Great Granddad's Cane ~ or ~ Resurrecting Charlie

As a child, I played dress-up in my parents closet. Hey, it was the 70’s and my folks were the best dressed couple in southwest Kansas with my Dad in his 3-piece suits and sideburns and my Mom in her mini skirts and poofy hair.  One day, while falling over as I put on my Mom’s red patent leather platform boots, I came across an old, worn, splintered cane tucked back behind Dad‘s shoes.  (You’re trying to picture that spectacle now, aren’t you?)  Five year old inquisitiveness brought me face-to-picture with my Dad’s maternal grandfather, a prominent surgeon in Wichita in the 30’s and 40’s.  (There’s even a street named after him!)  In that picture, in my Great Granddad's left hand, was the cane that I had found in the closet, brand spankin new!!  I refer to this time in my life as The Kindergarten Inquisition.  I needed to know everything that there was to know about everything.  Most of my friends that age were still concerned with “why.”  Not me!!  I needed to know “who, how, when, and where.”  I think that this was where my love of stories, history and genealogy began.  (… yeah, I’m pretty sure that I’m quasi-positive that this was almost exactly when.)

As I began to put a few years under my belt, my quest for stories, knowledge and playing dress up morphed into becoming an avid movie-goer, a bookworm and a ham.  Where I once dressed up as a sophisticated fashionista of the 70’s, using Great Granddad’s cane the way that the women at Ascot Opening Day from My Fair Lady used their umbrellas, I quickly became Charlie Chaplin.  Waddling around duck-footed, twirling the cane in large circles from my hip.  (FYI … Mom’s mascara made for great moustaches.)  By the time my teens rolled around, my fascination with the cane was barely a memory and the cane itself had been returned to the depths of Dad’s side of the closet.

After returning from a trip to the Oregon coast in the summer of 2003 (I’d had RSD in my upper body for 11 years at this point), I found myself on my parents couch, unable to move at my hips.  My RSD was heading south, literally and figuratively.  I couldn’t even walk to the bathroom without having to hold on to someone strong for dear life, and I could forget about lowering myself onto the toilet seat and getting back up by myself.  This was when I received my 1st in a long line of epidurals, along with my regular nerve blocks.  Versaid, Lidocaine, Markaine, Morphine STAT!!  Back on my parents’ couch and in recovery mode, the world was still fuzzy and I was in and out of consciousness.  But during one of my moments of coherency, I remember Dad bringing me macaroni and hotdogs, a Pepsi, and Great Granddad’s cane.  25 more years had not been kind to it and I felt the same way about myself.  Immediately our bond was renewed.

It was still faded and splintery, even more so than when I was a kid.  The schellack was peeling, the splinters were bigger, the rubber stopper at bottom was worn all the way through, and it was my savior.  All either of us needed was a little help and TLC, so as PT for my hands, I lightly sanded and re-varnished the sturdy wood.  I can’t remember where or when I got the new stopper, but then again, I can’t remember a whole heckuva lot from that particular era of my life.  It’s been 9 years, and Great Granddad’s cane is in need of another facelift, but I can’t bring myself to do anything “crazy” with it.  I get my strength from my genes.  Great Granddad passed them to my Grandma S., she passed them to my Dad and he gave me the “X” that would prove to make me stronger than I ever thought imaginable.  I feel like I need to honor that by keeping things the way that are … for the cane, anyway.

I have faith that today, when I have my bad pain days, I will use my cane with pride.  I am absolutely not ashamed of where it came from and I am becoming less ashamed of why I need to use it.  Every sideways glance and questioning look is an opportunity for me to spread awareness for RSD.  I have faith that I will continue to use Great Granddad’s cane and the memory of the stories of his strength to persevere those valleys.  And just to cheer myself up on those bad days, I’ve even been known to resurrect Charlie Chaplin … with my own mascara!!