Dad loathes his walker. His walker is a royal blue, heavy-duty model, quite nice looking, I think.  I kept it for weeks in the back of the faithful Suburban, then moved it to a corner of the garage, and finally retired it to the basement.  Dad simply refuses to use it, and scowls at even a hint of a suggestion that he ought to use it.  Hatred is not too strong a word for his feelings for that walker.  On the other hand, Dad loves his garden tools, of which he has dozens of all shapes and varieties.  I have tried to cast his walker as simply another tool for him to use for specific tasks, when only that tool will do.  He was not persuaded.  And I have not pressed the point.  I think he feels embarrassed that even the simple act of walking is almost too hard for him, when he once ran marathons (yes, the 26.2-mile kind, 13 of them).  He did remark to me recently, “I know a wheelchair is in my not-too-distant future, Rog.”  I thought admitting that eventuality was remarkably brave of him.  I hope before then the dreaded walker will become his fast and long-term friend.