How to Walk with a Zimmer Frame
How to Walk with a Zimmer Frame
Eve doesn’t understand it at all. What’s goingon?
She’s upright, clutching on to two metal bars, and her head is spinning as though she’s drunk six margaritas. She lifts a hand to her head and encounters only the softness of a bandage. Why is her head bandaged all over?
“Frame, step step,” says a female voice to her left. Eve tries to look round, but her head swirls, and she feels she might fall over. She grips more tightly to the metal bars, wondering what todo.
“I’m dizzy,” she says at last, unsure who she’s speaking to. “Sorry, who are you? I seem to be having some problems with my memory.”
“I am Yuliya, your physiotherapist,” says a young woman, coming into view. “We are having a physiotherapy session and you are doing very well. Now we’re going to try to move forward with the Zimmer frame again. Move the frame first, then walk forward. Frame, step, step.”
Summoning all her strength, Eve moves the frame forward and manages to step with legs that feel like lead.
“I walked the red carpet,” she says, having a weird flash of memory. “Years ago. In really high heels. That was hard too.”
Why was she on the red carpet? she wonders. She must have been going to see a film.
“Well, there you go,” says Yuliya. “You’ll walk the red carpet again one day. Can you turn your head and look over your shoulder?”
Eve tries to swivel her head, but the motion brings on a rush of dizziness and nausea.
“No,” she says desperately. “I can’t move my head at all. Look, sorry, but what’s wrong with me? Why am I doing this? I have a very patchy memory.”
“You recently had brain surgery,” says Yuliya. “Do you remember that?”
“No,” says Eve in panic. “Why did I have brain surgery?”
“You had a tumor removed. Very successful surgery, all good. And now we are making you strong again. Your walking will improve, your balance will improve, everything will improve. Think positive. OK?”
“OK,” says Eve obediently. Think positive. She can do that.
“Now you hold my hands, yes? And we’ll walk without the frame. Left foot, right foot. Step, step, step, very good. Step step step, keep going.”
“I can’t,” says Eve through gritted teeth. “I feel so dizzy . I’m going to fall over.”
“Don’t worry, I have you. You won’t fall. But OK, maybe that’s going too fast. Now we’ll use the Zimmer frame again. Are you tired? Just think about that red carpet! Frame, step step. Frame, step step.”
Eve feels like she’s dragging two sacks of coal along the floor. What’s wrong with her legs?
“Now we’ll stop. Can you lift your hands from the frame?”
“What, stand on my own?” The feat seems impossible. Unthinkable. She unpeels one hand from the metal bar but doesn’t dare release the other in case she falls over.
She’s suddenly reminded of her children as adorable toddlers, learning to walk with wooden trolleys filled with blocks—which brings her to a new thought. Where are the children?
“The children,” she says in a kind of gasping panic, grabbing the frame again.
“Children?” Yuliya says.
“I have five children. Where are they?” She feels like she used to in supermarkets, looking around, realizing the toddler has run off somewhere, fearing kidnappers, imagining the worst-case scenario.
But they’re not toddlers anymore, she remembers. They’re…How old are they? Come on, she knows this.
John, the eldest, is…twenty-one. Yes. And Isobel, the youngest, is ten.
She remembers her children’s ages, but she still doesn’t quite understand why she’s standing in a hospital corridor, learning to walk again. Her whole life seems fractured, like a kaleidoscope.
“They’re all fine. They send their love.” It’s Nick’s voice, but she can’t turn her head to see him.
“Please will you move to where I can see you?” she asks, and in a moment he comes into view, his smiling face so familiar and lovely that her eyes smart with tears. Has he been there the whole time?
“I’m in hospital,” she says, just to get things straight. “I had a brain tumor,” she adds with a fresh rush of memory.
“Yes. You’re in hospital and you had a brain tumor, but it was removed.”
“Can’t the children visit?”
“They did visit,” he says carefully. “Don’t you remember?”
Eve feels as though she’s going mad.
“Yes,” she lies. “Of course I remember. I wouldn’t forget seeing the children.” She meets eyes with her husband. He doesn’t look fooled.
“I can’t walk,” she says. “It’s crazy.”
“Yes, you can! You’re really improving.”
“This is an improvement?” she says, trying to hide how aghast she feels. “Good God.”
“You’re doing brilliantly.” He comes to hug her tight. “You’re so much stronger than you were.”
“This is a marathon, not a sprint,” chimes in Yuliya, nodding. “You’re making progress every day. Well done!”
“It’s like when you write your books,” says her husband, squeezing her hand. “You get there little by little. Chapter by chapter.”
Her books. The thought floods Eve’s mind like a tsunami. She writes books. All those words, those chapter headings, those edits, those bestsellers. Of course. She did all that. It seems like some sort of miracle.
“I write books,” she says aloud, in slow, wondering tones, almost as though reminding herself. “I write books and I had a brain tumor and I walk with a Zimmer frame.”
“That’s about it,” says Nick, laughing.
“OK.” For a moment she lets her thoughts settle. Tears are rising again, hot at the back of her eyes, but she swallows hard again and again, determined not to let a single drop fall. She is where she is, bizarre as it may seem. And there’s only one way out. There’s only one option. With renewed vigor, she moves the frame forward a few inches on the vinyl floor, then drags her legs along in a semblance of walking.
“Frame,” she says, her voice a little husky. “Frame, step step. Frame, step step. Frame, step step.”