Back in the day when I actually read books, there was a classic about dying/death titled “Tuesdays with Morrie.” I read a few chapters until it began to seem like my life was closer to Monday evening than a relaxed weekend. In the ensuing years I had many lunches with Boomer friends in their early 70’s that always involved complaints about knees, hips, backs, or worse. One of us was 10 years or so older than the group, who sat back, waiting his turn, as if to mimic the Grim Reaper and warn what lies ahead for the rest of us over our next decade. “Just you wait,” he would chuckle. “Just you wait.”
Well in years since I have fearfully waited — especially between 10 pm and 5 am for signs of the “Reaper’s” warning but nothing yet — only an eight-year bout of neuropathy which causes my feet and lower legs to go partially numb. I now would fail an alcohol-free DUI test when asked to walk a straight line on any highway or hallway for that matter.
Anyway, after numerous MRIs that produced the same conclusion, all of my doctors were consistent with one diagnosis — “There’s nothing I can do,” they said. The last one though had the brilliance to suggest as I staggered out the door — “Why don’t you get a cane?”
Too funny I thought, but then, while not a “four-legged” walker, an upside-down golf club is likely in my future as a cane substitute. But symbolically, the introduction of a cane into my life suggested significant change. My new cane represents a mutiny of sorts compared to a prior lifestyle of younger, more independent locomotion. “Just you wait” appears to be more and more visible on my life’s horizon as I walk forward in halting steps.
Recently, stock market numbness closes the trading day. No wholesale crash, just a little wobbling for now with positive numbers for half of January. But I have a sense it’s in need of a cane to steady its momentum.
