Several mornings a week, I rise from my wheelchair and hobble about the bedroom with a crutch. As I used to do for several decades. Now the event is not only difficult but infrequent. And doubtless made more difficult by its infrequency. And importantly, I do not to this on my own. Dennis, my morning helper, stands by with arms out, poised to catch me if I fall. In this very moment what’s important about this exercise…which is exactly that, part of my morning workout…is the fear factor. I am afraid of falling. I am doubly afraid of falling and breaking my osteoporotic hip. So what to do? Or more precisely, what to focus on?

I find my attention going in various directions. How far am I from a wall? The bed? These are surfaces against which I could fall. And then there is the general sense of position in space, that component of balance that is waning with age. And the uncertain question of whether I should lean forward, brace my feet farther apart, or maybe not brace at all. But in the end what actually works is to think of Dennis. To remember that he has his arms out. That he’s thinking of me. That he’s there.

In this, my current anxiety, remembering that I’m not alone, and more precisely, that my safety is not uniquely and solely my responsibility…well, it helps. A little help from my friends. I get by.

Physical decline is all around me. No, it’s squeezing up and down me. At times I feel several pieces of plywood are pressing against various limbs. Stiff, uncomfortable and immobilizing. It is all getting harder.

This morning I felt the need to open the door to my greenhouse. So bright and early, I rolled down the wheelchair ramp. The way, of course, was blocked by dog byproducts. Which Jane removes once or twice a day. But on this particular day I simply didn’t feel like pressing her into action. I saw my own course of action and took it, steering hard to the left of the poop. A little too hard, it turns out, because one of my wheelchair tires slipped off the brick walkway. The entire chair pivoted on its drag bolt, the thing that holds my chair in place when I drive. So there I was, tilting with my wheels spinning, trapped. Jane spent several minutes pushing, lifting and rocking, before one of my wheels grabbed. A bit much for 8 AM.

With my relative helplessness well established, somehow I didn’t feel like, you guessed it, driving. My first pre-Shabbat stop…a trendy bakery that sells, well, very haute muffins with soft boiled eggs baked inside. Whatever. It was an unaccountably warm and sunny Saturday morning, so the place was jammed, inside and out. I moved with the queue, placed my usual order, then couldn’t quite master the signature screen. Feeling even older and more out of it than usual, I cringed and waited for my food. Which somehow didn’t arrive. Probably because I wasn’t at a table, but sitting with my order number in my chair. So I got to services late. But whatever. It’s good to me among people making sacred space.

Sharing protest space is another matter. This was a day of expected right-wing demonstrations in San Francisco. I headed to one of the counter protests…then regretted it. In a wheelchair, I’m simply no good in crowds. It’s okay as long as there’s no trouble. I mean absolutely no trouble. More helplessness? Maybe. Certainly, more limits.