Before, my right hand would have been on a steering wheel as I went down the street. I drove to work, found shortcuts in strange cities, picked up my two daughters after school. Those were the days when I ran my finger down a phone-book page and never dialed Information. When I read novels and couldn’t sleep until I had finished the last page. Those were the nights when I could point out a shooting star before it finished scraping across the dark sky. And when I could go to the movies and it didn’t matter if it was a foreign film or not.
But all this changed about seven years ago. I was driving home for lunch on what seemed to be an increasingly foggy day, although the perky radio deejay said it was clear and sunny. After I finished my lunch, I realized that I couldn’t see across the room to my front door. I had battled glaucoma for 20 years. Suddenly, without warning, my eyes had hemorrhaged.
I will never regain any of my lost sight. I see things through a porthole covered in wax paper. I now have no vision in my left eye and only slight vision in my right. A minefield of blind spots make people and cars suddenly appear and vanish. I have no depth perception. Objects are not closer and farther; they’re larger and smaller. Steps, curbs and floors all flow on the same flat plane. My world has shapes but no features. Friends are mannequins in the fog until I recognize their voices. Printed words look like ants writhing on the pages. Doorways are unlit mine shafts. This is a not a place for the fainthearted.
My cane is my navigator in this eerie landscape. It is a hollow fiber-glass stick with white reflector paint and a broad red band at the tip. It folds up tightly into four 15-inch sections, which can then be slipped into a black holster that attaches to my belt with Velcro.
Adults–unless they’re preoccupied or in a hurry–will step aside without comment when they see me coming. Small children will either be scooped up apologetically or steered away by their parents. Only teenagers sometimes try to play chicken, threatening to collide with me and then veering out of the way at the last moment.
While I’m wielding my stick, strangers are often afraid to communicate with me. I don’t take this personally–anymore. Certainly they can’t be afraid that I’ll lash at them with my rod. (Take that, you hapless sighted person! Whack!) No, they’re probably more afraid for me. Don’t startle the sword swallower. Don’t tickle the baton twirler.
The trick for the sighted person is to balance courtesy with concern. Should he go out of his way or should he get out of the way? Will his friendliness be misconstrued by the disabled as pity? Will an offer of help sound patronizing? These anxieties are exaggerated by not knowing the etiquette in dealing with the disabled. A sighted person will do nothing rather than take the risk of offending the blind. Still, I refuse to take a dim view of all this.
When I peer over my cane and ask for help, no one ever cowers in fear. In fact, I think people are waiting for me to give them the green light to help. It makes us feel good to help.
When I ask for a small favor, I often get more assistance than I ever expect. Clerks will find my required forms and fill them out for me. A group of people will parade me across a dangerous intersection. A salesclerk will read the price tag for me and then hunt for the item on sale. I’m no Don Juan, but strange (and possibly exotic) women will take my hand and walk me through dark rooms, mysterious train stations and foreign airports. Cabbies wait and make sure I make it safely into lobbies.
It’s not like it’s inconvenient for friends to help me get around. Hey, have disabled parking placard–will travel. Christmas shopping? Take me to the mall and I’ll get us front-row parking. Late for the game? No problema. We’ll be parking by the stadium entrance. And if some inconsiderate interloper does park in the blue zone without a permit, he’ll either be running after a fleeing tow truck or paying a big fine.
Worried about those age lines showing? Not with me looking. Put down that industrial-strength Oil of Olay. To me, your skin looks as clear and smooth as it was back in the days when you thought suntanning was a good idea.
So you see, I’m a good guy to know. I just carry a cane, that’s all.
None of this is to make light of going blind. Being blind is dark and depressing. When you see me walking with my cane, you may think I’m lost as I ricochet down the street. But you’ll find more things in life if you don’t travel in a straight line.
