“Carrie Cane, where are you?” I called as I walked from doorknob to doorknob through my house.
Usually, I’d find my so-named cane hanging out on one of them. Carrie and I became friends when my physical therapist brought her in to help me get walking again after I fell and fractured my hip. I was immediately drawn to her sharp wit.
“’Carrie Cane,’ that’s the best name you can come up with?” she asked. “I thought you were supposed to be a writer.”
It was actually exciting stepping away from the walker to a more independent lifestyle with Carrie. She became my sidekick. We learned how to navigate the front porch steps and ease me, bottom first, into a car. When I awoke in the night, she would inquire if I needed assistance.
“Don’t be stubborn; you look a little shaky.”
Naturally, I became concerned the morning that I couldn’t find her.
So I did what besties do. I picked up my phone to call her.
Yes, take a moment to digest that. I had to. I sheepishly tried to shove the phone in my pocket before she caught me, but I was too late.
“Third doorknob to the right after the linen closet,” she yelled, “and it got really cold in the hall last night.”
I picked her up and suggested we walk together to the kitchen and make some tea to warm up.
I parked Carrie on the back of a chair in the breakfast room while I put the kettle on and forgot about her. This was not an infrequent occurrence. Once, I left her hanging on the front porch handrail. On New Year’s Eve, I leaned her on the back wall of a restaurant, and she fell on my dinner partner’s foot. I’m lobbying for cane racks in public places. Homes, too.
When I was sitting on my window seat recently, Carrie slipped from my lap onto the wood floor. She looked up at me, shaking her curved head. We both knew I could not bend down to reach her.
Since I am walking better, I haven’t been as careful about having help nearby. My cell phone blinked up at me, but was just out of reach.
I had my medical alert necklace on, but did I really want to alert an ambulance to help me off my window seat?
.“Now what?” I said out loud.
“You’re a woman of words,” Carrie snarked. “And you’re sitting in a room full of books…”
My windowseat is bookended by bookshelves. I put one hand on either side of a boxed collection of Mark Twain and pulled myself up on my feet.
When I see my surgeon next, I think he will release me to walk without Carrie.
I’m going to miss the little snip.
Email [email protected]. Follow her on Patriciabunin.com
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