Disabled Necessity: Walker Pouches, Preferably Cute Ones

People who use walkers need pouches. Not just for convenience, but for safety and security.

While I’ve blogged about disabled people needing better (and more fashionable) walkers, the same goes for pouches. Or organizers. Whatever you call the item that hangs on the side or front of your walker so you can put things in it.

I’ve been using a walker for about six years now.  Some of that time I was bedridden and had to use a wheelchair. But I’ve been through multiple walkers (or mobility aids as they are called in medical supply stores or drugstores).

Each has features I like and dislike. As I was making my way around the house or hospital or rehabilitation facility, I would often comment that I needed something to hold my stuff or maybe a cup holder since moving from one spot in the room to another holding a drink was difficult.

What I didn’t know was there are plenty of walker accessories to make my life easier. But when you are suddenly disabled, you aren’t really thinking about the disabled accessory shopping scene. I’ve found out what’s out there by asking folks who have cool-looking accessories, by keeping my eyes open when I go to the disabled supplies area of my drugstore and by searching the internet.

Over the years, I’ve gotten stronger and more balanced. I can carry a drink and can (slowly) set the table for dinner.  But I’ve learned that having a walker pouch should be mandatory for everyone who is disabled. And there is always room for improvement in convenience and design.

I first spotted an attached walker pouch in my  senior exercise chair class at the senior center. Gloria has a nice blue one on her metal walker. She said her son bought it for her and she didn't know where he got it.

So I went online and found a similar one, in blue and green, that has lots of pockets and stays on when you fold the walker.

First, I put in a water bottle and tissues for when I’m walking around the house. I also used it to transport things from one room to another. But it was a few days after I got it that I learned it serves a greater purpose: a portable emergency kit. 

It was a Sunday night and I was headed to the restroom to get ready for bed. My husband was upstairs for the night and my sons were on their way back from a birthday road trip to the wine country. Because I didn’t want to miss a call from them, I put my house phone in the pouch before I headed to the bathroom.

I parked my walker in the open doorway, leaned against the sink as I washed my face and brushed my teeth. I took a gulp of mouthwash and started swishing, then lost my balance. I do this often, but I just grab onto my walker or a counter and it’s not detectable. I am unable to lift a leg quickly and put it down like other people can when they misstep.

Because my walker was behind me, I grabbed on to a towel bar, which promptly broke. As if in slow motion, I fell directly onto my right hip. 

A million things went through my mind. I had fallen three times before and had sustained multiple spinal compression fractures. Because I have steroid-caused osteoporosis and had kyphoplasty surgery on three vertebrae, I was extra susceptible to hip and spinal fractures.

Oh, (insert curse word), I thought.

Despite the tremendous pain,  I knew I hadn’t broken anything (because the times when I did break stuff, I knew it).  Yay, osteoporosis medicine.

There was a problem. I couldn’t get up. Now that much-mocked “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” TV commercial didn’t seem so funny to me.

I hoisted myself up to the toilet and spit out my mouthwash. My teeth: minty-fresh. Check.

Now to tackle the next thing: being rescued. I remembered my phone in my walker pouch (it was the first time I had brought the phone into the bathroom), so I dragged myself over and pulled it down.

Because I can’t see without my reading glasses, I had to try a few times but managed to page my husband, who came downstairs and  helped me up.

If he had not been home and I had not had my phone in the pouch, I would have remained on the bathroom floor for two hours, when my boys finally arrived home.

There are many times when I’m alone in my house. And there are numerous times when someone’s home but they wouldn’t hear me if I screamed.

Eunice with her pouch

I learned a big lesson that day: always carry essential items in my walker pouch. Whether I’m inside or outside, these items are in the pouch: my home phone handset, my cell phone, a spare pair of reading glasses, a bottle of water and light-up eyeglasses (my favorite new old lady accessory). 

If I’m in the living room or on the driveway, I know I can call for help if I fall. And the light-up reading glasses mean I can do it even if the power goes out.

So you walker users, make sure you have a pouch. Or have someone buy you one. There are many types out there: some fit on the front, some the sides of a walker. Some are baskets, which I don’t think would work for folding up. They do make cup holders to affix to your walker.

And a few of these accessories are attractive. In addition to the standard black and navy offerings, I found one online that has a cute Hawaiian theme.

Back at the senior center, another exercise buddy Eunice sports a lovely fabric walker pouch which suits her personality. She always looks fabulous and has an accessory to match. Her caregiver bought the pink paisley pouch at an out-of-town senior craft boutique. She said she knew Eunice would love it. Disabled folks aren’t at the top of the fashion curve, but we love some attractive options. 

Hear that, accessory designers? Sure, make navy and black, but other colors and patterns are fun. And crafters? Ditch the knitted covers for tissue boxes and toilet paper rolls and start sewing some slammin’ walker pouches.

Sweatin' with the Oldies and Disabled in my Senior Exercise Class

Today I went to my exercise class.

I’ve been going religiously since January. It’s a habit that’s been easy to fall into.

For months, maybe years, I’d been seeing a notice in the local paper about “functional fitness” classes at the local senior center. It included a one-hour low impact class and if you weren’t ready for that, a 30-minute chair exercise class. Anyone “50 plus” could join. While I don’t consider myself a senior, I was definitely eligible.

Before my cancer came back three years ago, I belonged to the YMCA, gleefully  jumping and jogging (something I can’t do on land) in an aquatic class for arthritic and challenged adults. And when I couldn’t make that class, I did enjoy the 30-minute chair class next door. It was tough and everyone but me could stand up without aid. 

But when I got sick again, I had to quit the Y. After more chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant, I was exercising at home for years. I decided to branch out.

I am so glad I did. Three times a week, I go to the senior center, twice for the chair class: cost $1, and, recently, once a week to the low-impact class, $3.

I absolutely love it.

In addition to burning calories, I’ve gained some precious friends and a new vision of the golden years.

I look forward to coming three times a week. I miss my old buddies when I can’t make it. And I worry about them when they’re absent.

When I returned from my first class, my son asked me if it was depressing and if “it smelled like death.”

Far from it.

By 8:30 a.m., the drop-in center is a vibrant place. Coffee is brewing, sweet breakfast treats are set out. Men play pool. Other fellows sit on the porch and chat. One volunteer staffs the “trips” desk, Another, in her 90s, buzzes about early each morning organizing silverware, cups, tables and chairs for lunch. On Fridays, a senior band plays at lunchtime in the same room where we exercise. The guys wear fancy clothes and start hauling in their instruments while we are winding up our class, often with a dance step or flirtatious wink as they walk in.

I am one of the youngest people in my chair class. It numbers 30 to 40 people, mostly women. Many are as disabled as I am, some better, some worse. Many have walkers, a few have canes and some are in wheelchairs. I know most people’s names and some caregivers’ names. And I am greeted by name when I arrive.

The women I have met in the chair class are the opposite of Maxine, the crabby old gal of Hallmark card fame. They get up, get dressed up (no sweats for these chicks), some put on lipstick and pearls. Some drive with friends or husbands, some ride public transportation, several come with their paid caregivers. And they have smiles on their faces.

I made a friend the first day. Gloria, 88, is a lovely lady with the sweetest, friendliest face. While she still misses her late husband desperately, she said she has made a choice to have a positive outlook. “Why not?” she says.

So do many others, including Eunice, who at age 90 is just a gorgeous lady with a permanent welcoming smile. I worried about her when she was absent for a week, but when she returned, she said she’d been to Vegas.

There are greetings, hugs and handclasps before the exercise begins. Everyone  wishes each other a good morning and someone usually announces, “We made it another day!”

And that alone is a reason to smile.

This morning, my new friend Julie, closer to my age,  who was taking the low-impact class for the third time, said she loved the workout, but particularly the people. 

“Everyone is so nice!” she said.

It’s that striking. How many people view exercise as a solitary endeavor, putting in their headphones and gazing at the TV while they walk or run on the treadmill? How many dread going to the gym? How many get to know the folks they work out with?

I’ll take my senior center exercise class any day. It’s fun and uplifting and heartwarming.

And, oh yeah, it’s good exercise.