Back when the west was very young, There lived a man named Masterson.
He wore a cane and derby hat, They called him Bat - Bat Masterson.
A man of steel the stories say But women's eyes all glanced his way
A gambler's game he always won. His name was Bat - Bat Masterson The trail that he blazed is still there. No one has come since, to replace his name. And those with too ready a trigger, Forgot to figger on his lightning cane.
Now in the legend of the West, One name stands out of all the rest. The man who had the fastest gun, His name was Bat - Bat Masterson.
-- Theme song from Bat Masterson TV show
First, a serious note. Then we'll have time for a little humor.
Physically, my recovery was pretty remarkable. I got out of the wheelchair. I forced myself to. I got my right arm out of the sling. I could walk on cement, concrete and hard surfaces. I started walking with a cane, one of those canes that has four legs on it. Gradually, I started walking on grass and uneven surfaces.
But, as my physical improvement progressed, the disruption of my sleep schedule continued. On top
of that, the almost year long euphoria evaporated. I was beset by a crushing, suicidal depression. I literally wanted to end it all. Fortunately, I have a higher than average IQ. I could see, could realize what was happening to me. I’m convinced that it was by sheer willpower alone that I didn’t just slit my wrists. Every time those thoughts entered my head I thought about my kids. I thought about my mother. I thought how upset they would be. And frankly, even though I am a physical and financial mess, I still managed to help my kids and my mother. I think that’s the only thing that kept me going.
Now it's time for a funny, illustrative story of strokes in human behavior.
Okay, I admit it. I'm getting old. But you people under 50 should really watch this TV show. I mean, the guy was cool. He lived in a wild West, always dressed up, didn't even limp, but carried this amazingly cool black cane with a silver handle, kind of a ball shaped affair. Very debonair.
I went from being paralyzed in the hospital, to negotiating my way in a wheelchair when I went home to finally walking with a serious lip. For a long time, my right arm was in a sling and totally useless. But now things are getting better.
I switched to a regular cane. I got better and better at it. Now, in familiar surroundings, I walk without a cane. I noticed something. If you limp, and have a weak arm, and don’t walk with a cane -- people look at you funny and young children (at least the bratty ones) snicker. However, a man with a cane... that is sophistication. A man with a cane is someone to be reckoned with. A man with a cane gets doors opened for him.a man with a cane is called Sir!
Of course, that depends on what kind of cane you carry, I discovered. I have a fancy, jet black, L-shaped affair that I got to go with my tuxedo for my son’s wedding. It is very debonair! Walking with a that cane garners instant respect. I had one of those aluminum jobs with the foam rubber on the handle. It was better than limping nakedly, but only marginally. I think people take pity on somebody with one of those aluminum and foam rubber jobs. However, my jet black number, that gets respect. isn’t it amazing how appearances affect behavior?
I eventually got my arm out of the sling. I was in the sling because the weight of my arm hanging down was actually separating my shoulder joint! Again, with therapy, I gradually got back the use of my arm. It’s not like it was. I have no fine motor skills. I can pick things up. I can hold a hammer. I can do things that don’t require fine motor control. So, I guess, typing is out of the question Thank God I was left-handed!
Maybe I'll just mosey on down, and get myself a derby hat!
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