When I went to see my physical therapist this week, it was the first time I’d driven since our record breaking near-foot of snow. I eased the car into a primo parking space right in front of the building but when I opened the door to get out, a big suspicious patch of snow awaited, looking as if it might be hiding ice underneath. Just the day before I had refused to walk through snow like this until Wendell reached out his hand for me to clutch. Now I sat there, frozen, without a helping hand.
I knew it was more than likely I could get out and step over this treacherous ice-masquerading-as-snow. But my anxiety ramped up, and no sooner had I successfully gotten out of the car, I faced a huge yellow curb I’d have to step over between me and the door. I felt so vulnerable with nobody or nothing to hang on to. I walked the long way, to a curb cut. I inched along, my feet crunching the liberally sprinkled salt. Baby steps. Baby steps. To reach the automatic door opener, I’d need to walk past the door, which suddenly opened, startling me a bit. A smiling man in a wheelchair coming out of the building said, “Let me help you with that.”
I got checked in. The PT was waiting for me. She asked how I was doing, and I reported a few successes. “But right now,” I heard myself saying, “I want to talk about being terrified of the snow and ice.” I assumed she’d tell me this fear was something to talk to my mental health therapist about.
But no. She replied, “Have you thought of using a cane or walking stick?”
I had not. She kept talking, but I didn’t hear much after that, feeling so much all at once. This was not at all what I expected and I didn’t say a thing.
After getting my consent, before I knew it, she had brought in some walking sticks. I tried them, but they weren’t great.
Then she brought in a cane, carefully adjusting it to my height. I grasped the handle in my right hand and stepped out of her office into the large all-purpose room. I felt grounded and found myself standing up straighter. She said: “You are doing very well with that cane. Let’s go outside.”
I wanted to refuse. It was freezing cold out there, and windy! There was snow and ice everywhere. I reluctantly agreed and she put on her coat and I slowly put on mine. We ventured out. Getting up and down from the curb with the cane took some practice.
I was slowly getting used to the idea of using a cane, still preferring to think of it as a walking aid. Somehow, my ego felt bruised using the word cane.
When I got home, I ordered a sleek modern-looking black cane, my initial reluctance to accept help with my walking lingering. I thought of how my mother would clutch my arm when we walked together, something I had begun doing with Wendell. But he wasn’t always there. I wanted to be able to do things on my own. Maybe this walking cane would make that possible?
I am now eighty years old and two months. Can I admit that I could use some help walking in the snow and ice? When I mentioned this to one of my Tai Chi Chih buddies, he said he loved using his walking stick. His wife concurred matter-of-factly that when he uses his walking stick, people around him know he needs more room to navigate and they give it to him. When she said this, I realized that I had been judging myself for needing help.
I’m waiting for my walking aid, an email said it’s out for delivery. In the meantime, I’m kicking out my old judgmental thoughts. This is a milestone for me.
IMAGE: This, a self-portrait, was taken on a very cold day BEFORE it snowed when I went out for a walk on bone-dry pavement. Hat courtesy of Nina Hiatt.
