Cane comes through in the crutch

Bob Morrissey

A year ago I came out of the closet.

No, it’s not what you think — not that there’s anything wrong with that. I simply marched into my walk-in closet and came out with my cane. It had been in there for four years, just waiting for me to grow into it.

I thought I’d done just that four years earlier and even wrote about it here. I was wrong, and three weeks later I put my cane back in the closet. I was too concerned about what people might think.

But now, after several falls and many missteps, I’m staying with the stick. Yes, I feel a little humiliated but, hell, I’m 81. Time to act my age. (I’ll try not to drool.)

I brought out my substitute cane last May at the start of the golf season. The plan was to transition so smoothly my fellow golfers would barely notice. Instead of using my wood cane around the golf course, I used a one-iron. I’d twirl it playfully as I walked, whistling as I casually made my way from the parking lot to the first tee.

Once on the course, I’d tee off, hop on my electric cart and drive along the cart path, stopping parallel to where my ball landed. Then I’d jump off the cart and approach my ball carrying the two clubs — the one-iron for walking and the other for the appropriate shot.

On my third day out, I really embarrassed myself when I forgot to bring my one-iron into a sand trap. After hitting my shot, I stumbled trying to step over the raised lip, fell backwards, and landed with a thump on my behind. When I looked up, I was relieved to see that the three other members of our foursome had their backs to me and were lining up their putts. They seemed to be in their own little world. Could it be my undignified tumble went unnoticed?

No such luck.

As I was brushing off my clothes and watching a member of our foursome putt, I heard voice behind me whisper, “Who’s your choreographer?”

Say what? Seconds later it hit me.

I said, “Please tell me you didn’t see what just happened?”

“Oh, I saw it all right,” the guy said, laughing. “I just wish I could un-see it.”

As the season wore on, I continued to use my one-iron — but only sparingly because the more golf I played, the better my arthritic knees felt. But the club closed at the end of October, ending my season. Before I knew it, I was back to square one. After two weeks of inactivity, I could barely walk. I needed my cane more than ever.

I decided to look on the bright side. I didn’t feel quite as guilty now for not helping my fellow tenants with tasks around the condo. Things like wheeling those big heavy green and blue garbage bins to the curb for pickup. Or watering the rock garden near my patio.

At one time, I enjoyed helping out, but when I hit my late 70s, I let the newer, younger tenants take over. Plus, there was always my small cabin near Lost River in the Laurentians to take care of.

But still, I felt a tinge of guilt  … and that led to some little white lies.

Often, neighbours puttering outside the condo would catch me walking to my car, carrying two bags, one with food, the other clothes.

I’d hear, “Off to the country?”

“Busy, busy,” I’d reply, sounding hurried. “Always lots to do.”

That was little lie No. 1

Little lie No. 2 followed.

“Have to cut the grass. Takes me about two hours … and you wouldn’t believe the mosquitoes.” Then I’d point to my cane. “And this isn’t helping.”

But here’s the reality: The only things I do when I arrive at the cabin are unpack and reheat the chicken dinner I’ve picked up en route in Hawkesbury. After that, it’s sports on television and late-night reading before calling it a day. As for my lawn? It’s more like a 21-foot patch of twigs, dead leaves and weeds. Nothing my weed wacker can’t handle inside 25 minutes — and that’s only four times all summer.

Anyhow, I’ve been using my cane for about a year now, and I foresee no cane mutiny on the horizon. It’s here to stay. I give it a rest at home, but I take it with me whenever I leave my condo. And nobody gives me strange looks, so I worried about that for nothing.

In fact, just the opposite. For some strange reason, since I started using the cane, cashiers have been calling me “dear.”

As in: “Try inserting the card instead of swiping it, dear.” Or, “Can I help you with those items, dear?” And the one I hear the most: “Come back, dear, you’re forgetting your cane.”

To that, I usually reply “What?” because I’m walking away and my hearing aids aren’t picking up her words.

“Your cane, dear. You’re forgetting your cane.”

“Thank you,” I say.

Then something occurs to me. Yikes! The seniors’ daily double: lame AND deaf. What’s next?

I hate to think about it.