Cane Quandaries

By Linda Ironside

Having a disability is not much of a problem on my scooter. In fact, it can be fun passing able-bodied "walkers" on the sidewalk with a friendly little beep... although sometimes, I must admit, I am tempted to invest in the kind of air horn used so effectively by 16-wheelers when they want a little attention. But in general, on my scooter, I get quite a lot of joy from showing off for young children, who are always enthralled with what must look to them like a super toy.

My cane, though -- now, that’s another story.

I used to associate a cane with Fred Astaire, so nimbly drifting across my screen. He was using a walking stick, of course, but from my child’s perspective it was a cane.

I also watched the elderly gentleman down the street going for afternoon walks, always with his cane. He walked purposely strode, actually, back straight, eyes fixed just ahead. He didn’t use his cane so much as flourish it. It was an accessory, part of the image he created on the street. I couldn’t imagine him without it.

What a disappointment it was, therefore, when I started to use a cane myself. And still now, years later, I have failed to copy the Fred Astaire look: the grace, the artistry, the flair.

They both made it look so easy, Fred and the dignified-looking neighbour. But it turns out it’s not that simple. I don’t walk tall. I lean. I wobble. And I still occasionally plant the cane tip firmly on someone else’s foot, or whack a person on the shins (crowds are a challenge!).

All in all, the world’s a much safer place with me on my scooter rather than prowling around with a big stick.

The problem is not the cane itself. It’s my hands -- namely, the fact that I have only two. The cane takes one, leaving only one other for the many, many things I cannot do with my teeth, knees or other parts of my body that occasionally hold things.

Like when I get in the car in the morning. With a purse, keys, cane and briefcase, I am completely overwhelmed by baggage, feeling more like a world traveller than a woman off to tutor a student. What does one do with a cane while unlocking a car door? At that point, it’s just an impediment. No one needs a cane to open a car door -- what one needs is hands, of which I find myself in short supply!

I’ve tried leaning the cane against the car. I have even placed the cane on the ground or car roof temporarily, but that seems to lack a certain "je ne sais quoi."

I invariably end up using a tactic I call the BPM, or "body pressure manoeuvre." It’s simple enough, if a bit lacking in the style department. I sandwich the cane between my body and the car, with one hand hanging on to the baggage and the other free to do the key work. This is only successful, mind you, if I have remembered to make my "sandwich" against the back door, leaving the front door accessible.

I wonder how the man down the street did it?

Another place I always run out of hands is a cafeteria. I’ve seen kids deftly carry their tray in one hand and fish for money with the other. How do they know where their centre of gravity is? (Physics students, all?) Maybe I just eat the wrong kinds of foods -- a little on the heavy side? Sadly, I cannot carry my tray with one hand and, again, I find I have just too much baggage for only two hands.

The scooter is definitely more appealing. It has places to PUT things. And it’s classier. A scooter has wheels and a motor -- a big attraction with anyone over the age of two. A cane tends to make people think of ski accidents and hospitals.

For me, though, a cane will always evoke the image I have failed so miserably to recreate: Fred Astaire, complete with top hat.

But I take some solace in remembering Ginger Rogers. She didn’t need a cane. But, as I’ve heard it, Ginger could do everything Fred Astaire could do -- except she did it backwards and while wearing high heels.

There may be hope for me yet.

(Linda Ironside is a freelance writer living in Vancouver, British Columbia.)

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