What’s in Your Toolbox?

Many years ago, my young children gave me a tool kit for Mother’s Day. It contained a small hammer, a Phillip’s screwdriver, a flathead screwdriver, and pliers—each with a blue handle—as well as a measuring tape in a blue case. The tools were nested in a latching box—blue, of course. It ranks among the most meaningful gifts I’ve received. Were they saying they believed I was capable of using tools other than “girl tools,” e.g. sewing machine or mixing bowl? That I could hang a picture and fix stuff myself? And I would always know where the tool I needed was! (Truthfully, I suspect their father suggested it so I would stop being irritated at never being able to find his tools; but, decades later, I’m sticking with “mom is badass.”) I have better tools now (well, actually, I don’t), but I hang onto the blue-handled ones to remind me that, with the right tools, I can step beyond my comfort zone.

I was reminded of the tool set gift as I listened to Michelle Obama’s book, The Light We Carry, in the car last week. Her father lived with multiple sclerosis and walked with a cane, even when Michelle was a young girl. She writes, “. . . that cane symbolized nothing. It was just a tool, the same way my mother’s spatula was a tool in the kitchen, or my grandfather’s hammer got used any time he came over to fix a broken shelf or curtain rod. It was utilitarian, protective, something to lean on when needed.”

When I came to live with my mother, she was 96 and carried an old broom handle when she walked outside. She used it for balance, yes, but I think she wanted me to think it was for (ineffectively) whacking down dandelions that grew in the center of the driveway where she walked, or pushing sticks out of the way. Maybe that was the story she told herself too. She did carry a fancier floral print cane when we went out in public. A few years later, she replaced the cane with a walker; and for a few weeks, after she broke her arm, she replaced the walker with a wheelchair. Mostly, she made the adjustments with grace; well, sort of. She also insisted that she did not need a caregiver, or me; that was a tool too far.

I have supportive tools of my own. I’ve worn glasses since my early 20s. Every few years, I get a new prescription, a tool upgrade. A few years ago, I began using trekking poles when I hiked; I’m on my third set, now, up-trading in quality when the previous ones broke. Then I got ankle braces before putting up the funds for ankle-supporting boots. Later I began using knee straps. These are the tools I need to keep me safe so I can keep hiking as I age. Three years ago, I got hearing aids, the tools I need to function in the world as my hearing diminishes. They symbolize nothing. They are just tools.

Those are physical tools. But Michelle goes on to talk about other obstacles for which tools are needed, like her fearful mind, which makes public speaking scary. (Wait! What? Michelle Obama, who rocked her speech at the DNC, is afraid of public speaking?) She has taught herself to accept that the fear is part of who she is, and by getting to know Fear’s agenda, she can ambush her. Elizabeth Gilbert tells her own fear it can come along on the adventure—since it’s going to anyway—but it has to stay in the back seat, and it can never, ever drive.

When my memoir was published, I said I would never be a guest on a podcast, that was too scary, a challenge too far. Then I was a guest on a podcast. I loved it! I was on several more, and it became my favorite way to talk about my book and caregiving. Had I let Fear drive, I would have missed out. There are two quotes still stuck on my study wall. One, by Michelle, in fact, says, “Am I good enough? Yes, I am!” The other says, “You are an expert on your own experience.” They are my tools, and I read them over and over as I waited for the podcast host to come on my screen.

People ask me if I’m not afraid to hike alone. Sometimes I do feel fear as I plan for a hike on a trail where there might not be other people, or as I drive to a remote trailhead. Once I put my boots on the ground though, I’m nothing but ecstatic; Fear stays in the car. I have my tools: sturdy boots, poles, a whistle, most of the “ten essentials,” knowledge of the trail and of best practices to stay safe; I’ve told someone where I am. I will not let Fear keep me from doing what I love, for as long as I can physically do it.

Aging is a scary new trail too. But there are plenty of tools and guides. Once we identify what it is we are afraid of, we can get to know it. Then we can find the tools we need to banish it to the back seat—again and again if necessary. We cannot, of course, banish aging—try as we might—but we can fend off fear of it. 

As always, I would love to hear from you. What tools have you employed to help you through life? What fears—including about aging—do you want to challenge? What have you already conquered? Leave a comment below!

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