Go-Litely Into The Twilight Years

The 'Drive Medical Go-Lite Deluxe Padded Seat Aluminum Rollator Walker with Loop Brakes.'  Today's elusive holy grail.  I didn't even realize the things were called anything other than a walker.  That some models are wheeled and others simply stoppered perhaps registered in the fuzzy not-pertaining-to-me part of the brain.  And it certainly didn't occur to me to consider such things as color selection -- marbled, blue, burgundy -- and size -- wider seats, distance between the floor and top of the seat, height of the handles -- and quality -- hard plastic seats or cushy, soft over stiff hand grips, flimsy wheels versus veritable four-wheeler models.
But beyond ALL of that, the thing which I never entertained was the possibility that my aging mother's arthritic but still fully capable hands would one day need to grab hold of one of these useful contraptions.  I mean, aren't they most often utilized by elderly people?  Senior citizens?  Old fogies with one foot in the retirement home and one foot at least near the grave?  This is my mom we're talking about here.  Yes, I've noticed her appearance is now devoid of any vestiges of middle age, much less youth, as of a decade or so ago.  That she's 72 has not escaped my notice.  
But this is the woman who kneaded homemade bread dough while listening to Don Williams in our cozy apartment kitchen in Alaska when I was a little pig-tailed girl.  The woman who took us on long drives on isolated country roads to admire the open space and its natural scenic beauty.  The woman who cooked up batches of fat-rich suet for the winter-hungry birds in the mountains of Idaho.  The woman who up until recently would have to hang up during phone calls because a neighbor was in need of assistance for minor and major emergencies in her apartment building.  Not to mention the apple cakes, oatmeal bars, veggie-laden soups, and big big bowls of my husband's favorite potato salad which make regular appearances in our home courtesy of her very capable self.  It's inconceivable that she'd ever have to adopt the accoutrements which stereotypically signal the need for assisted living.  
Yet just this morning, I stood in the foyer of a Woodbury business, folding a fancy-schmancy rollator  in order to lug it out to the champagne-colored Buick Park Avenue parked just out front.  It's basket -- likely to be filled with prescriptions and the like -- was tucked under my arm.  At one point, I had to call out to the informational flier to ask that it not take flight on the breeze because my mom likes her official paperwork.  All of my hopes for the immediate future were pinned on this contraption.  I envisioned my presently pain-ridden mother regaining her ability to mobilize herself with some level of independence for the next two months of 'no weight bearing on her right leg' per the doctor's orders.  I saw a day, sooner than later, where the back of her slender neck, the delicate section just above the neck of her t-shirt and immediately below her dark gray wavy hair, would not be a primary viewing point for my caretaker's eyes.  No more clunky ancient wheelchair wearing out a rut in the carpet between the chair in the living room and the bathroom.  She would tote herself around on the impetus of her one good leg, partnered with the miracle walker.
That was this morning.  Tonight, the tired old house wheelchair is still sitting in the small kitchen near mom's front door.  I've tripped over it several times in the dinner hour.  In place of the walker, there is a yellow return receipt entwined with mom's refund cash.  The thing was too tall.  With mom positioned properly on its throne, her feet came near to dangling.  In order to roll herself around, she would've had to remain a perpetually posed ballerina from the knees down.  Can you say major muscle cramps?!  But I did my homework.  Whipped out the ol' tape measure and checked the dimensions of two other residents' well-used walkers.  Researched online.  Made a phone call or two.  Tomorrow, one of my daughters will hang for a bit with Grandma Sharon while I take a quick trip to a neighboring burg in search of the Drive Go-Lite Deluxe Rollator . . . 'cause that IS the one.  Our hopes are renewed.
In two months, however, she's ditching the ambulatory assistance for her own legs.  I'm making sure of that.  Maybe, maybe, we might save it for possible future use.  Knee replacement?  But this daughter may yet be in denial because she does not wish to see her maternal one remain dependent upon a device which robs her of one of those unspoken levels of personal freedom, thus slowly diminishing the adult capacity of a person and steadily returning them to a place which mirrors the helplessness of their infancy.