The Crab Walk

A hearty welcome to readers of Dr. Peter Kwasniewski's "Tradition & Sanity" substack (once the link is published). I was delighted when Dr. K invited me to send him my (refurbed) blog arguments that Catholics should dance because I am a great fan of his work, especially his Good Music, Sacred Music, And Silence.

Dr. K mentions in our collaborative piece Matt Platt's "A Different Drummer," which I recommend to everyone's prayerful reflection. It certainly strengthened my belief that good dances for Catholics should not be watered down with "discos"--that is, the use of contemporary recorded Top 40 music and the return to the usual flailing about once the waltz or reel is learned. However, if you are a huge fan of popular music recorded after 1955, be wary of grinding your teeth as you read. 

As I pour time and treasure into my social dancing project (a dedicated website is in development), I cannot help but be a little sad that my husband can only look on from his wheelchair. As I told him yesterday, he doesn't have cancer scares; he has unpleasant cancer surprises. His current cancer surprise has been beaten back with chemotherapy, but the shrinking tumours are leaving much nerve damage in their wake. 

Fortunately, Benedict Ambrose (as he is called in Webland) in not entirely paralyzed below the waist; he can still stand up and remain standing for short periods if he hangs onto something. If he has a railing on either side he can lurch up and down short flights of stairs, watching his feet to make sure they are doing what he wants them to do. B.A. can also, as we learned on Saturday, inch along a balcony walkway if he has only a single rail to hold. His neuro-physiotherapists call this move "The Crab Walk," which sounds like it could have been a dance popular in 1919.  

This Sunday's journey to and from Mass provided us with many opportunities to reflect that Edinburgh was not built with wheelchairs in mind. Considering the number of Scotsmen who lost limbs during the First World War (let alone the Second), it seems a shame it is only very recently that city planners began to think very seriously about making the kerbs (curbs) of pavements (sidewalks) wheelchair-accessible. 

That said, we had a lovely ramble around a local nature reserve on Saturday afternoon--I in my hiking boots and B.A. in his electric wheelchair--and enjoyed the bright, hot sunshine and the view of the Firth of Forth. It may have been the short Scottish summer's last hoorah; Sunday was windy, chilly, and grey, and today is rather damp. But Saturday was the kind of day you would not want to be anywhere in the world but right here.

After our idyll among the wildflowers, thistles and stoats, consuming croissants from a shop and coffee from a thermos, we went home for a rest and to prepare for a friend's birthday party. We had been extremely pleased to be invited--so much so that it took a while to remember that the friend and her husband live (like us) a the first (second) floor. Well, it took me a while. So belatedly we had to work out how many stairs there would be, and how many railings, and whether I should push B.A. there in a pushchair, or fold and carry his self-propelling wheelchair down our stairs and up theirs, or trot along contentedly behind his electric wheelchair and trust to his ability to crab-walk along the outside walkway. 

B.A. opted for the electric wheelchair, so I got it and its attendant ramp out of their hiding place, and B.A. flapped carefully down our stairs. We encountered friends on their way to the supermarket for more supplies as we rolled/strolled down the street, and our pleasure in the thought of the party increased. (I was even debuting a new pair of high-heeled shoes, for at last I have found a brand that doesn't hurt.) 

However, when we got to our friends' stairway, the real work of the day began. Oh, the stairs, flanked by railings were no problem, and I soon found a place to stash the heavy (and valuable) chair out of the sight of the road. However, the balcony is a long one for the semi-paralyzed, and during every moment of his Crab Walk, I was terrified that B.A. would simply topple over onto the cement paths below. 

It is not the least of the Lord's mercies that B.A.'s spinal troubles began when we were still relatively young and after I had spent two years or so working out in our local gym. Even wearing high heels, I could provide B.A. enough support to get through our friends' door and along their hallway to their sitting-room and, at last, a sofa. The same held true when, some hours later, we made the return journey, this time flanked by a half-dozen friends. Fed up, B.A. told me to stop hanging onto his jacket as he made his perilous-looking Crab Walk, so I left our friends to watch his feet, scurried to his wheelchair and drove it to the bottom of the staircase. 

Our host, looking rather harrowed (if I'm not just projecting) offered to go home with us and help B.A. up our stairs, but I demurred with thanks. The principal cause of B.A.'s mobility problems is a scrambled connection between his brain and his spine, but his brain seems to have worked out and become comfortable with our own staircase. What was new and scary was crab-walking a distance much longer than the ballet bar set up in our hallway, not to mention working out what to grab for balance on the route along our friends' elegant corridor. And, indeed, B.A. had no trouble getting up our stairs, even if, once he reached his self-propelling chair, he made a bee-line for bed.