I recall an NC writer friend recovering from knee surgeries who returned gradually to his hiking spot, Crowders Mountain, and used a tall staff or hiking stick as a walking aide, rather than a cane. I think initially he may have had two sticks, like a skiing-type person.
At the PT place, I saw a viejo surfer dude using something vertical and similar as he left the lobby. His support was like a flat totem pole or tall Hawaiian tiki stick.
I have put the cane down mostly (sometimes out of stubbornness rather than good sense), and am considering a tall stick to replace the cane, upon which I invariably lean forward with a grimace, appearing bent and pitiful. It's in no way a posture-assisting device, but I think a tall stick or staff might be.
I'm doing better after several PT visits, with more to come, extending into March. As I attested in the title poem inside my tiny book "February Toast," this is not a month for me to fuck with. And this time it has 29 days.
The PT is the only positive constant so far.
Yesterday I had what was likely the last visit to Escobar, the mad scientist Pain Mgmt doctor. I chose to wait on any further (more radical) treatment options and take at least a month for healing time without someone prodding and injecting me. The insurance doesn't want anymore anyway.
What develops next is a direct result of how well I continue to convalesce.
I am a long way from my friend's mountain treks. Maybe he could abstract pain better than I can. Meanwhile, I remain unready for prime time, but nevertheless am making incremental gains in my limited urban world these days, making trips to the barbershop or to the gas station (finally I am driving).
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