The Rollator Chronicles: 5 Clues Your Parent Needs a Walker—Stat
Top 5 Signs It's Time for Your Elder to Use a Walker (Rollator)
Frequent balance wobbles or near-falls.
A walker arrives... mysteriously.
Cafe walks feel more like obstacle courses.
You’re carrying more than they are (like a purse full of essentials).
A gust of wind or a jostle becomes very consequential.
My dad died in a hiking accident, so he went from hiking on two feet to dead. My mom walked herself into assisted living, and the next time I saw her, she had a walker.
Me: Mom, where’d that thing come from?
Mom: I don’t know, she said, someone gave it to me.
Me: OK then. (WTF?)
I’d tried to make a good first impression on assisted living—like I was auditioning for Daughter of the Year. Deep breath in, plastered-on smile stretching ear to ear, while the Clash’s Should I Stay or Should I Go was playing in my head at full volume. I checked in with my face (biometric tech is a terrible poker partner), slapped on a name tag, smacked the button, and bounded up the carpeted stairs. The trick was to arrive like I was bringing a picnic, not silently screaming please don’t let this place eat my mom alive.
Every morning, Mom was parked at the café table; four paper cups of coffee in front of her—caf, decaf, almond milk, and an extra “just in case” cup—lined up like characters in a play waiting for their cues. My reusable cup, in front of me, cringed at its less eco-friendly acquaintances.
And then: the walker. Her walker. Sitting politely at her side like a new boyfriend nobody warned me about. The rollator—though in Australia they call it a “wheelie bin,” which is also what they call the garbage can, because of course they do—stood there like a proud-but-weary old general who’s seen too many battles—upright, stubborn, scars.
Quickly, the garbage can connection started to make sense as I saw she had placed extra grips on the handles, you know those circular grippy things that come free at block parties from banks, used to open tight lids on jars? Yep, those, just dangling on top of the handles. And there was a bag slung underneath the walker—stuffed so full it sagged like a tired stomach after Thanksgiving dinner, cradling everything from walnuts to spare underwear. Mom’s rollator purse wasn’t minimalist. It was a Mary Poppins-meets-apocalypse-prep situation. A paperback (mystery, always), spare underwear, crumpled dollar bills, a flip phone with zero texts (you never know when you’ll need it), a datebook crammed with doctor appointments, and walnuts—emergency fuel for the two-minute elevator ride from her room to the café.
I watched her rummage in it one morning, pulling out a tissues, a lipstick nub, and a set of keys to nothing. And all I could think was: I’ve got twelve of Mom’s “real” purses stuffed in boxes in my garage, waiting for their next act. Maybe it’s time I ask my sister if we can finally unload them on eBay and give Mom the proceeds. Cash infusion by Coach bag. Retirement plan by Dooney & Bourke. A purse portfolio to rival Goldman Sachs.
The rollator really came into its own during what I now call the Elder Drop & Swap. A synagogue holiday service was fast approaching. My dear friend Ivy needed to get her beloved uncle home from the same venue. Our solution: logistical choreography at its finest.
Step 1: I’d drop Mom at the curb.
Step 2: Hand her off to Ivy.
Step 3: Ivy would hand me her uncle.
Step 4: I’d drive him home while she took Mom inside.
Like a well-rehearsed pit crew, we executed the plan:
Get Mom.
Get Mom in car.
Collapse walker.
Shove walker in trunk.
Seatbelt Mom.
Drive.
Arrive at synagogue. Hallelujah!
That’s when the walker staged a rebellion. I yanked it out of the trunk, but it refused to open. I shook it, cursed it, begged it to open up. Ivy swooped in, calm as a seasoned parent. “Lisa,” she said, “don’t stress—we figured out strollers, we can figure out walkers.” Except I never had kids, so no stroller muscle memory here. Ivy cracked the code, popped it open, rolled it to Mom, and off they went into the sanctuary while I chauffeured her uncle home.
Later, after prayers, after goodbyes, I took Mom to dinner. Parked the car, pulled out the walker, opened her door. A gust of wind toppled the rollator sideways, spilling its pouch like a piñata: tissues, walnuts, paperback books, all cartwheeling into the gutter. I stood there, hands in the air, defeated.
“That’s it,” I said. “I give up. We’re going home.”
dōteworthy
Tips for Choosing and Using Walkers: https://www.mayoclinic.org/healthy-lifestyle/healthy-aging/in-depth/walker/art-20546805 Mayo Clinic
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Where and when did your elder get their walker? Did it just… appear? Drop us a note—we’d love to hear your rollator origin stories.