The Cane Goes First

Health Journal

This past week, I moved on up from using a walker to a cane. For me, this is like walking on the Moon. I almost look normal, except for the cane. I walk like a senior citizen, and every time I pass a mirror, I see one. It’s always a shock when I realize the image is me.

How is it possible that someone who heard and owns a copy of the first Ramones album somehow turned into an old man with a cane? How can this possibly happen?

My physical therapist taught me that while using a cane, I must think of it as a third leg. The cane goes first, then my weak right leg, and finally the stronger left leg. At times, I get the choreography wrong and start with the left before the right, but I always remember that the cane goes first.

A month ago, all of this would have been impossible. Around that time, I discovered I could get to the bathroom from our bed without a walker or cane. I called Lun*na into the bedroom without telling her why. Once she arrived, I pushed the walker aside and walked into the bathroom and back to the bed.

She cried. I like to entertain my wife. For an encore, I walked out into the hallway.

Walking without assistance wasn’t taught by the physical therapist. It’s something I do every morning as part of my exercise routine to strengthen my legs and improve my balance. Balance is still an issue. Standing straight, or with one foot behind the other for ten to thirty seconds, sounds easy enough, but for me, it remains a struggle not to fall.

I have goals: going up and down the 20 steps outside our home, taking a shower by myself, and putting on and removing my compression socks. The socks have been difficult for the past year—before, during, and after chemo. No matter what shape I’m in, they remain hard work.

I’m also curious when my hair will return. The top is thinning, which is new to me, and I haven’t had to shave in months. Before my first chemo session, I got a haircut and a shave. Since then, the hair on the top of my head and my beard have simply stopped growing.

My hairdresser visited me a month ago, looked at my hair, and asked who had cut it. I told her she was the last person to do so. Her haircut is still there. For how much longer, I have no idea.

The past six months have been a psychedelic trip that I never awakened from. So close to death, yet I keep getting pulled back into life.