A few weeks before things got bad and Irene was still mostly fully functional yet using a walker, I would always go with her to all physical & occupational therapy sessions. One of the strategies they gave her for walker use was to wrap different colored duct tape completely around each of the grips. This was to create a focal point for where ‘the patient’ would hold onto while using the walker. I was amused at this tactic and it was actually helpful for her.

It was apparent to me that her therapy was attempting to keep/make her mental acuity and kinesthetic movement connection in-sync. Wow, we’re ‘here’ now.

While at home, and from her seated position before standing, I would position the walker in front of Irene. I then would instruct her to put one hand on the bright yellow handle, and the other hand on the bright green handle. This strategy helped for her while she was still at home with me. Anything that worked we tried. It wasn’t easy for Irene but she worked diligently to keep that internal communication between her brain and body active.

While navigating through the house I would walk in front of her and she would follow me slowly, sometimes veering off-course. I would sometimes need her stop, tell her to put equal weight on both feet, place one hand on each the colors, look up at me and in the direction she was trying to navigate and then proceed. Sounds ‘easy’ but it was definitely a challenge.

In addition to not knowing what in the world was happening to Irene, my thoughts were solely on helping her. This was all so hard to experience. To see my wife, the one whom I loved dearly, physically decline before my eyes.

Irene didn’t have to endure this routine for very long before further decline and needing to return to the hospital a second time. She would continue to receive her cornucopia of therapy sessions while she was physically able.

What is happening? … WHAT is happening?

I remember one of the occupational therapy sessions brought her a hospital walker. With any necessary assistance from us, her goal was to sit up from the lying position, rotate her body such that her legs were now off the bed, grab hold of the walker, and slowly stand. On this day I saw another notable difference with her ability to carry out a seemingly simple task. Controlled and intent arm movement was a challenge. With intense concentration, Irene’s stretched out arm would aim at the corresponding walker grip while being instructed to take this hand and put it here.

In what was now a shaky sounding voice she said, “Do I get colors?”

This particular occupational therapy nurse was puzzled at Irene’s comment and I explained to her that it was a suggested strategy from one of the other OT nurses. I solemnly said to Irene, ‘No sorry Snuggles, this walker doesn’t have colors.’

Irene was determined to successfully perform her task, but this time I witnessed an increasing decline in her physical ability.

Having already made a personal vow to be at home with Irene for as long as it took during recovery, I knew my role would be tough. I was also aware that Irene’s role would be exponentially tougher. That didn’t matter to me, I didn’t care what it took, I would be alongside her for the long-haul.

To see Irene trying so hard to do her absolute best at recovery, to overcome even this challenge of grabbing hold of the correct walker handle, I could only hope and pray that she was ok ‘on the inside’. Worry and fear was something I wanted to keep away from her, if possible. All I saw from her was extreme determination, and I loved that quality about Irene.

It’s ironic to think now about Irene’s innocent request for ‘colors’. She was looking for colors.

Irene has more than ‘just’ colors now, she has everything.