I always thought canes were fabulous — that is, until I needed one

This is a First Person column by Ev Bishop, a writer from Terrace, B.C. who was the writer-in-residence at Regina Public Library from January to June of 2026. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

I was checking in at Regina's airport recently when a flight attendant asked me if I needed assistance boarding.

“Your limp…” she said, motioning at my leg.

“No, no, I don’t need help,” I said, flustered, almost affronted. I walked away — slowly, as my knee really was a bear that day.

My inner response to her intended kindness surprised me. The self-consciousness, I understood. Was my limp really that noticeable? But what about that rush of indignation? It may have been bizarre or unfair but I felt like I was being judged.

Even worse, at a social event I’d been invited to present at a few months ago, I had to approach two high steps to the stage — steps that didn’t have a rail.

No problem, I thought. I was the kid who scrambled up trees and down ravines and through forest trails and farm fields from morning until night.

I bent and used one hand on the steps to help me climb. I didn’t even think about it until the host whispered, “Are you OK?”

Her face showed concern — and a flash of horror — until politeness quickly wiped the expression away.

“Yes, totally,” I said and meant it. “My knee is just a bit tricky right now.”

I've had many euphemisms over the years for my knee. A bad knee. A problem or sore knee. I’ve been told I need a full knee replacement but it's complicated by a chronic condition that increases the risk of the surgery and decreases the chances of the replacement solving my pain problem.

Surgery, at least for now, is not the solution.

A doctor suggested a cane might be helpful, at least at times.

I had always thought canes were fabulous — romantic, even — until I needed one. Before chronic pain, I regularly coveted vintage canes, especially crystal-knobbed Victorian styles.

But now my brain revolted against the idea.

"I’m too young to buy a cane," my inner voice shrieked as I perused one website promising fashionable canes.

What I meant was, at 54, I considered myself too young to need a cane.

Getting a cane felt like admitting something I’ve long fought: my pain is not going to magically go away and that I has a disability.

The latter is a hard description for me to accept. But other people clearly recognized my pain as a disability — I am disabled.

Clarity finally came with the arrival of friends who came to visit me while I was working in Regina. I’d created a jam-packed three-day itinerary, and we were all very excited.

One of my friends texted something to the effect, “I looked up all the distances. Let’s just walk everywhere! Everything’s close."

I wanted to be that friend — the one who could easily embrace 20-plus kilometres of walking every day. Instead, I had to explain that I really needed a car and that my current pain levels made walking even short distances difficult. It was incredibly hard for me to admit.

My friends were wonderfully supportive and didn't bat an eye at my news, although they both expressed sympathy and surprise at how much my pain had increased.

We rented a car and had a fabulous time, although even with the much-reduced walking, I was sore and slow.

If I’d had a cane for their visit, my mobility would have been different. It got me thinking about all the times I found myself avoiding social events or feeling embarrassed because of my mobility.

And then I recalled my paternal grandmother, whose world shrank as she stopped wanting to leave her home to go shopping or visit friends and family, because she was embarrassed by needing a walker.

At the time, I couldn’t understand it. Why, when helpful devices existed, would you suffer needlessly? Why, if a stick or a wheely contraption would let you enjoy the things you love, wouldn’t you embrace them?

'Why indeed, Ev?' my inner voice asked again.

So after my friends left, I ordered a cane with a Celtic design carved into the handgrip.

When it arrived, I felt happy that something so necessary could also be beautiful.

The very first time I used it, I was shocked by the huge difference it made to my discomfort levels and by how much it immediately improved my gait.

I set out on a walking adventure the other day, hoping to see turtles at Wascana Lake. It was the first time in a long time that I didn’t plan the distance I’d go and didn’t worry about a concrete endpoint. I knew with my cane that I’d be able to make it home.

Now I wish I’d ordered my cane much earlier. My pain is way more manageable, and I can keep doing the things I enjoy.

And as for how other people perceive my cane? I don’t think most people even register it—why would they? They have their own concerns.

And the ones that do? They offer compliments, like, “Wow, that is a beautiful cane!”

I'm still slow. But I've decided it doesn't matter.

That girl who scrambled up trees and down ravines and through forest trails is back in business.

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