Life with dogs can make flooring a challenge

Miss Lexie enjoying her spot in the sun

As one who lives with challenges to mobility, I am acutely aware of surfaces underfoot, whether inside or outside. Paved. Gravel. Brick. I tune myself in to flooring in the homes of people I visit, whether I’ve been there previously; it’s all about setting the stage for how I move. Will I need my crutches? Is the distance between potential ‘touch spots’ sufficient for me to move along without the crutches?

Here at Chez Rockwell, the floors are a combination of clickable laminate that is textured and non-slip and a commercial, no pile carpet. 

I hate shoes and walk around in sock feet; textured laminate is safe to walk on without fear of slipping and it’s very easy to maintain. I had it installed in the most oft-used spaces in my home; TV room-office, kitchen, dining room, and on the landing at the front door. The rest of the main floor is a sand colored commercial, no pile carpet. Ceramic tile is in the bathroom. I don’t know where my head was on that choice. 

Then there are the hand-hooked rugs, 3 of which I  made as a young child, and 2 more created after I moved into my home in 1991. When I was young, my father felt that anything that  would strengthen the spine and improve sitting balance and posture was always a good thing. Rug hooking was the therapy that wasn’t; I just remember enjoying creating them. During that period, I also did a lot of knitting, having been taught by my paternal grandmother to knit right-handed; I was the only leftie under the MacInnis roof. Dad used to comment that I  was rather like Madame Defarge with her mad knitting. It reasoned that I’d have to become acquainted with the works of Dickens! Those three rugs created in my childhood I did not get until after Mom passed away. The same was true with other things I created over those years. 

For years, in my home, my first rug creation was in the hallway between the two bedrooms; the other two were downstairs. Of the two last rugs made, one is in the living room and the other is the TV/room office. The living room rug creation used to be in front of the sofa but I moved it, thanks to the puppy behaviour of Mr. Malcolm. He was a busy little fellow in those early days, after he became more reliable with potty training and had greater freedom in the house. I didn’t always check on him so I am party to his crime of  ‘chew it til there’s a big hole in it’.  

His first major offence was committed weeks before the rug rearranging in the livingroom. He took it upon himself to nibble away at the hooked rug in the hallway to the point where there was a noticeable chunk missing - right in the middle, which was a solid colour section; the border was a floral design. I still haven’t thrown that rug out. It’s in the laundry room - perhaps I could have it cut in half and bind the edges. Shame to get rid of it. Right? But I digress.

The busy boy puppy just couldn’t help himself with that first rug. It had years of dog and cat scents aged into it; though washed a few times over the years, a dog’s nose knows! That rug, in his little canine brain, was an interloper into his personal space and just had to go and he was going to make that happen.

As to his stealth attack on the carpet in the living room, I’m convinced he discovered a bit of dried on canned food thanks to Miss Lexie! He just had to eat it, taking a bit of the carpet along with it. The hole, though not huge, was certainly noticeable but I wasn’t prepared to replace flooring so I did the next best thing. I morphed into Martha Stewart and put down one of my rug creations, positioned between two ottomans, covering the spot. Mr. M. has shown no interest in chewing, as my sister in law thought he’d do. He’s a big boy now! On to our next adventure.

Carla MacInnis Rockwell is a freelance writer and disability rights advocate living outside Fredericton, NB with Miss Lexie, a rambunctious Maltese and Mr. Malcolm, the boisterous Havanese. She can be reached via email at  Carla MacInnis Rockwell

Well-meaning ‘helpers’ can create big problems for persons with disability

 A second wheeled walker ensures safety during recovery 

from transient ischemic attack (Photo Submitted)

“OMG, I broke you!,” words said to my friend, Kathy,  as we sat in her jeep in my garage, about to head off to the Stanley Health Center. The vehicle is high and has a step. I cannot efficiently lift my feet, so I would turn around and position myself against the side of the seat and Kathy would hold up both legs while I pulled myself in. Then it happened!  She screamed! In just a split second, Kathy injured her back. She actually asked me if I heard the crack. I did not. I was terrified and we both almost started to cry. It was a mess! Mess be damned we carried on to the  Center.

Once there, I slithered out of the passenger seat and grabbed my crutches and then noticed that I could not move my feet! No heel-toe lift. Nothing! I had struggled in the garage at home just moments earlier. For several days, I hadn’t been feeling ‘right’, having experienced a sharp pain at the base of my skull. It didn’t last long, but long enough for me to wonder about it. I was actually going to put the TENS pads on it for a bit of therapy. Never got around to it and carried on with my day. 

At the clinic, to find that my mobility was messed up, was concerning. Two nurses saw me and came out with a wheelchair.  One of them, Nancy, had to resist the urge to ‘help’ me. Her hands were outstretched. Thanks for the welcomed boost into the car, Nancy. 

Here’s why helping is not always a good thing — I have spent decades fine-tuning mechanisms that get me from point A to B, whether inside or outside my home. At home, growing up, Dad would always remind my younger, very tall brother to pull his feet in as I passed by him in the TV room, usually free walking; wobbly walking without my crutches.  Occasionally, I had to alter my walking/stepping behaviour to accommodate extra bodies in the house with the likelihood that, at any moment, one of them might move, throwing my balance into chaos. A ‘helpful’ person who puts their hands on me unawares, startles me. I could twist. I could fracture a hip, or even my spine, trying to ‘save’ myself from a perceived threat to my upright mobility and safety; a harm created by someone interfering with how I move. That ‘save’ could potentially land me in the hospital where I’d be at even greater risk with even more ‘manhandling’. Scary proposition! How would you feel in the circumstance? Think!

It turns out that I experienced a TIA and the residual effect of that sharp pain in my head is that I can no longer lift my feet to heel-toe step/walk; at present, the ability to use my crutches is gone.  I’m in rest and recovery mode. 

I am actually terrified to go to hospital for anything. Far too many bedside caregivers do not listen; do not hear. That is unacceptable. Full stop! How I move myself, seat myself, plan to stand up and step are always issues that I point out to staff only I must be responsible for. Though well meaning, one wrong move from them trying to assist, could cause me to lose the privilege of continued living in my home and being able to care for my dogs. That, people, what a caregiver not thinking about me as a person could cost me. Mentally, that is not a good place to be.

Across the province and across the country, in each and every hospital and facility that provides in-patient care, there must be standards in place specific to those with challenges to mobility whether since birth or late onset. Many of  us live independent lives, are home owners, have jobs and contribute to the economy. Our disabilities must not define us as people, but so many perceive us as persons in need of help and care and they must do their part. Okay, if you must, fine, but ask first! And if your help is turned down, do not view that as a slight. View it as my expression of independence and a right to be!

Carla MacInnis Rockwell is a freelance writer and disability rights advocate living outside Fredericton, NB with Miss Lexie, a rambunctious Maltese and Mr. Malcolm, the boisterous Havanese. She can be reached via email at Carla MacInnis Rockwell