Four years ago (just before I had my knee replaced), I was required to both give up my cane and my leg brace, and then shuffle my way, sock-footed (so there went my arch support) through the slow-moving line to the magnetometer.
When I got up to the machine, the TSA was trying to give me a cheerful "How are you?" but the preliminary experience outweighed any attempts at cordiality.
That was the last time I have flown. Now, when I commute between southern California and northern Oregon, I drive.