Hand me down my walkiní cane
It has been a while and as far as you know I am still in China, wearing six layers of clothing. Well, I am not. Kay told me that I can interrupt a series and then go back to it. That is what I am going to do. I donít know why it is so hard for me to finish the China trip, but eventually I will.
The subject of this blog is my experience with my cane. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am using a cane. I hope it is temporary. In August before I went to see Kay and Gary, I went to see my doctor and told her that I was having trouble with getting up and down. She did a series of tests and discovered that I have arthritis in my spine and that my left side is weaker than my right. She told me to get a cane and order wheelchairs in the airports and I did. The cane gives me stability and because I donít want to fall, I willingly use it. I tell Masha, my housemate, that I donít want her to come to find that I have fallen and the cat has eaten my face. I think eating the ownerís face is an urban legend but one canít be too careful.
Something that I have noticed is that a cane makes people think the following about you:
You are also senile
You are hard of hearing.
So they speak to you in words of one syllable and very loudly. They are kind, however and I accept the little perks that go along with having to carry a cane. I have expectations that after a treatment wherein they inject my back with steroids or something, I can lose the cane. Of course the down side is that my potential career as a professional basketball player is over Ė I would fail the drug test. Never mind that I am less than five feet tall. So until then, hand me my cane. I am forever forgetting where I have hung it.
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