My Stro-Called Life: Stro-Called Armor?
Most people think of a cane as a simple mobility aid—something for balance, a sign of aging, or a marker of weakness. I never thought much about them myself… until I had a stroke. This is my stro-called life now.
Suddenly, a cane wasn’t just a stick with a handle. It was possibility. It was strategy. It was even a little bit of power. And it stirred up something complicated in me—part shameless, part protective, part pride.
I don’t remember exactly how the cane was first introduced—whether it was handed to me or just left leaning against a chair at IRC. But I remember this:
I wanted it.
Not for balance. Not for stability. But because it might get me off the fall-risk list while I was in rehab. And if I’m being brutally honest, because it might let me board planes first—before first class. (I travel a lot, and yes, I’m shameless enough to view a mobility aid as a golden ticket.)
Here’s an excerpt from my new memoir, My Stro-Called Life: Notes from the Brain That Betrayed Me:
My Stro-Called Life: Notes from the Brain That Betrayed Me
Okay, and maybe I like the idea of a statement cane—something bold, like one topped with a gilded dragon egg. Or a discreet weapon I’d never actually use but can fantasize about wielding in some artful, heroic act. Not that I’m violent. I’m very anti-violence. But the image of a perfectly timed cane whack? Makes me smile.
“Then something Tookish woke up inside him, and he wished to go … and wear a sword instead of a walking‑stick.”
-J. R. R. Tolkien
Also, I have another, quieter reason for wanting the cane. I know I’m different now—slower, off in ways I can’t always pinpoint but others can probably sense.
The cane would be a kind of shield, a visible explanation for my invisible disability. Instead of people wondering, What’s wrong with her?, the cane would answer for me. It would give context. It would give me cover. If I stumbled, forgot something, or acted a little strange, the cane would speak before anyone had to ask.
…
Pre-Stroke Brain: So… we’re actually excited about a cane now?
Post-Stroke Brain: [Is excited and lies] Not excited. Just… it’s strategic. This bad boy could be our ticket off the fall-risk list.
Pre-Stroke Brain: Uh-huh. And the priority boarding thing?
Post-Stroke Brain: Obviously.
Pre-Stroke Brain: And the fantasy about a cane topped with a dragon egg?
Post-Stroke Brain: Yes?
Pre-Stroke Brain: Or the imaginary person you’re mentally whacking with said dragon-egg-cane?
Post-Stroke Brain: They earned it. Every. Single. Whack. [Snorts in laughter]
Pre-Stroke Brain: Right. Totally. And the part where you want it so people won’t wonder what’s “wrong” with you?
Post-Stroke Brain: [Somber now] Yeah… that part’s real. It feels safer when the cane explains me before I have to.
Pre-Stroke Brain: Or maybe it just explains what you think people are wondering.
Post-Stroke Brain: Maybe. But if it makes them pause before they jump to conclusions? I’ll take that trade-off.
Pre-Stroke Brain: Fair enough.
…
My dad, on the other hand, genuinely needs a cane—his mobility is limited—but he chooses not to use it.
I think, for him, it’s about pride. He doesn’t want to be seen as disabled. He’d rather stumble his way through the world than carry something that signals vulnerability. It’s interesting, really—how we see the same object so differently. For him, a cane represents weakness. For me, it feels like armor.
“I put my armor on, I’ll show you that I am”
-Sia
I used to roll my eyes at my dad’s stubbornness. Now I wonder if I’m any less prideful—just in a different way.
He resists the cane because it reveals something he doesn’t want the world to see.
I reach for it because it reveals something I need the world to understand.
Maybe we’re both just trying to control the narrative in a world that often jumps to conclusions.
And honestly, maybe I also like the idea that, with a cane, I can be the one who’s noticed for something, instead of judged.
It’s not just about mobility or boarding planes early. It’s about context. It’s about walking into a room and having a silent explanation for the moments when my words get stuck or my processing lags. A visual cue that says: Don’t judge me too quickly. There’s a reason. And it’s now my stro-called life.
No release date yet—because writing this memoir, much like stroke recovery, takes patience, persistence, and more than a little creativity. But like the cane, it’s also a shield—something that helps me steady myself while letting the world know what’s really going on. Just like the cane became my unexpected armor, this book is becoming a way to carry the story forward—with humor, honesty, and resilience. When it’s ready, you’ll be the first to know. Until then, stay tuned for more glimpses into a journey that proves strength sometimes comes disguised as a stumble.