Shoes Tell a Story (Part 1)

Sensible Shoes

Mom started using a walker during the first year in Arizona. The community where she and Dad lived had an expansive campus and it became too much to walk unassisted outside of their apartment. By the end of the day it was evident that the signal from Mom’s brain to her legs was misfiring. This resulted in an awkward turnout of her legs with bent knees, making it impossible to continue walking or even stand up straight. Likely both brain and legs were exhausted by then.

One evening I accompanied my parents from the dining room back to their apartment. Mom’s legs became so weak that I had to quickly turn the walker around so that she could plop onto its seat before her legs gave out. There was no time to make it to the nearest chair. Gratefully, the walker did the trick over the next several months and functioned as a convenient place to sit when needed.

A year later when she moved into the memory care home, Mom needed the walker to get around. She wore white sneakers with laces, the kind with support that orthopedists recommend, the kind that announce your status as an octogenarian or older. While gripping the handles of the walker, a white pocketbook dangled from her wrist. Mom’s pocketbook typically contained a few tissues, pieces of scrap paper with handwritten reminders or random notes, and always a lipstick.

Mom’s caregivers, Gabriel and Angela, thought she looked adorable walking around the house with her pocketbook. “What’s in your bag, Grace?” they’d ask. Mom comprehended the question was rhetorical and returned their warm smiles. Gabriel would then coach Mom in a playful manner, giving her instructions to lift her feet while walking rather than dragging them and to stand straighter instead of bending over to reach the walker. Mom took the instructions and it worked well for a while.

Then, quite abruptly, she experienced a steep decline. It was the four-month mark in the home and five months since Dad died. It seemed unlikely that Mom would make it through the year. We didn’t know this drop would be followed by a very long plateau. In fact, there would be repeating cycles: decline, plateau; decline, plateau. During her four years at the care home, that first drop was the most dramatic.

The caregivers were affected and saddened by Mom’s sudden downturn. They encouraged her to walk even though she needed two people to help her up from the chair. After watching Mom struggle a few too many times, I had a talk with the owner of the home and said I thought she needed a wheelchair. It was not fair to ask Mom to do something she was no longer capable of doing. I accepted this change before the caregivers did, but I loved them for their heartbreak, for trying, and for caring so much.

Shortly after moving into the care home, I had removed the dress shoes from Mom’s closet and donated them, the ones with pointy toes and narrow heels that would not be worn again. Now that she was using a wheelchair, even the sensible shoes with laces stopped making sense. Too much shoe and too much lacing and unlacing. It was time to trade the orthopedic sneakers for slip-ons. They would be more practical for Mom and easier for the caregivers.

Shoe Shopping

It turns out that slip-ons are a whole new world. It wasn’t so easy to find the right fit and I wanted to buy two pairs so that Mom’s feet wouldn’t get tired in the same shoes every day. Even when you’re not walking much, wearing the same shoes all the time can cause friction and irritation. Alternating is better. It also allows one pair to air out while the other is being worn.

I decided to test a few different styles myself. My search both online and in stores was confounding. Some slip-ons were too athletic and heavy in their construction. Some had straps with Velcro and others had no straps but were harder to put on. Many looked comfortable but were too tight, squishing my toes as if they were pumps in disguise. Then there was the question: What size is she now?

There was only one way to proceed: Bring the shoes to Mom. In order not to overwhelm her with choices, I brought a limited number to the care home. I figured I’d show her the shoes, have her try them on, and then make some quick decisions.

With a full smile on her face and a look of anticipation, Mom sat forward in her chair and waited for me to begin. I positioned my chair to face hers, opened the first box, put the shoes on her feet, and fastened the strap. “Oh, those are nice,” commented Leah, one of Mom’s best friends in the care home. Leah sat in the adjoining recliner chair next to Mom.

As we considered the shoes for a minute longer, our expressions turned noncommittal. After all, it was just the first pair. “Try those, they might be better,” Dorothy chimed in. Dorothy sat across from Mom and was another dear friend. I eased Mom’s feet into the next option. These were a lighter color, an attractive pattern of tan and cream. We nodded our approval in unison.

By this time, two other ladies had seated themselves in the chairs to my left. It was then I realized that while I had not envisioned it as such, this situation had the potential for a group shopping experience. Taking advantage of this opportunity, I started playing it up, acting the shoe salesperson and presenting each pair for consideration, while trying to assess which ones were best.

“How about something in black for dressier outfits?” I shuffled the boxes like some kind of shoes DJ, filling the room with the sound of tissue paper rustling and cardboard box lids being tossed to the floor.

With shoe boxes strewn everywhere, I looked around at happy faces and declared, “Shoe shopping with friends is the best.”

It gave me joy to provide the ladies with a shopping excursion, an activity that was absent from their current routines. Memory issues aside, they clearly recalled how to shop. We landed on two pairs: one in black with a Velcro strap and one without a strap in beige.

After my visit, I left the house with an armful of shoes to return at the mall and satisfied that my shopping efforts had been successful. As I drove home, the thought occurred to me: Who had more fun, the ladies or me? I realized that shopping wasn’t just missing from their routine. Shopping with Mom was also something missing from my current routine.

It was that familiar feeling of gradual loss. An outing to the mall was another thing we couldn’t do anymore, yet having fun together was still possible. Connecting with Mom and her friends through the experience of shoe shopping was a refreshing surprise. It wasn’t one of their planned activities such as bingo or arts and crafts. There were no rules or instructions to be explained. It had just happened spontaneously and naturally. Once again, in the process of doing something for Mom, I was also the receiver. The gift of connection is mutual.

Shoe Games

Mom went through a phase of starting to undress in the mid-afternoon and taking off her blouse in front of the other residents. Her two buddies came to the rescue. Dorothy would correct her sweetly, “Honey, you don’t want to do that.”

Once the undressing routine ended, she replaced it with kicking off her shoes constantly. That might not sound like a problem, but it led to removing her socks, which resulted in her feet getting cold or not being ready to be transferred to a wheelchair when her caregivers came to assist her.

It was heartwarming to witness these elderly friends – each with their own issues – helping, consoling, and encouraging each other. One day, I watched Leah stroke Mom’s face affectionately. “It’s so nice to be with good friends,” she said. Then after a beat, she added, “Come on, put on your shoes.”

If Mom’s preference was to go shoeless, couldn’t we just have let it be? Maybe, except for one thing. It was actually a shoe game that Mom was playing. She would take off her shoes and then give you a look that said: I’d like my shoes back on… and right now, please. This would go on several times in a row. It was reminiscent of a baby in a highchair repeatedly throwing the toy you just retrieved to the floor.

Around the holidays that year, my mother-in-law Sandi was visiting. She caught on to this shoe game quickly. Sandi patiently bent over to pick up the shoes from the floor each time they were shed and slipped them on to Mom’s feet. Seven years younger than Mom, Sandi was sharp, yet she had a few physical limitations and health issues of her own, so I kept a close eye on her, too, making sure she didn’t tip over while helping Mom. Sandi wore the white shoes with laces.

Leah (left), Grace (center), and Sandi (right)

Grace (my mother) and Sandi (my mother-in-law)

Shoes Tell a Story

From the white sneakers with laces, to the black mesh pair with the Velcro strap, to the beige slip-ons that were not as comfortable as they should have been. The shoe progression continued and as Mom’s mobility decreased and her naps lengthened, it became time for the terrycloth slippers. You know the ones, in the shape of ballet slippers but softer.

I found them at Macy’s and selected the color and pattern I liked best. A few months later, I stared at Mom’s feet and frowned as I realized what happened. The laundry machine – no, it was probably the dryer – had torn through them with disregard. It was okay, though. I appreciated that they were being washed. Back to Macy’s I went to buy a new pair. When these slippers catch my eye in the store today, my heart reminds me how much time I spent on Mom’s footwear.

Just like everything else, Mom’s shoes changed over the years. Each pair signaled a new stage.

My shoes are changing, too, but these feet are another story.

Grace’s slippers, with Leah’s Velcro-strap sneakers also in the frame (upper right)

Grace’s slippers