In which some things become clear

I resisted the neurologist’s recommendation of a walking stick for a few weeks.  But then I reminded myself that my trips to Stanford cost $1,500/pop, even though it’s in-network and the co-pays don’t break a hundred bucks.  Why spend the money for air fare, hotel, rental car and restaurants for these San Jose trips and ignore their advice, I asked myself.  So I took the plunge.

My resistance to “gait aids” transcends the distasteful increase in my dubious conspicuousness.  The wooden tools get tangled in my hopelessly awkward legs.  But Dr. McIntire at the Neuro-Science Clinic at Stanford seemed to think that a walking stick might prevent falls or injury as I cope with my changing ability.  So I got on Amazon Prime and looked at their offerings.  I settled on one that seemed inexpensive enough to prevent regret but sturdy enough to use if I chose.

It arrived in a box many times the size of its three component pieces.  I wrestled it into the house and struggled with the strapping tape. I finally extracted the plastic-wrapped dismantled walking stick and studied its gleaming metal.  I peered into the depths of the box in dismay:  No instructions — not even translated into clumsy English from Martian.

It took twenty minutes to get the three pieces fitted into each other.  I determined that the advertised lamp in the handle worked but the compass did not.  That mattered only a small amount to me — my consumer heart rebelled, but I don’t plan to hike with it.  I fiddled with the height and  the locking mechanism, then turned my attention to the strap and contours of the handle.  When I had tired of playing with the adjustable headlight, I put the thing in a corner and forgot about it.

Until today.

I’ve got this tricky back.  Three vertebrae have degenerated disks, and those swollen suckers find themselves straddled with Tarlov cysts.  Either condition might warrant surgery, but combined, they prompt pursed lips and drawn eyebrows from my doctors.  Let’s take a wait-and-see approach, my neurologist said, seven or eight years ago.  So I have — I mostly let this problem lie on the list of what ails me.  But once in a while, I turn left while my back turns right, and then I remember.  Oh, yeah.  Dang, that hurts.

Despite the burning and spasming, I got the oven cleaned, the bread dough made, the berries cleaned, and the table set.  I pulled the bread from the oven and the butter from the fridge.  I deposited it all on the wooden tray which lives in the middle of my dining table and went outside to watch for my breakfast company.  Two extraordinarily pleasant hours later, I realized, as the first of the three was leaving, that my back had grown increasingly worse and I could not stand.  My remaining guests cleared the dishes, got me an ice pack, and bade me goodbye while admonishing me to remain sitting.  I had no choice but to acquiesce.

When I found myself alone, I struggled to my feet and hobbled towards the kitchen.  Halfway there, I slumped against the buffet in the dining room and eyed the walking stick.  It seemed to peer back at  me from the blue-tinged lens of its silly light.  I reached for it, feeling the searing pain and the clenching spasm as I did.

And now I am moving slowly through the house when I feel inclined at all to do so, bent sideways, creeping, leaning on the walking stick, wishing I’d lost that last five pounds and grateful, in the final analysis, that I’d taken Dr. McIntire’s advice.

As I lower my body onto the couch after an agonizing journey from living room to rest room and back, I have a sudden realization.  Here I am, leaning on a gait aid, which I never thought would be of any use.  In the silent house, this flash of insight leaves me wondering about that on which we rely which disappoints; and that which we do not expect to be helpful but which shines brightly to guide us through the darkest night.

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2 thoughts on “In which some things become clear

  1. theresa smytge

    I just read this post from yesterday. In January i pulled a muscle in my back and then walked so of kilter that I injured my knee. Ice packs, heating pads, elevation, compression, Tylenol, ibuprofen, and rest all tested my patience. Johnny finally went out and bought me a Walgreen special aluminum cane. Particularly old ladyish! Nothing like the cool, sporty thing you got! I don’t currently need it. But you can bet that I will not ever again hesitate!

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