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Stories From the Edge of Blindness

In 2002, Retinitis Pigmentosa changed my life. This is my story of a slow approach to darkness.

Category

Fear

Poem in Literary Juice

I am super excited to have one of my poems in the December issue of Literary Juice.  Thank you editor, Sara Rajan, for including me in your amazing magazine.

Embers

The thing with fire is that it is unpredictable.  An ember can become a rage of flames that devour hillsides and homes, a torrent of fear that reaches its fingers into the sky and covers the landscape in ash.  Fire doesn’t discriminate; it can’t be reasoned with or cajoled.  But, it can be contained, by the tireless bravery of fire fighters who battle an enemy that knows no mercy.  I am so very grateful for all of the men and women who have been fighting the fires that filled Los Angeles with smoke and fear; it is because of them that the beast has been quelled.

My parents are safe and the home that they have shared for 41 years is intact.  It was a terrifying few days; first waiting for them to evacuate and get to my apartment.  I was so glad to see them safe when they pulled into our driveway.  Then we waited for news about their house and for the announcement that they could finally return home. My parents are in their 80’s but they are strong, resilient and incredibly stubborn; when they left my apartment last night, they were pale with exhaustion, but so relieved to be going home.

The Human Condition

I feel buried beneath the weight of a fog that permeates my thoughts. I am on a dangerous precipice between blindness and sight, my strides uncertain and guided by terror. I find myself again and again, tangled up in a desire to escape the person I have always been and the disease that murders my eyes with slow, but voracious determination.  I long to be extraordinary and graceful, but in wakefulness I am defective and covered in unsightly cracks.

As a child I struggled to catch up, racing and climbing on legs that weren’t strong enough, pushing against the barriers of a mind that wasn’t expansive enough.  In conversation, unable to keep up, I float away, tangled in an extraordinary web of words that sparkle and splash the edges of my consciousness.  I dream in language rather than concepts or theory.  I don’t get your jokes or understand the machinations of a corrupt government.  I drift because the landing is too jarring and too cruel.

I have mostly felt like something to be kept hidden in the shadows, to remain unmentioned and shackled.  Beneath the lights, I am beaten with rods of ridicule and pity.  How sad that she is the blind one, the fat one, the ugly one, the broken one. But I have learned to love the outskirts, to languish in the disappearing edges of expectation .  I have learned that I can be the quiet one, and in the silence there is safety and a stillness that muffles the chaos of loathing.

I know that I am not unique or special; just a shadow of a woman suffering, like everyone, from the malaise of the human condition.  It’s just that sometimes, in moments that glimmer and tantalize, I dream that I will wake up, no longer blind, no longer human.

Writing Sample Part 4 – Surrender

It’s impossible to think about going blind without thinking about loss.  When you have a degenerative disease like RP, the loss comes in unpredictable bursts that steal pleasures and pluck freedom from disappearing fingers.  In the weeks just after my diagnosis, I thought a lot about how my life would change and what blindness would take from me; I was most afraid of losing the ability to read the printed word.

 I have always loved words; the way they can simultaneously smooth and sharpen the page. A life that leaves me unable to see the printed word is unimaginable.  I feel paralyzed by the thought of no longer seeing how the shapes of the words meld and flow.  I wonder what kind of writer I will become when the pages turn dark. Perhaps I will learn to rely solely on the musicality of language; the taste of the words in my mouth and the feel of their vibration on my lips. I am sorrowful when I think of no longer taking the words in with my eyes, but I will read voraciously until the darkness has swallowed them up.

Although the loss of the ability to read was my greatest fear after RP became part of my life, one of the most significant rites of passage in an RPer’s life is giving up driving.  I was a terrible driver, for now obvious reasons, and always felt anxious behind the wheel, but I have definitely felt the loss of freedom since I gave up my car for less convenient forms of transportation.

Because one of the first things that alerted me, and the doctors, to my RP was decreased night vision, the consequential difficulty led me to stop driving after dark immediately following my diagnosis. The combination of the darkness and the glaring lights of oncoming cars made it so I simply couldn’t see well enough to drive safely. In truth, it hadn’t been safe for years:  I had just been lucky.

I had also, in daylight hours, had several run-ins with walls, poles and curbs that seemed to jump out at me from nowhere.  This started serious contemplation of whether I should continue driving at all.  Walls and curbs only hurt my car, but what if it was a child or an animal that I didn’t see?  I couldn’t bear the responsibility of hurting someone just because I didn’t want to give up my car; so, about seven months after my diagnosis, I gave up driving altogether.

When I decided to give up driving, I chose to surrender my license and make the rite of passage official; I had no reason to hold onto it when I knew I would never drive again.  I needed to make it real.  I suppose it was my way of dealing with the loss head on, not allowing myself to live in denial about the gravity of my disease and how it was going to continue to change my life.  I was empowered because I took charge of the decision and I knew I was doing the right and responsible thing.  I felt the loss, but it was intermingled with a sense of relief.

It the first couple of months without my car, I joked about how lucky I was that I never had to be the designated driver and how I had always been a lousy driver anyway, so no big deal that I would never drive again.  True statements, but I also started to see how my disease was a burden to the those around me, and how I was going to become less and less practically useful as the years and the RP progressed.

I hated listening to my family agonize over who would drive me home after a family dinner, knowing how tired they all were.  I hated knowing that once I arrived somewhere, I was stuck until someone else was ready to leave; I had lost the freedom to come and go as I chose and because of this I became more reclusive.  I didn’t want anyone to have to take care of me.  I was determined to take care of myself.

My family never complained and I knew that they were just trying to make things easier for me, but I needed to find a way to assert my independence.  I had always had a fiercely independent nature and I wasn’t going to let RP rob me of that.  So, I learned the ins and outs of the LA transport system, which is no small feat given that it is the worst in the country.  I remember the first months of riding the bus, looking out the window at the enraged faces of the drivers in their cars, and feeling lucky that I got to spend my ride home listening to music, far away from the stresses of road rage and blaring horns.

Surrendering my license ended up saving an important part of who I am, and showed me that my determination means something.  And let’s be honest, L.A. busses are full of stories dying to be told.

Writing Sample Part 3 – Signs

We all look back at our lives, pick them apart and look for clues that would have helped us along the way, told us what was up ahead.  We discover things about ourselves that may have been present or growing since childhood, and inevitably think about the signs we might have missed.

A few months ago, I was going through some old family photos, and I came across a picture that was taken on a beach in Mexico when I was about three years old.  My eyes were squinted against the glare of the sun and I was reaching for my mother’s sunglasses, perched on a rock nearby.  I looked desperate to escape the bright sunlight and it is a look I recognize, a feeling I have experienced for years.  Growing up in California, my family was always going to the beach.  My parents and my siblings loved spending hours in the sun, but I preferred cloudy days.  I was called strange, moody and different, but even then, the sun hurt my eyes.

As I got older, I developed a reputation for being clumsy; I was always tripping and stubbing my toes and knocking things over. I couldn’t hit a softball in P.E. class or catch the ball when I was forced into the outfield.  I appeared careless, un-athletic, lost in day dreams; I didn’t know it then, but my retinas had begun to die a slow death.

I remember an afternoon when I was learning to drive; I was in the car with my mom, and she began shrieking that I was driving too close to the edge of the road and we were going to go off the cliff.  My mom was prone to dramatic expression; there wasn’t really a cliff, just a five-inch drop off the road into the dirt.  She thought I wasn’t paying attention, but actually, I had no idea how close I was to the edge.  I couldn’t see the side of the road.

Into my 20’s I continued to trip and fall and live up to my reputation as either the clumsy day dreamer, or the newer moniker of drunk girl.  I had a friend tell me I was the only 24-year-old she knew who actually fell down and skinned her knees.  I missed curbs, crashed into street lamps and collided with pedestrians racing down the Boston sidewalks to escape the cold.  I thought perhaps my friends were right and  I was drinking too much; I had no idea that the edges of my vision were disappearing.

For years, I nursed the bruises that peppered my skin and laughed along with my friends about my clumsiness.  I chastised myself for being careless and inattentive.  After my RP diagnosis, I became diligent in searching for current markers of my deteriorating vision. I notice how the glare of the sun gets meaner and how once effortless tasks are becoming more difficult.  I feel the light slipping away every time I call out my husband’s name, unable to find him right in front of me.  I feel helpless and terrified as the darkness slowly swallows up the contours of the world.

Writing Sample Part 2 – Dx Day

In re-reading what I sent in as a writing sample to the Emerging Voices Fellowship, I can understand why they didn’t choose me to be one of their 5 fellows (but they are still fuckers).  I think the pieces have good bones, but I could weave around them more creatively to make the stories more intricate.  Editing and re-editing and re-editing again is just part of being a writer, and it is actually a part I don’t mind too much.  That said, I am still going to post what I sent to them.

Dx Day

Visual Field

On the day of my formal introduction to Retinitis Pigmentosa (from here on out affectionately referred to as RP), I woke up to a chilly five a.m. alarm, took a quick shower, threw on lounge around the Eye Institute clothes, and waited for my dad to pick me up. The day began with a series of scary sounding tests; well, let’s face it, tests by any name sound pretty scary and I had a history of doing lousy on tests.

The first test of the day was a Visual Field, but with a twist. Rather than being scored by a computer, I got a live proctor. Damn, there would definitely be no cheating. During a Visual Field, you are asked to place a sterile patch over one eye, stick your face into a large white dome and press a button each time you see a flashing red light. Sounds simple, straight forward, totally passable. It sucks.

The proctor instructs me to stick my face into the dome and asks if I can see the big red light in the middle, then tells me to focus on it for the next fifteen minutes, with one eye, while pressing a button as other red lights flash in the distance. Instantly, I feel an impossible urge to blink and my eye starts to dry up. I am really trying to focus on the big red light in the middle, but it keeps disappearing; and then I remember the flashing red lights that are supposed to be appearing with some regularity, but they seem to be on hiatus. Then, right there in front of me, like a beacon of hope, I see a big red flash……or I think I do…….so I press the button, hoping that I answered correctly. 40 minutes later and both eyes tested, I am excused; sore neck, dry eyes, and fuzzy red lights flashing all over the room.  One down………

ERG – Electroretinogram

After the visual field, I was led further into the basement maze of Jules Stein Eye Institute, to the second waiting room of the day.  The room was empty, except for a weary mustard yellow couch.  The air smelled like doom.  I don’t remember how long I waited; I was only aware of the quick rhythm of my heart.  After a time, a woman with bushy hair and a staccato voice came into the bleak room and called my name, looking at me with a hurried and impatient glance.  She ushered me through a creaky beige door that led to a dimly lit room with whirring, then unfamiliar, machines.  She asked me to sit in a chair so she could put drops in my eyes, and told me I was lucky to be there; patients came all the way from Egypt to see Dr. Heckenlively.  I was feeling anything but lucky and had yet to actually meet the infamous man.

After two sets of eye drops were administered, the bushy haired woman led me to a small room with a black leather couch and told me I had to wait there until the drops took effect.  She closed the door and turned out the lights.  The room was pitch black.  I had no idea why I had been locked in this dark room with the lilting voice of Sade telling me she would never leave me sad; all I knew was that I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face and I was terrified.  Pure darkness removes the security of boundaries, the familiarity of edges; it swallows everything. Was this what my future held?  This total darkness that made the world impossible, overwhelming and immense.  I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark.  That day, in that room of pitch and fear, I learned about night blindness and that RP eyes don’t ever adjust to the dark.

The tech returned after an interminable 30 minutes and opened the door; the room was bathed in red light and I couldn’t see her face, but felt her take my arm as she proceeded to guide me into the torture chamber.  She sat me down in a chair akin to the kind you find in a dentist’s office; this should have been a warning sign to run, but how can you run when you can’t see?  I was at her mercy.  She put two more sets of drops in my eyes, slathered them in a cold gel and then inserted plastic disks under my eyelids.  “So you can’t blink”, she said.

“So I can’t blink?” I thought, “What the fuck?”   I felt like I was in a Stanley Kubrik film.

She led me, and my unblinking eyes, to another chair and helped me find the chin rest at yet another entrance to one of those strange domes.  “Lean forward and focus on the red light”.  Five seconds, ten, thirty…….wham.  Bright white lights shot out of the walls of the dome, assaulting my eyes and stabbing at the limited fields of my vision. This happened multiple times, each burst brighter and more intense than the next.  It was so painful, my bottom lip and chin started to spasm.  And then, the machine stopped and I was once again, in darkness.

“You’re all done”, she said, sounding chipper.

I wanted to shove plastic disks under her eyelids and see how chipper she’d be then.

The Man Himself

After the Clockwork Orange experience, I was dismissed for lunch.  I walked out of the test room, with help from the tech, and met my dad out in front of the Jules Stein building.  I felt pretty traumatized at this point and my eyes were sore and watering, vulnerable to the assault of sunlight. We went into Westwood Village and ate Greek food and I tried to keep a smile on my face; I knew my Dad was almost as scared as I was.  We waited quietly for the final appointment of the day; I was finally going to meet Dr.  Heckenlively.

I couldn’t help but wonder, what kind of man comes with the name Heckenlively?  When I first heard the name, five years earlier, I knew I would never forget it; it is hardly an unforgettable name. I imagined Heckenlively to have a jovial disposition, to be kind and of course a total genius who was going to give me hope of a cure for my rare and unique disease. I thought he would be a bit portly in stature with gentle hands and a slow easy voice. He would exude warmth and compassion. He would spend time with me, explaining the intricacies of RP and comforting me in my time of distress; or maybe he would tell me I didn’t have it, maybe he would tell me it had all been a big mistake.

When we returned to Jules Stein, we checked in at a huge reception desk in the Retina Clinic and I was taken into another room for more drops; this was the fourth set of dilation drops I received and apparently this last set was just for good measure.  My pupils were not happy. Back in the waiting room, I had to keep on my sunglasses and couldn’t read a magazine, so I just looked around at the other patients waiting for their fate to be served up by the illustrious Heckenlively.   There was no pattern to the population of patients in the waiting room; no predominant age, race or gender.   RP doesn’t discriminate.  There aren’t many of us who have it, but we come in an array of packages.

One person from that waiting room stands out most clearly in my memory.  He was a young African-American guy, maybe in his twenties, tall and athletic looking.  He was sitting between two older people who looked like parents; his head was bowed and his hands pressed against his eyes.  I knew he was a first timer, like me; I knew he was waiting to be told that he was going blind and I knew that he had realized the months of hoping for a different outcome had been fruitless.  It was the first moment that day that I didn’t feel so alone because I knew he understood exactly how I was feeling.

I think we must have waited at least an hour, watching men in white coats disappear behind mysterious doors, patients with anxious and terrified faces startling at every entrance.  Finally, they called my name and my dad and I followed a nurse into one of the secret rooms; I almost felt guilty leaving everyone else behind.  The room was dim with another one of those pseudo dentist’s chairs filling the middle of the ominous space.  The nurse told me to sit there, and I was tempted to tell her to go fuck herself, but I looked to my dad for some courage and took my allotted place.  The nurse left and about ten minutes later, the door opened again.

Dr. Heckenlively wasn’t what I had imagined or hoped he would be.  He was tall, lean and middle-aged, with a Hitler mustache and a cold demeanor. He looked like a sadist.  I knew instantly that this man was not going to be my savior or my champion or my friend; I was just another blind number. I remember he shook my hand curtly, barely looking at me, and then sat down to take a history.  We didn’t have much to tell him; no one in my family had any hint of vision impairment. With no obvious genetic ties to RP, I was obviously a boring case for him.

After the history, he turned to me and flipped the dentist’s chair back, coming at me with one of those super power head lamps that eye doctors tote around.  He examined my traumatized retinas for maybe five minutes, flipped the chair back into place and told me I had RP.  On his way out the door, he casually mentioned that someone would be in to take a blood sample, just to rule out syphilis.  That was the one and only time I would meet Dr. Heckenlively.

That afternoon, I was given a day of torture, 10 minutes with the expert, a heartless delivery of my diagnosis, and a lifetime sentence of imminent blindness.

Writing Sample Part 1 – Retinitis Pigmentosa

Along with my application for the Emerging Voices Fellowship – that I didn’t get (fuckers) – I had to send in a writing sample.  I felt compelled to share the pieces I sent them, so this will be the first of 5.  If you know me well or have been following my blog since it’s inception, you may recognize some of the stories, but they have been edited again and again since their original appearance.

*Retinitis Pigmentosa (RP): A group of inherited disorders in which abnormalities of the photoreceptors (the rods and cones) of the retina lead to progressive visual loss. Abbreviated RP. People with RP first experience defective dark adaptation (night blindness), then constriction of the visual field (tunnel vision), and eventually, late in the course of the disease, loss of central vision. 

 The first time I heard about Retinitis Pigmentosa was from Barbara Walters. She reported a story on 20/20 about a family whose father and three children all suffered from a rare eye disease that caused something they called “tunnel vision.” I remember all the kids were very blonde, with extraordinarily bright blue eyes and pale skin; it was as if they were rarely exposed to the sun.  The program attempted simulations to show what an RP sufferer’s deteriorating vision is like, and it was terrifying; can you imagine your entire view of the world being the size of what you see through the hole in a straw? Knowing that the hole would get smaller and smaller until everything was darkness?  I remember feeling frightened and sad for the family, and thinking how lucky I was that everyone in my family had such good eyes.

The second time I heard the words Retinitis Pigmentosa, I was in my late 20’s and visiting my optometrist for a routine refraction. I was there to get some new glasses because my night vision seemed to be worsening; not unusual in nearsighted patients.  He asked if he could dilate my pupils and take a closer look inside my eyes. The exam only lasted about ten minutes, but it seemed like an hour.  It was only the second time my pupils had been dilated and it was excruciating. The bright light from his instruments felt like fire and my eyes burned.  When he finally finished the exam, he said something about bone spicules in my retinas and a rare genetic disease that caused blindness. He referred me to a specialist named John Heckenlively.  I nodded my head, pretending to understand what the hell he was talking about, took Heckenlively’s number and proceeded to blow the whole thing off. There was no way I could have some random, rare eye disease.  No one in my family even wore glasses; except me of course.

Fast forward about five years; I am walking out of a Borders bookstore heading toward my car, and as I turn a darkened corner, the sidewalk in front of me disappears. It was like the darkness had consumed the ground beneath me. I stood there in abject terror for a few minutes, until I looked up and found a street light shining dimly a block away. I rushed toward the light, telling myself to call the eye doctor in the morning.  I obviously needed some new glasses.

Two days later I am in the Ophthalmologist’s waiting room, filling out-patient forms, and I come to the question about previous problems with eyes. I hadn’t thought about my visit to Dr. Vogel, the aforementioned optometrist, or Retinitis Pigmentosa in five years, but sitting in that waiting room I remembered, and I think at that moment I knew something was wrong, something that couldn’t be fixed with new glasses. That afternoon I had my first visual field test and was once again referred to Dr. Heckenlively. This time I couldn’t ignore it.

Five months later, I was formally introduced to Dr. Heckenlively and Retinitis Pigmentosa.

Across Town

*Note to new readers: When I refer to Zelda, I am not referring to my pet, child or doll, but to my white cane.

Across Town

A few weeks ago, maybe a month, I rescued Zelda from her hiding place on the hat rack and I have been carrying her with me whenever I go out, but she has remained folded up and tucked safely into her case.  I figured that eventually, I would encounter a situation where my anxiety about not being able to see would outweigh the anxiety looming over me about using Zelda.  I have, over the past month, found myself thinking about freeing Z from her case, and even wishing I had due to a few collisions and subsequent bruising, but she stayed put…until yesterday.

Most Tuesdays, I visit my Dad and Stepmom at their house across town, and on the days when my husband can’t drive me, I often feel anxious and start procrastinating when it gets close to the time I have to leave; even more so since Zelda became a part of my life.  I always thought that the anxiety was due to the thought of taking an Uber or Lyft; I see the convenience of both services, but I just don’t feel comfortable being alone in a car with a stranger.  I also thought I was being lazy because the bus is a hassle, but it became clear to me that part of the reason I get anxious is because taking the bus means a greater chance that I will need Zelda.  Yesterday was a gorgeous, cloudy day with chances of rain, and although I love these kind of days, they can play havoc with my vision; even though the clouds darken the sky, if there is any light at all, I need to wear my hat and sunglasses, which makes things even darker.

RP is such a tricky disease.  I have night blindness and trouble seeing in dim light, but sunlight or any kind of bright light also blinds me, and hurts like hell.  So, on cloudy days, I am faced with the choice of my vision being lessened by dark glasses or going without them and suffering from any amount of glare.  I almost always choose the sunglasses, but my nerves get a bit jostled either way.

Yesterday, after far too much time given to agonizing, I decided to take the bus, even though I felt certain that Zelda would have to make an appearance.  I walked out into the deliciously chilly day and travelled the 2 blocks to the bus stop, keeping Z in her case.  I have lived in my neighborhood for a long time and have a, most likely false, sense of security when it comes to knowing the layout of the streets; in any case, I felt like I didn’t need Z to help me to the bus stop and I got their unscathed.

Although there is a bus that gets me within a mile of my Dad’s house,  I usually take 2 busses because of a frightening incident that happened not to long ago; you can read about it here. But, yesterday, I was running late and I knew the traffic would be horrendous, so when the first bus to arrive was the one I don’t need to transfer from, I got on.  My anxiety was now doubled; I was anxious about Zelda and watching everyone who got on the bus to make sure no one was particularly frightening.

Even though it was Halloween, the ride across town was pretty tame, and by the time I got to my stop, I felt confident that no psycho killers were going to follow me off the bus; I got off and started the mile walk to my Dad’s house.  It had started sprinkling while I was on the bus, so the ground was wet and the sky had gotten darker, but still I kept Z safely tucked away.  About 300 feet from the bus stop, I came to an underpass that I had to enter in order to cross the extremely busy street to get to my Dad’s neighborhood.  I hesitated, but only for a few seconds, then reached behind me to get Zelda.

This was exactly the kind of situation I had been waiting for; I looked into the darkness of that underpass and I knew I needed help.  I knew that having Zelda in that moment would alleviate my anxiety, and it did.  I zipped through the underpass, across the busy street, and into my Dad’s neighborhood, with Zelda leading the way.  I felt liberated, but more importantly, I felt confident and safe.

Encased in Glass

Welcome to “Stories from the Edge of Blindness”.  For those of you who are new readers, when I refer to Zelda (or Z), I am referring to my white cane.

Encased in Glass

My neighborhood has gone insane.  It has most definitely passed from a little nutty to totally bat crap crazy.  There isn’t a day I walk down my street or into the park near my house, that I don’t pass someone either having a full-out conversation with an inanimate object or someone only they can see, or they are throwing their rage and obscenities at me.  There is human shit on the street, mixed in with the dog shit that irresponsible dog owners don’t pick up, and corners that smell like urinals. I have to watch my dogs every minute we are out, to make sure that they don’t get into an area of grass or behind bushes where there may be human waste. Sections of sidewalks have turned into shanty towns that are populated by an array of substance abusers, down trodden and looking for safety and a sense of community; and, no matter how it may look to the outsider, these are communities.

I may sound lacking in compassion, and I can’t deny that the shit on the street grosses me out and the rage of some of the people whose paths I cross frightens me, but the communities mark a change in my neighborhood, perhaps even in the city as a whole. It is as if these communities themselves, without premeditation, are shining a light on the poverty of the city and what lies on the other side.  All over Hollywood, and other parts of Los Angeles, huge apartment buildings are being built; they are referred to as luxury apartments and charge anywhere from $3000 to $6000 a month for rent.  They are also communities; communities for the wealthy that offer gyms and swimming pools and roof decks and community rooms and super markets.  The tent communities and the luxury apartment compounds exist side by side and are built on the same premise; people looking for a place that is self-contained and feels like home.  When you strip away the filth or the luxury, human desires at their most basic, look the same.

What about the world in-between poverty and wealth?  I think it is a fence, a tight rope, a purgatory of sorts.  For me, it is one of many fences that I perch on, waiting to see which side will pull me down.  I live on fences between blindness and sight, between success and failure, and between poverty and wealth.  Are those of us who live in purgatory also a community?  Or are we in limbo, waiting to see where we end up?  Sometimes I feel like I live encased in glass, a witness to the crumbling and to the building up of my city.  Perhaps the spaces inside the glass, on the tight rope, in purgatory, are actually the best places to reside.  I ride neither high nor low.  I am comfortable and content on my fence.  Does this make me complacent?  Callous?  Naive?  Wise? Lucky?  I don’t know.

In all of the chaos and change that I witness from such a strange vantage point, the same questions come back to me.  Where does blindness fit in to the equation of the city?  Where does Zelda fit in? Does Z make me invisible or put a target on my back?  Perhaps it literally depends which side of the street we are on; which side of the fence we dip our toes over, from one moment to the next.  Or, is it most likely, that neither community can see the blind lady up on the fence, encased in glass?

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