BREAK A LEG

         I don't have a top hat to put on, or a white tie, and I certainly can't be 'brushin' off tails I don't own. Shirt studs, shirt front, 'thems' I don't have either but I do have nails to polish. That's not what's on my mind. I thought surely those lyrics said something about a cane, but I see none in sight. I guess I'll just have to improvise, fake it until I make it, for I sure have the cane.

         It is metallic blue with a black handle. Morgan liked that color. It was hers originally, purchased when she came home from the hospital almost eighteen months ago. She could never get the hang of using it, and on most days her energy level was barely sufficient to get her out of bed. So it lay on the floor behind her chair, like her walker that is folded up in a closet.

         I use the cane when I stand up so that I don't pitch forward when my nerve reminds me that it is still there, wreaking havoc. Someone reminded me this morning, "it's a bitch getting old." She was talking about her problems, but the tent is big enough to include both of us. This was that same someone at whose apartment the first intimations of trouble down below announced themselves. As I drove to see Pam last Thursday, I heard my lower back tell me I had forgotten to fortify the bucket seat with a pillow for my back.

         My sacroiliac was not yelling at that point; it was just reminding me it was there. I was on a mission of mercy. Pam would be moving; there were things to be packed, and then there was our Sonny and Cher routine to rehearse. This would be a busy schedule for the two middle-aged wunderkind. The thought that talent scouts might see our routine fueled my dream that it was our turn to appear on Entertainment Tonight, with proper music of course.

         We spent the first part of our evening packing salt shakers and photographs, and then we blocked out our steps for "The Beat Goes On", having already gotten "I've Got You, Babe" down cold. Pam now was suggesting new steps, and that I wear the fringe shirt, but first I would have to find a pair of bell-bottoms. I don't know what the people downstairs thought as we 'shuffle-shuffle tap stepped' up a storm on her hard wood floor, but by bedtime we were exhausted.

         The next morning I woke, stood, walked a few steps and noticed that I was in agony.

"Are you alright, David?"
"Get the oil can, Pam."

         It did little good. We managed to shoehorn me into my car for the ride home, with me cursing that I had ever thought of a stick shift. Reaching out and pushing in the clutch provided gentle reminders that something had gone haywire inside me. As I got out of the car at home, a flag bearer handed me a fife, and joined by a drummer, we marched slowly into the house: the lame, the halt and the infirm.

         In my agony I turned to my pets. The dog responded by needing extra walks, while the cat seemed to delight in taking up posts blocking narrow pathways between rooms. It was when I pitched over trying to avoid her that I spotted the cane. Even if I could not use it effectively, I could beat off my tormentors.

         I could never find a spot to touch on my back where the pain originated and by now I did not care. It was shooting down my left leg to the thigh. I knew without seeking medical help that it was a nerve. Acetaminophen provided no relief, but I popped two into my mouth every few hours. I found sitting in the chair at this computer to be the least painful place in the firmament, but I couldn't stay here forever. I had to get up. The cane made the first step possible, and after that I could walk slowly without it, but standing still brought waves of feeling to the leg.

         On Monday the doctor confirmed my diagnosis and suggested I take the same pills he had given me for a foot ailment in late April. That illness was cured by a visit of the Stockholm Syndrome, which in my lexicon means simply sitting in a doctor's waiting room will get rid of whatever ails you. This time he told me to wait ten days to call him back if it got no better. It is now Day Three and my cane is a permanent part of my attire. I wear blue to match its color. Living alone, no one will notice that it is the same shirt and pants every day, but I certainly do not want to be shot by the Fashion Police.

         I have had to assure Pam that dancing the light fantastic with her did not cause this problem. The doctor backs me up on this, telling me that we would have had to throw each other around the room to cause damage. This relieved her mind; she had been referring to herself as "Two Ton Tessie," and was taking the blame on herself. I should have told her that I met the real Two Ton Tessie in my travels, and there is no comparison between the two, but these are things better expressed in person and not on the phone or in email.

         Our big moment in the sun will be August 16th in Baltimore. We are opening for a music legend whose name cannot be revealed, although his career currently is in its Norman Maine phase. We shall be like Elvis appearing before Hank Snow circa 1955. Pam, knowing that this is our ticket to stardom, informs me that until then, to preserve my back, we shall only shake hands. I am touched; she really cares and is not nagging me.

         In the meantime I have been reviewing videotapes. The fear I have is that we could be in mid-routine, I advancing, tails flying, while Pam dances backward like Ginger, only to have a recurrence stop us. So if you are reading this, dear Pam, think about putting the cane into the act, and changing the performance to a soft-shoe.

For I'll be there
Putting down my top hat
Mussin' up my white tie
Dancin' in my tails

and with a cane to grab you if I start to fall. Break a leg!

Valatie July 17, 2002