While I don’t believe that every cloud has a silver lining, many do…including my foot and leg issues, of which I have several. As a result of them, I have walked with a cane for over three years, now. And that is what this week’s blog post touches on.
As you may have gathered, I am not going to riff on writing, reading, or cooking this week.
Instead I am going to riff on human nature.
Seeing my cane seems to bring out the best in people. It’s nearly universal. Yesterday, as I was leaving the Post Office, a woman laden down with packages and speaking intently into her cellphone held between her ear and her shoulder, walked briskly ahead of me. She reached the door, walked through it, and was about to let it close behind her when something—probably the loud tapping of my cane—alerted her to my presence a goodly number of steps behind her. (Although my cane is rubber-tipped, it is far from silent. If I ever had pretensions to an occupation that requires stealth, I had better give them up now.)
At any rate, despite her armful of package and the fact that she was obviously in a hurry, she stopped, caught the door she had begun to let slip out of her grasp, pulled it wider open, and held it for me. She continued her cell convo as I tap-tap-tapped my slow way through the door and thanked her. She interrupted her conversation long enough to reply, “You’re welcome,” made sure I was safely through the doorway, then let the door go and hurried on her way.
I was impressed and pleased but not surprised. It happens all the time.
This past Sunday afternoon I attended a meeting in a restaurant. Returning to my car when the meeting had come to a close, I encountered a curb I had to step up onto. I couldn’t do it. Curbs and I are not friends. It’s not just the strength to step up that’s at issue but the balance thing. As I take a step up and put all my weight on one foot, I tend to lose my balance. Although I’m not great at climbing steep stairs such as the three steps up to the doorway of my church, at least there I have a handrail to hold onto. In this case I had nothing to cling to and, after three tries, I stood there buffaloed.
Just then a woman came hurrying up to me out of nowhere. She was short and slight, but I was more in need of something—or someone—to hold on to than I was of physical strength. “Need help?” she asked in a chipper, helpful voice.
Over three years ago, when I first found myself in this condition, I was embarrassed, even ashamed to accept help. Now I will go so far as to ask for it without a qualm. Had there been anyone around when I first encountered the curb in question on Sunday, I would have un-embarrassedly asked, “Can someone give me a hand?” But there had been no one around. I had looked.
I don’t know where this woman came from, out of nowhere. (Maybe God sent her to my rescue?)
“Yes! Thank you!” I exclaimed gratefully, without a trace of shame or embarrassment. She was all for being as helpful as she could. I assured her all I required was her hand to hold on to with one of my hands, for balance, as I pushed down on my cane for “lift” with the other hand. Once up on the curb, I thanked her profusely, but she wasn’t done with me yet, even though I knew I would be fine from there on my own. She insisted on seeing me to my car (which, although she didn’t know it, we were practically alongside at that point).
And she, like the woman at the Post Office, is far from unique. That is the most inspiring, most encouraging, most satisfying part. Wherever I go when I go out, there is someone who wants to help me. I get doors held regularly. I get people offering to carry packages that are in my arms. I get offers of help of other sorts.
If ever I were to start feeling down about the human race, I would need only to go out and make my way in public, cane and all, and there would be a healthy serving of humanity bustling to come to my aid and prove to me again that human nature is not beyond hope, that helpfulness is alive and well, and that people are, at heart, helpful and caring.
And so, to come back to where I started, even if not every cloud has a silver lining, this one surely does. Seeing my cane brings out the best in people and renews my faith in human nature. Indeed, a disability can truly be an asset.