During some recent travels I was suffering from a bad knee – nothing serious but just one of those things that happens when you keep on using your knees for decades and decades without any proper maintenance. But it made me even more unstable on my feet than I normally am, so I plucked a nice solid walking cane out of the umbrella stand by the front door and started using it to get around. Problem solved.
The unanticipated results were astonishing. All my life I’ve seen people walking with sticks or canes, sometimes with crutches, and always felt a twinge of sympathy for their slowness, their awkwardness, and what I assumed to be their pain. But I never expected to carry a walking cane myself, just as you never expect to get white hair or special offers from the AARP. In the nineteenth century a stick was part of every gentleman’s attire, along with a hat. But that was a defensive measure against the blackguards and master criminals who infested the streets in those days, as anyone knows who reads Sherlock Holmes stories. My stick, I told myself, was like this, almost purely decorative, a fashion statement.
But everyone else took it seriously. It got me to the front of every line, including the passport line and the boarding line at the airport. I knew in a general way that airlines had employees whose job it was to help the disabled, passengers who needed wheelchairs, passengers with small children, and so on. But I hadn’t expected them to appear out of nowhere and help me, which they did, with smiling courtesy.
I felt like a complete fraud. I was by no stretch of the imagination disabled, just a bit unsteady on my feet. But the cane was clearly a signal for the helpers to swing into action, and I was too embarrassed to refuse the small privileges that came my way.
It wasn’t just the airport personnel, who are after all paid to help. Everybody seemed eager to help. I was offered a seat or a steadying hand by kind people more often than I can count. As a pedestrian I was even waved across the road by French drivers, if you can imagine it. And they weren’t just joking – they actually waited for me to cross.
We all need help from strangers sometimes, often unexpectedly, and they from us. It was good and somewhat shameful to be reminded of this. I can remember when Boy Scouts (I’m not sure about Girl Scouts) were encouraged to do a good deed every day, like helping old ladies across the road. I was never a Boy Scout myself, but I didn’t want to be outdone by them in the matter of good deeds and sometimes I tried to help old ladies across the road, although usually they put up a stiff resistance. Now, I suppose, this particular good deed is redundant. All the old ladies are driving huge SUVs, and I need protection from them.
I still have the cane, but resisted the ignoble temptation to invest in some crutches. Very soon, no doubt, my knee will be healed and I will be restored to my old more-or-less steady self, needing and deserving no help. But being helped was heartwarming, and I will miss it. How do you signal to the good Samaritans of the world that you have a bad back?
Copyright: David Bouchier
