The Walker Chronicles

I’ve been using a walker since my Septic Shock in 2025. I plan on walking without aid by the end of summer. But my turbo walker—a Dolomite I bought at our local Santa Barbara independent pharmacy, Federal Drugs—has been my companion and protector from falls for the last year and a half. And I’m very fond of the big bruiser.

I use it for my three walks a day in my neighborhood and when I go out to restaurants and shopping.

And here’s my experience of being semi-disabled: people are really nice and courteous to you. I have yet to encounter any disable-ism. Nobody bullies me or makes fun. Stores and restaurants are very accommodating.

However, our Santa Barbara government sucks when it comes to making my semi-disabled life easier. Sidewalks and parking lots in Santa Barbara are a disgrace. I really feel for people using a walker or wheelchair who aren’t as strong as I am, because they‘re an invitation to an accident. They’re uneven, they require you looking at the ground (meaning you hunch over the handlebars even when you don’t physically need to).

One of the worst parking lots, ironically enough, is the one at the Sutter Clinic on Pueblo where I go to see my terrific dermatologist, Dr. Peter Ford. I would not be surprised if patients trying to walk into the clinic didn’t end up in the ER instead of their doctor’s office.

But the most pleasant surprise for me as a femme d’un certain âge is that more men approach me to talk and offer help than when I was fully ambulatory. They couldn’t be more welcome—despite being married for thirty-seven years, I’m a glutton for male attention.

There are, however, some people of the female persuasion who I know mean well, but they talk very loudly, because of course, the reason I use a walker is I have hearing problems, not that my legs are still too weak from the Septic Shock I had. They also behave as though I must have escaped from my house where children have me under lock and key—for my own protection, they don’t want to inherit a thing—and are desperately trying to find me having been run over by a car. (I don’t have any such children, or children at all, in case you’re worried for me.)

Part of this concern is due to the zig zaggy way I walk to negotiate Santa Barbara public parking lots and sidewalks in order not to jam my walker and keel over. I probably do look a little dotty. But it’s not like I’m wandering around singing “Hotel California” or “Ventura Highway” off-key and talking loudly about the blow job I gave in 1977 to two of The Eagles. Wait a minute, shouldn’t “blow job” be plural? Or is it singular if you were essentially giving it to the band? Who knows, I never went to an Eagles concert. My brain does meander in this way, but that doesn’t mean I’m not completely focused: I’m a woman on a mission to buy a few things, have lunch or get some exercise.

So…yesterday I decided to display a sign on my walker.

We’ll see how it works. I’m thinking of adding a sentence at the bottom:

“IF YOU ARE A CUTE GUY, IGNORE THE ABOVE.”

But, sometimes I really do end up someplace that I have no idea how I got to. And if you find me there, come walk with me and we can sing together. Any song but “Hotel California” or “Ventura Highway.”