I have a lot of gripes about the deficits of the public-health system, but I do have to thank them for introducing me to hydrotherapy. Last year, a physiotherapist from Hutt Hospital put me on a six-week treatment course in their ancient physio pool. She taught me a gentle exercise routine for my upper body, and showed me how to use flotation devices to support myself to move about in the pool. When my six weeks were up, I graduated to an unsupervised group which used the pool for half an hour at eleven-thirty each Tuesday and Thursday.
When I showed up for my first unstructured session, I found that I was the only person getting into the water, though there were a gaggle of women in their 60s and 70s heading for the changing room. It turned out that my “group” consisted of me, and occasionally a very round woman in her 70s who was recovering from a hip replacement but couldn’t remember which hip it had been. For company I had Ellen, the twenty-something physio assistant. She was pregnant and spent her Saturday nights at the Cossie Club in Upper Hutt, listening to her boyfriend’s covers band.
I learned that the eleven o’clock ladies were a group from Arthritis NZ who had been coming to the pool together for years. I listened to them as I shared their changing room or waited for their stragglers to make their way out of the pool, politely cursing the cold. Over the weeks I came to recognise them individually by their swimsuits, their different pained walks and their cheerful – or grizzling – interactions with Ellen. Often I would arrive early, and Ellen would let me join the last few women in the water as they finished up their exercises. They welcomed me enthusiastically, complemented my swimwear, and missed no opportunity to tell me about their grandchildren. At some point Francine (seventy-ish, purple togs, gold jewellery, cleavage) invited me to join them for morning tea at the hospital cafe, where they would meet after each session in the pool.
Because I was spending a lot of time by myself at that point, coffee with the eleven o’clock ladies became a much-needed ritual. I would always arrive after them, and they would interrupt their conversation to fuss about making a space at the table for me and my walker. The chat never strayed far from grandchildren and domestic life, but they weren’t your usual group of Lower Hutt grandmas. I enjoyed watching their stories unfold like characters in a novel, each coffee-date chapter in elaborating a little more on their past and current lives.
Grace, stoic and selfless, lived with the daily trial of Lupus, but never complained about her own symptoms, even when it was obvious she was suffering badly. Maria, shy and pale, wore the thickest glasses I’ve ever seen. Helen lived in a council flat in Epuni, and was surprisingly candid about the abuse in her past. Linda, an Australian property manager, enthusiastically warned against renting to Samoans. Annie, younger and slimmer than the others, had moved to Lower Hutt from China for her husband’s business interests. Shanthi’s kids had left home, and she was filling the gap with a community arts project.
They were all so different, but they were strong allies, and very generous with each other. I often noticed them swapping sewing patterns or excess beetroot, and we all received baked goods at Christmas. They welcomed me into their club and were delighted that I was half their age. They asked every week how my driving was going and always noticed if my mobility was worse than usual. They knew all about pain and weren’t afraid to talk about it, but always made me smile. The 11 o’clock ladies were an unlikely support group for a twenty-eight year old coming to terms with Muscular Dystrophy, but I couldn’t have asked for better.
This thing's got legs 
Andi
/ November 22, 2013Love