I peeked out our front door and saw what the UPS delivery person had set down leaning against our new siding. The long, narrow shape of the box told me what it was and so I silently brought it just inside the front door, leaning it on the back of the armchair. After several days of maneuvering ourselves around this new obstacle, Wendell offered to help me open it. I said I wasn’t ready yet, to which I thought I heard him mumble something like “cane mutiny.” This I ignored, scooting the box a few feet over into the coat closet. I closed the bi-fold door.
Even though it was now hidden away, I kept thinking about it. I imagined Wendell’s remark indicated he knew my ego was struggling with the PT’s suggestion to use a walking aid in wintery conditions, but I doubted he understood just how reluctant I was to open the box.
What parts of my ego were bruised? The part that sees me as tall and slim and strong, the part that maintains I will always be that way, even though all the evidence points in the other direction. The part I wrote about in my first book, the above it all part. The part that wants to be the helper and have it all together. The part that doesn’t need aid and forgets about feelings. The part that wants to look forever young.
One day, I was able to cut through all this and decided that no matter how difficult it was, nor how vulnerable it felt, I needed help. That led me to write last week’s post. Several of you sent encouraging messages, which I appreciated. I felt supported.
But it hadn’t been quite enough to make me open the box.
While part of me didn’t want to admit that I needed help, the other part said – it’s okay to ask for help from other people and things. You don’t have to do everything yourself. You can feel upset and get over it. Two good friends were coming over to play Pepper on Wednesday so I secretly planned a cane reveal party.
Shortly after we had played the first round (I had excellent cards!) I went to the closet and dragged the box out to the center of the living room. We all stood around it. Wendell, looking slightly puzzled, brought scissors to open the box. I fished around inside and grabbed the cane out from the packing paper. “It’s too short!” Wendell exclaimed. “But it’s adjustable,” one of my friends said, “like the one my cousin used when we traveled to Norway.”
I adjusted the cane like I had seen the PT do and proceeded to strut up and down the length of the living room. I felt different inside. Having company when facing a hard thing had made it easier. The parts of myself that had made such a fuss were now quiet.
Most of the snow and ice have melted for the time being, so my new cane is currently standing ready next to the hearth with its new friends, the fire poker and tongs, who are now strictly decorative since we installed the gas fireplace insert. They look happy together.
