move to a place that didn’t have a good Latin dance scene.

Well, my universe certainly has a wry sense of humour.  I had worn down my suede soles, almost mastered the Casino Rueda style, and was avid to tackle more intricate foot-work and show-stopping aerials when I noticed that I was starting to have difficulty with some basic movements, like squatting low or jumping during lifts.  Little did I know that a strange twist of life was about to send me staggering onto a wildly divergent path.  The twinkling stars above must have been chuckling, “So you wish for more physical challenges Amanda, eh?” And what ironic timing:  they had finally banned smoking in clubs, I had just replaced the soles of my dance shoes, I moved to a city with a great salsa scene, and I couldn’t take advantage of any of it.

All things come to pass.  And to my precious worn-out dance shoes with the virgin soles, I say: We had a blast.  Thanks for putting up with the beer-drenched floors and the rhythmic pounding, and thanks for being such a great support.

Fast forward to 2007.  No more sassy lifts and fancy dips, but watch me balance my arms to dry my hair!  See my persevering hands, fingers stretching wide, climb relentlessly from shelf to shelf with a glass jug dangling from my thumb until I’ve properly stored it at the top of the overhead cupboard.  Challenging stuff indeed!

If I’ve learned anything from this unexpected twist in life, is that you just do what you gotta do to survive.  And what I needed to do at this new phase was buy a pair of shoes grippy enough to facilitate the increasingly hard task of getting out of my chair at school.

So I went to a shoe store and bought the only pair of slip-on sneakers they had.  I didn’t like the fact that I needed a shoehorn to put them on and I thought the attempt at funkiness with a half white/half blue sole looked a little silly.  I wasn’t sure how well the suede would keep, and I would have preferred a neutral upper, but at least the puma on the side was only a darker shade of blue than the rest of the shoe, so it didn’t stand out too much.  The important thing is that the tread looked decent.

From experience, I know that treads that test well in the store often fail on the dusty surface of my classroom floor.  Well these ones stuck to the vinyl tiles like a pair of tenacious starfish, and they cut in half the time it took for me to get out of my chair.  I wore them to school every day, in the fall, winter and spring; in the rain, in the snow, on ice, everywhere; until the only thing left of the tread was a well polished surface.  By the early spring of 2009, it was becoming once again more and more difficult to get out of my chair.  One day, after the kids had gone home, leaving behind a particularly grimy and slippery floor, my feet could only slide helplessly when I wanted to get up and I had to call someone from the hall to come to my aid.

It was time to go shoe shopping again.

These days, the mere thought of roaming through crowded malls is highly unappealing.  If it weren’t for my persuasive mother—mothers do know best…sometimes—I would rarely set foot in any store.  She dragged me out, and despite all my whining about the hassles of shopping, I did enjoy the outing as I usually do.  I bought a pair of grippy dress shoes, slip-on sneakers that didn’t require a shoehorn, and some sporty Mary Janes for spring and summer.

When I went to school in my spiffy new sneakers—black suede with 3 pairs of slick white lines—my poor feet must have felt quite traumatized with the sudden change of encasement, and I certainly felt awkward walking in them.  In any case, their grip disappointed me and I quickly returned to my devoted Pumas.  The night custodian was kind enough to wash the floor around my desk every night so it was still possible for me to get out of my chair with my aging sneakers, even if it was getting harder.

A few weeks later, the day custodian who had heard of my plight brought in a pair of sneaker mules that had been idling in her closet and asked if I wanted them.  She had mistakenly assumed a shoe without a back would satisfy my need for a slip-on shoe. Although I was touched by her thoughtfulness and generosity, I was a little hesitant to try them on.  They were a platform-type shoe, as heavy as clogs, with very thick soles; and I hadn’t worn a shoe without a heel support in ages.  I thought the hefty soles would make it difficult to get up from my chair, but when I tested them I was elated to once again experience the anchored stability of a terrific tread.  Walking in them was another matter.  It had been ages since I’d worn a shoe as high as these ones and I felt a little dizzy looking down from the unfamiliar heights.  I tottered uneasily around my classroom and through the halls, hoping to get used to them.  I even went home with them, which was a foolhardy decision—their clunkiness made it very difficult to transfer my foot from the gas pedal to the break.  It was the slowest drive home ever.

The next day, I went back to my beloved Pumas.

The weather warmed up and my shoe problem was solved.  The wonderfully grippy and comfortable Merrell Mary Janes took over with aptitude and flair.

Then school ended and I forgot all about treads and floors.

When school started up again in September, the Mary Janes resumed their duties with verve.

Then one cold Saturday, feeling nostalgic for my Pumas, I slipped them on for a stroll in the park and was aghast at how dangerously slippery they had become.  It was time to retire them for good.

To my battered smooth-soled Pumas, I say: Thanks for toiling away every day; in the deep snow and on muddy land, under the pouring rain and on the salt-encrusted ground.  You were so light and comfortable, and steady and reliable; and to think I almost ignored you!

For now, I’ve gotten into the habit of driving to school in my black sneakers and changing into the sneaker mules (Thanks Flo!) when I get there.  I’ve become accustomed to both pairs and find them both comfortable.  I have a couple more shoe options sitting in my closet, but I’m so used to the current arrangement I haven’t even bothered trying them out.  Perhaps when my soles wear out again?

At least, I know that with a little time I can get used to anything, and that goes for more than just shoes.

A few months later, I was playing daredevil again. I had foolishly put the bathmat in the dryer, which caused part of the rubber lining to disintegrate.  It was still functional, with just one edge that didn’t grip anymore.  I used it for four mornings without a hitch, stepping gingerly out of the shower and moving slowly from the bathmat to the sink mat.  On the fifth morning, however, the stars were not all aligned; (perhaps some of them were still on a congratulatory vacation in honour of their last perfectly orchestrated exploit.)   As soon as my foot came down, the bathmat slid as easily as if it had been coated with flour on the underside, and with it went my leg pulling the rest of my body down. It occurred to me then that my cleaning lady must have turned the mat around the day before.  Luckily—there were at least a few stars watching over me—I had been holding onto the towel bar, and as a result I found myself in an upright position, which is so much better than being completely sprawled on the floor.  I don’t remember how I managed to get my other leg out of the tub but somehow I did.  I then reached for the tub phone and was horrified to discover that it was uncharged.  I would have to scoot all the way to the living-room emergency phone, which sits permanently in its charger on the floor.  Fortunately, that day there were two large towels hanging on the bathroom hooks instead of the usual solitary one.  I grabbed them both, wrapping myself in one and using the other to toboggan my way over to the phone.  At mid-point, I remembered that my bag with my cell phone was hanging by the door, which was a lot closer than the living-room phone, and thank goodness it was fully charged.  I called Laura and was so relieved when she answered.  “Laura, I fell when I was getting out of the shower…and I’m all naked!” I added, just as a precaution so she wouldn’t send her husband.  She came as soon as she could.  But this time she didn’t have much luck with the faulty key.  I tried to coach her in its use from the other side, but without success.  So I scooted over to the door, walked my fingers up to the lock, which I barely reached, and tried to turn it.  It seemed futile at first, but finally, with a last gruelling and arm-straining stretch, I managed to unbolt the door.  What a great relief to see a concerned Laura finally walk in.  As she struggled to lift my unwieldy body, I grasped clumsily at my bulky towels, trying to remain covered as best as I could, and blushing wildly I’m sure, but consoled by the fact that it hadn’t been too long since I had last epilated my legs.

It seems that no two falls are ever alike.  They’re always so distinct with their own set of quirks and quarks, like a panoply of viruses, some more benign than others, and leaving me immune to any repetition of conditions.  Yet they all share some common effects:  a pounding heart, flushed skin, and a rush of adrenaline as they’re occurring, and a shaky body and weakened limbs after help has arrived.  It would be nice if I were slowly building complete immunity against them all.

I certainly hope I never repeat the very bloody fall of 2005, which left me with a couple of wiggly front teeth, a fat nose and swollen lips.  It happened a few hours before our very large extended family gathered for our 10-year reunion, and there are plenty of unsightly reunion pictures to remind me of the incident.

I’d be very happy to never experience last March’s fall either—the only time the back of my head smashed into a concrete floor and left me half-unconscious for a few seconds.  My poor colleague Sally who witnessed the incident was beside herself, sick to her stomach with worry, because her husband had recently had a concussion, which had affected him quite seriously.  But all I suffered was a painful bump the size of an egg—I must have a hard head. My saintly colleagues rallied around me, whisking me away to the office to recover.  Fernand took over my class during his planning time and Sally stayed with me during hers as she iced my bump and made sure I was not manifesting any signs of concussion.  When 5^th period was about to start, I was feeling fit enough to teach again and thankful the incident had happened in an empty hall, just before the kids were about to enter the school.

Several years before, I had a much less private fall.  Three of my girls, standing outside my class during recess and poking their heads through my window, saw me lying on the floor, unable to get up.  In an assured and calm voice, I asked them to get a supervisor, but it seems my efforts to remain cool and collected did not transfer over.  Their little heads quickly disappeared and I heard panicked voices in the courtyard screaming, “Our teacher fell!!!  Mademoiselle fell!!” and within seconds a large crowd of students had gathered at the windows, not one single supervisor amongst them.  Some were screaming and bawling while others were chatting excitedly, hyped up by all the buzz and spreading dramatic rumours of my imminent death. Fortunately, my principal saw the commotion as she was walking through the hallway.  She came into my class, shooed the kids away from the window and helped me up.  I later had to spend a few minutes during class comforting some of my students and reassuring them that I was perfectly all right.

I would say one of my favourite falls—up there with the laundry incident—was a tumble in my mother’s backyard.  There is no better surface for hitting the ground than a cushy well-tended lawn.  I had landed flat on my face, but I came away with my nose intact and feeling as if I had been kissed and hugged by nature.

There was a time when the distressing fear of falling pervaded every walking minute of my day.  But somehow, I’ve finally succeeded in applying the common saying, “There is no use worrying about things over which you have no control, and if you have control, you can do something about them instead of worrying.” (Stanley Allyn?)  I think I’m much more light-hearted these days, and I must somehow be in better control of my body because I haven’t had a fall in 8 months, although there have been numerous close calls and a few half-falls.