Stella's Struggle with Self-sufficiency (revisited)

When DIY Is No Longer Wise

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It was October 1991 – the time when Stella made a promise to herself to use better judgment.

She was running late on her drive home from Milwaukee, but she wanted to pick up a book, "Life After Television," she had reserved at the University Bookstore in Madison.

"Fascinating book," a friend had told Stella. "The personal computer is going to completely change how we receive information and give us a truly interactive medium. Network TV is going to be less of an influence on our lives during the next 10 years -- great opportunity for those who have the foresight and judgment to take advantage of these changes."

Stella hit most of the stoplights going down East Washington Ave. just right, but then a brief but intense shower slowed the traffic as she approached downtown Madison.

As she turned onto East Johnson, she was thinking about the link between TV and computers and taking her normal route home. But then she realized she was in the wrong lane for her Lake Street turnoff and the University Bookstore. So, she gradually inched her way across three lanes of traffic -- taking chances and trusting the good will of strangers -- in a stop-and-go pattern that covered three blocks.

She pulled into the parking lot behind the University Bookstore and decided to use her old, worn crutches instead of her Amigo mobility scooter to run into the store to get the book.

Splashing through the pools of water standing in the alley behind the store, she approached the front entrance just in time to take advantage of an offer from a student to hold the door open as she scooted into the familiar entryway of drab concrete. Third floor, she told herself, and approached the elevator.

Before Stella could punch the elevator button, the man in the information booth behind her said, "Sorry, the elevator is temporarily out of order. They're fixing it now. You hit us at the wrong time."

"No problem," Stella said without acknowledging him with direct eye contact. She looked up at the three short flights of stairs and grabbed the left railing, leaving her left Canadian crutch dangle as she used the right crutch as support to walk quite easily up the stairs.

It wasn't until she almost got to the third floor that she noticed the store had remodeled its general books section with new tile, which had sweeping swirls of mint, beige and raspberry.

Pleasing but safe pastels, she thought. She poked both of her crutches onto the shiny floor ahead of her for support. Instead of gaining enough support to pull herself upright and proceed in a walking position, she suddenly found herself plunging both crutches ahead of her in several quick jabs in a desperate attempt to gain some footing (or more accurately "crutching").

But the crutch tips were worn smooth -- and wet -- and the new floor was waxed to perfection for easy cleaning. Both crutches slid beyond Stella's reach and hit the floor with a clatter. Still crouched from the last step of the stairs, she felt her full weight sink to her right knee and the knuckles on both of her hands.

Under her breath, she cussed the rain, she cussed the wet, worn crutch tips (which never grip when wet) and she cussed the pastel tile. And she cussed the out-of-order elevator.

The commotion in the newly tiled entry startled the woman at the checkout counter nearby, and Stella could hear her call. "Charlie ... Charlie."

Stella quickly checked her knuckles. They were OK. No blood. She flexed her knee. OK.

Apparently, Charlie (of some authority) had heard the racket, too, for he was right there. "Are you alright? Can I help you up?" Stella could hear both real personal concern and the liability question in his voice.

"I'm OK," Stella said, as she started crawling to the nearest wall so she could pull herself up and retrieve her crutches.

"Can I help you?" Charlie again asked. "Are you alright?"

By that time, Stella was up, and Charlie could see she did not injure herself.

"Can we help you find what you need?" asked the check-out woman at the counter.

"No, that's fine," Stella declined. "I need to go back there." She pointed to the back of the store.

"When you check out, I'll call one of the guys to take you down on the service elevator," she suggested.

"Fine," Stella replied, knowing that she needed to get home and that even a service elevator would be faster than going down three flights of stairs.

She proceeded to the back of the store, where she had picked up her reserved books before, but, after three rows of bookshelves, she didn't know where to go. The large wrap-around service desk which had always been there was gone.

"Where's the service desk," Stella finally asked another clerk sitting at a lone computer in an open area at aisle five.

Reserved books were apparently not her area, but she got the book. Stella waited at her terminal and watched her retrace her previous crutch-measured steps back to the check-out lines. Stella then saw the new service desk just to the left of the entrance.

After the clerk came back with her book, Stella returned to the check-out line, following the same route she had just taken.

At the check-out line, Stella waited for a man in shipping to come out and take her down the service elevator. Of course, the service elevator was in the back of the store, and the shipping clerk kindly walked with Stella as she cautiously negotiated the slippery floors across the width of the store for a third time.

As she took the lumbering elevator in the back of the store down to shipping and receiving's ground level, Stella berated herself for not taking advantage of the first offer of help from the check-out woman. Charlie could have saved her some time and effort by going to the service desk and getting her book for her. And how could Stella expect to snap back into a normal pattern and walk through the store anonymously after making such an unusual entrance?

The two finally got down to ground level, but that also presented a new challenge -- at least in the mind of the shipping clerk. The shipping dock had three steps down to the sidewalk of the alley.

"I can make those," Stella assured the shipping clerk, but apparently he had received his orders from the third floor. He removed a huge box from an adjacent lift, helped Stella step gently onto the lift's jiggling, open platform and slowly lowered her three feet to the ground.

“Certainly it is true that we need to maintain independence in certain areas of life. We must not be passive but active agents in this strenuous, challenging world.

“At the same time, we must not make a fetish out of our self-sufficiency. It is normal and wise for us to rely at moments upon the insights, the courage, and the consolation which our human brothers (and sisters) can give us, knowing full well that they in turn will rely upon our gifts and strength on other critical occasions.

“Let us not be too proud to admit weakness at moments and to absorb strength from others in our day of need. The ruthless repression of our common human problems and fears can only make us hard or ill; the sharing of these problems with our human comrades alone can save us from the sin of pride, the idolatry of self-sufficiency.” ― Joshua Loth Liebman

Some 30 years later, Stella believes her personal judgment has grown more strategic with age. True, living well with childhood polio which had weakened her legs always challenged her ability to look ahead and plot the easiest way to navigate from point A to point B.

But purposefully looking back at the past has taught her, now as an elder, to take advantage of all the help others gladly provide in usual as well as unusual circumstances.

She has learned, too, that do-it-yourself (DIY), self-determination and personal independence can all be commendable goals. But they have their limits – particularly when vulnerability is involved and personal time and energy are also limited.

Stella's takeaway tip from her story: Recognize the limits of self-determination and personal independence as aging increases vulnerability.