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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.

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White Canes for the Blind

Waiting Games

For new readers:  When I refer to Zelda, I am not talking about a pet or a child or a childhood toy I just can’t seem to part with; Zelda is my white cane.

It seems I am always waiting; waiting for the next decline in my vision, waiting to hear about that poem I submitted 6 months ago, waiting for the package to be delivered from Amazon, waiting for the scale to give me good news, waiting for the next time I get to eat, waiting for the end of the day and that bottle of wine, waiting for it all to be over. And then, suddenly, something I have been waiting for, arrives.

On Monday of this week, I spent the day seeing doctors and getting tests; nothing serious, just inconvenient, exhausting, and honestly, pretty gross, so I am not going into further detail.   That said, I spent a lovely day maneuvering through the seriously fucked up American healthcare system, without Zelda.  I have been leaving her at home a lot lately; we are having a heat wave in Hollywood and I have been feeling lazy and not wanting to carry yet another thing when I go out, so Zelda gets left behind.  I may have also still been in a tiny little bit of denial, but it really is fucking hot here.

Anyway, I made it through most of my healthcare nightmare day unscathed, until I was being escorted out of the maze of the hospital by a kind, lovely and very fast walking ultra sound tech.  I was matching her pace, feeling confident striding down the corridor, and then she said, ” take a right here”, and she turned and I didn’t and the collision ensued.  When she said to turn right “here”, I thought she meant a right turn that I saw coming up about 10 feet ahead of us; the right turn she was actually talking about, I didn’t see. I had no idea what was next to me, or how close I had been walking to the wall, or how many adjoining corridors we had passed.  When she and I collided, my confidence plummeted to the ground, but I quickly scooped it up, apologized to her and told her I have severely limited vision and I really should have been using my cane.  I felt bad about almost knocking the poor woman down, but I didn’t feel embarrassed about admitting that I had a cane and that the collision was my fault because I should have been using it; it was just the truth.  If I had taken Z with me, the tech would have walked slower and I wouldn’t have been trying to groove right alone with her, feeling dangerously confident about my non-existent visual capabilities.  I took my time for the remainder of my walk through the hospital, and found a comfy chair to settle into while I waited for my husband to pick me up.

Yesterday, I was taking one of my frequent walks to the grocery store, sans Zelda, for the same reasons listed above.  As I approached the first street crossing, I thought I heard someone walking near me, but I had no idea how near. I slowed my pace a little, tuning my ears to the sounds of footfalls and rustling clothing, but when I got to the corner and reached for the cross button, I bumped into a woman who must have been just inches away from me. I still get fooled by RP a lot of the time and think people and objects can’t be as close to me as they actually are; my ears are not that well trained, yet.

The woman was super nice and friendly and didn’t seem to think twice about our collision, but it gave me pause. I realized, or perhaps I have known for a while, that my vision has gotten worse.  Decline in vision is something that someone with RP is always waiting for, but in my case there has been a lot of uncertainty about whether or not it is actually happening.  I am fortunate that my vision loss has had a very slow progression, and there have been so many times when I feel pretty convinced that I am not seeing as well,  and it turns out that my vision is stable.  This time is different. I feel the world pressing in against me; the shrinking circles of my vision have become more prominent.  But, somehow, being in the center of the decline, looking at the world with the heightened sensation of tunnel vision, I don’t feel afraid.  I have been waiting for this.

During the rest of my sojourn to the grocery store, I must have had at least 10 near collisions and people coming at me from, seemingly, out of nowhere.  I kept thinking over and over again, “I wish I had Zelda with me”.  I think I’ll take her out today, no matter how hot it is.

 

Revelations

 

*A note to new readers:  Welcome to Stories from the Edge of Blindness and thank you for reading!  I just wanted to let you know that when I refer to Zelda (or Z), I am not talking about a pet or a child, but about my white cane.

Sometimes, I am walking down the street, or more often, to the kitchen, and I have these revelations about my relationship to RP and Zelda and the whole blind thing; I suppose I am thinking about it all the time, but mostly with a great deal of confusion about why I am struggling so much with this particular part of my RP story. However, occasionally, these nuggets of realization will pop into my head and lead me to a little more clarity.

Yesterday, my Dad was driving me to the bus and he asked, basically, how much the cane was influencing my life and what benefit, if any, it provides.  All I could tell him was that I was still feeling unsure and having a lot of internal struggle, asking myself the same questions he had asked me.  I told him that Zelda definitely helps reduce my anxiety in crowded places, which is true, but I think I probably sounded more like I was trying to convince myself,  rather than believing it.  I told him that I was glad I have her for situations when I feel anxious or I know my remaining vision will be compromised: for example, if I forget to wear a hat on a day that starts out cloudy and becomes sunny; even with my huge sunglasses, if any sun pops through the gaps at the top or to the sides, I am completely blind and Z would probably come in handy in that circumstance.  My Dad said he is also glad that I have her.

I forgot a hat yesterday because Joe and I left early in the morning, before the sun had fully shown its face, and we were rushed to get the dogs to the vet, so when my Dad dropped me off, I thought I may have to use Z to get safely to the actual bus stop.  I didn’t end up using her, but I thought about it…….

Anyway, I digress. Back to my oh so profound (probably not) revelation.

I feel that if I choose to avail of the assistance of Zelda then I am choosing to be blind.  On a logical level, I know this is ridiculous.  RP isn’t my choice, blindness isn’t my choice, and I am already legally blind, but emotionally I have drawn a line that I can’t manage to cross.  I am fighting the reality of my disease with iron clad resolve, and I am pretty damn stubborn when it comes to fighting off reality. My petulant self says that I don’t want to be blind and I don’t want this stupid fucking disease, so I will deny it for as long as I possibly can.  The problem is, RP has no respect for lines, no matter how solid they appear to be.

RP isn’t the same from day-to-day; it can change in a second due to lighting or the slightest turn of the head.  Something can be right in front of me one minute and gone the next; this is why I need Zelda.  But, I have had years of practice dealing with the moment to moment changes; I am really good at hiding my blindness, until I’m not and I’m on the ground, bruised and broken and hating myself for having RP.

I imagine everyone must be tired of me and my writing about this struggle with Zelda; I am a bit sick of it myself, but it is a reality of RP that I think is important to write about honestly.  I am stuck and afraid and trying to navigate my way through this chapter in the best ways I can.  I think these little revelatory nuggets help me face the realities and complexities of my disease and bring me closer to accepting Zelda as a part of my independence rather than a co-conspirator to what keeps me captive.

 

Reluctant Side Kick

*To new readers: When I refer to Zelda (or Z), I am writing about my white cane.  Thank you for reading “Stories from the Edge of Blindness”

Reluctant Side Kick

Zelda and I have reconciled, again.  I suppose we are together for better or worse, but I am still her somewhat reluctant side kick, reluctant to give in and give over to her, to let her lead the way, but, my self guidance system is seriously faulty.

Joe and I were grocery shopping the other day – before I rescued Z from beneath a mound of coats and hats and bags, on the hat rack and I collided with a shopping cart that someone had left in the middle of an exit isle.  It wasn’t a bad collision; I was just left with some bruises on my legs, but when it happened, I looked up at Joe and said,”I guess I could have used Zelda today”.  He just smiled and nodded and we left the store.

As a result of this particular collision, I had to admit that I have been treating Joe unfairly.  Whenever we go out together, I depend on him to keep me from collisions and falls and the always possible rage of strangers, but what about Zelda?  If I had Z with me, Joe could shop and walk and roam to his heart’s content without having to worry about me the whole time.  I have been so selfish.  I have been telling myself that using or not using Zelda only affects me, and that simply isn’t true.

So, I have put Zelda back on a prominent hook, next to my purse and sweater, so I will be reminded to always bring her with me. I don’t want to need her, but sometimes I know I will, and when I no longer have the amount of useable vision I have now, I will be grateful that she and I have become well acquainted.

Hands off the Wheel

A good friend of mine made a great recommendation regarding my blog; she pointed out that people new to my blog may not know that when I refer to Zelda(or Z), I am taking about my white cane. So, in future blog posts, if Zelda is part of the story,  I will make sure to add a note explaining who (what) she is.  Thank you to my friend – you know who you are and I love you!

So, yeah, Zelda is going to be part of this particular post.  You may be thinking, ” oh god, not that bitch Zelda again”, but, unfortunately, Z isn’t going anywhere, no matter how hard I try to get rid of her.

I have been treating Zelda deplorably.  I have ignored her, shunned her and concealed her on a crowded hook.  If I don’t see her, I don’t have to think about her; and if I don’t have to think about her, I can pretend that I can see just like most other people. I am really good at the avoiding and pretending thing.

When I was learning to drive – the second time; a few years after two accidents and a ticket for failing to yield to a pedestrian in a crosswalk (no one was injured) – my Dad took me to an abandoned parking lot to test a theory.  He asked me to just drive around as if I were searching for a parking space and then he randomly shouted out things like: OH MY GOD, A BABY IN THE ROAD or LOOK OUT FOR THOSE NUNS; every single time, my response was to take my hands off the wheel and look away, as if I wasn’t really driving the car.  My instinct definitely veered in the flight direction and I obviously, in some seriously twisted part of my brain, figured if I ignored it, it wasn’t happening.

Of course, it turned out that my accidents were, in large part, due to RP and my limited peripheral vision, but at the time I had no idea that I had RP and that I wasn’t seeing things that fully sighted people would see.  That being said, I still took my hands off the wheel.

I wish I could say that I am one of those people who sees a challenge and jumps in with fearless determination; I am not.  I am, however, incredibly proficient at avoiding the things I can do to make challenging situations a little easier.  I eventually come around to face reality, but then I close my eyes and turn away like an insolent child; I don’t want this fucking problem, disease, etc., and I am not going to deal with it.  I have been doing it with RP for years, so I was bound to treat Zelda with the same dismissive attitude.

As I have said before, and will say a million times, RP is a total mind fuck.  It is purgatory.  It is the gray area covered in fog.  It is a disease that begs to be denied, especially by those who are well versed in denial.  But, RP is pesky and persistent and pops up often to remind me that I am defective.  No matter how much I want to, RP won’t let me take my hands off the wheel.

It doesn’t matter how many coats and hats I pile up on the hook over Zelda, she is in my head.  I have to find a way to see her as an ally, but I am struggling.  I feel the weight of her even when I don’t have her with me.  I went into my mobility training with a positive attitude, but discovered that this is, without question, the most difficult challenge I have faced in my RP journey.

I am having trouble fending off my insolence.  I keep screaming in my head that I don’t want RP and I don’t want the fucking cane, kicking at the reality of my disease and trying to reject it; but, I don’t have a choice, RP isn’t going anywhere.  If I don’t find a way to see Zelda as beneficial, one day, I am going to get seriously hurt.  The thing is, I can’t imagine it hurting more than it already does.

 

 

 

Being a Writer

 

While reading a friend’s blog this morning (The Incurable Dreamer), I found myself thinking about what it means to be a writer.  She is a brilliant writer and has chosen to dedicate herself to it, which makes me happy for her, and for me, and everyone who gets to read her stuff. She gets what it means to be a writer.

I come from a family that is overflowing with achievement; there are doctors, lawyers, city planners and politicians, and then there is me.  Whenever I meet a friend of my parents (invariably another doctor), they always get excited and ask me if I am the “doctor daughter”, and then look uncomfortable and slightly disappointed when I tell them that I am a writer; when I tell them I write poetry, they can’t get away fast enough.  I don’t fit into the perfect package that my family represents and that makes people uncomfortable; and, ok,  having an abundance of tattoos may also factor into the discomfort thing a tiny bit, but I kind of love that.

Don’t get me wrong, my family is supportive of my writing (not so much with the tattoos), but for so long, I felt like being a writer wasn’t a viable thing because I hadn’t gone to school to study how to be a writer and because I wasn’t getting published in all the top magazines; I had no clear signs of accomplishment and that meant I was a big pile of nothing sitting off in the corner while my accomplished siblings were being praised for all of their hard work, as if I could never understand what it means to work hard. My parents and my brothers and sisters are all super amazing people who do work really hard and I am proud of them, but I am not nothing. I am a writer.  I am a writer; but what does that mean? It took me a long time to figure it out and to be able to talk about it with confidence.

For years, I struggled with the question of whether or not I was actually a writer and doubted myself whenever I told people that I was. I have written everything from poetry to one-act plays, but until recently my writing was sporadic.  I was a writer in moniker and desire, but not in practice. I wasn’t writing.

I didn’t believe I had the credentials to be a writer, so I went about trying to find a real job.  I found a thousand real jobs; some I liked, some I hated, but none made me feel fulfilled, or like I was doing the thing I was meant to do.  I knew, in my heart, that I was a writer.  I had been a writer since I was 6 years old when I wrote a Thanksgiving story about a turkey who commits suicide; it was called “The Sad Turkey”, and it was about a turkey who decided to commit suicide because he knew he would be killed for some fancy Thanksgiving dinner.  Pretty imaginative for a 6-year-old, right?

When I stopped working a regular job in 2009, I had big plans. I was going to write a memoir and get published; instead, I made a lot of popcorn and watched a lot of T.V.  When I started this blog, I was certain that it would be the answer to my writing woes; it would help me get my memoir done and get me published.  But, I barely posted; months went by and I didn’t go near the computer because I felt guilty for not writing blog posts.

I know now that I needed the time to adjust to the reason that I had stopped working a regular job; I had to give myself time to come to terms with the fact that RP had started to affect my life in more impactful ways and I wasn’t ready to write about it on a regular basis.  I had been given a gift of sorts, but I wasn’t ready to open it up.

Years went by and I still wasn’t writing regularly, even though I know that when I am writing I feel full and satisfied.  I had stopped writing poetry because I felt that it would never be lucrative and I really had no business calling myself a poet given that I have no formal education in writing.  The problem was that poetry is my first love, as a writer.  Poetry is where my pulse lives and it is what inspires me.

A few years ago, I decided to stop stressing about the blog and start writing poetry again. I felt inspired and satiated.  I wrote tons of poems and edited a bunch of old pieces; I got motivated and started to enter contests and submit my work.  I returned to the blog with a new energy and I dedicated myself to writing.

Degrees and  publication credits don’t make me a writer.  I am a writer simply because I write.  I have discovered that, for me, being a writer means doing the writing, fulfilling that part of myself that only writing can fulfill ; it is reaching into your darkness and your light, being brave enough to face whatever you may find there, and sharing those discoveries. Being a writer is hard work and often lonely work, but it is the work that speaks to me.

I am not nothing.  I am a writer.

 

The Iron Fist Came Crashing Down

Last night, Joe and I were finishing season 1 of Iron Fist; we love all that Marvel Super Hero stuff, and although Dare Devil (obviously) holds a special place in my heart, I really like the Immortal Iron Fist (a.k.a.Danny Rand, a.k.a. Loras Tyrell).

Anyway, there we were, awaiting the fate of Madam Gao and all of a sudden I found myself staring into the, quite lovely, eyes of Danny Rand and felt the weight of the Iron Fist smashing me back into reality.  I asked Joe to pause the show.

I stared at the paused screen and did what I have been doing a hundred times a day for weeks.  I looked straight ahead and tried to determine what I could see in the peripheral field.  Joe was sitting next to me on the couch, about 2 feet to my right, and the dogs were on either side of me snuggled in close.  I asked Joe to look into the eyes of The Immortal Iron Fist and tell me if he could see me and if he could see the dogs.  He said he could, and I burst into tears, sobbing and understanding that all of the self-administered testing of my vision, and attempts at trying to prove to myself that I don’t need Zelda, were in vain.

When I looked at the screen, dead ahead of me, I couldn’t see Joe or the dogs or the picture above the T.V., or my fingers resting on my own shoulder, or even the entire T.V. screen. It was like I was being told for the first time that I am legally blind; the mask of the normally sighted woman, that I have donned for years, was torn away and smashed to pieces.

I think it is time for me to stop asking people what they can see; time to stop asking myself and just accept that no matter what I can still see, it isn’t enough to keep me safe.  I need to give Zelda another chance.

#11 On our Own

Two days ago, I was visiting my Dad, and my StepMom got really sick.  So sick, we had to take her to the emergency room. She is totally fine now, but in the chaos of getting her to the ER, I left Zelda in my Dad’s car and haven’t been able to get there to pick her up.

I have to admit, not having Z the past couple of days has felt like a relief.  I got to go out and do errands at my own pace; of course my anxiety level was at an all time high, but I didn’t feel weighed down by the cane and at the time it felt like an o.k. trade off.  I started to feel like I might just retire her to an obscure hook in my closet and hope for the best when I go out walking.  But, then my husband interjected his usual wisdom.

Joe compared my not using Zelda to an insecure person continuing to drive when they know they should stop (which I can, of course, relate to, having had to give up driving at 34).  I think that what he was saying, in basic terms, is: everything is ok until it isn’t.  I may feel like being out with Z is fine because I still have usable vision and most of the time I make it back home unscathed, but that isn’t a guarantee.  I have probably had more close calls than I know about, because I didn’t see the car or person or bicycle etc. that I almost collided with.  Fuck….why is my husband always right?

Tomorrow, I will pick up Zelda.

Speaking of Zelda, today was supposed to be my 11th and last lesson with Tamar, but I cancelled it.  I thought it would be silly for me to show up at the Braille Institute to meet my O&M instructor without my cane, and I wasn’t sure until last night that my Step Mom was completely on the mend.  So, I texted Tamar to cancel and tell her that I thought we didn’t really need to meet again; for our previous meeting, I took her out to lunch and gave her a card and was totally prepared to say goodbye, so maybe I needed to stick to my plan and have that be our last meeting.  I suck at goodbyes and I didn’t want to have to go through it all again.  The problem is, I may have burned an important bridge; Tamar never got back to me and I don’t know if she is just busy or pissed off that I cancelled another lesson and told her I didn’t think I needed any more, in a text.  The text was super nice and filled with honest sentiments of gratitude, but perhaps she would have preferred a phone call, or maybe I just totally screwed up her schedule.  I figured she had taught me all I need for now and it was time for a new student to benefit from her skills and knowledge.  I hope that I didn’t completely piss her off, but in any case, my O&M training is officially over and Zelda and I are on our own.

 

Eating Feelings

I have been eating my grief in mouthfuls of unhealthy foods and bottles of booze; since beginning my O&M lessons, I have gained 8 pounds.  But, recently, Joe changed shifts and I took it as an opportunity to get healthier, both emotionally and physically.  I haven’t had a drink since we started getting up at 4 a.m., and I thought I was eating better, but in the past week, I have gained 2 pounds.  I feel defeated and I know that I continually defeat myself;. it is an avalanche.

I have dropped down into dark places since I was a child, and although I have become more adept at getting myself out of them, the older I get, the less I want to get myself out.  I feel exhausted sometimes, just by the act of breathing and having to interact with the world on any level.  I can’t find the energy to propel the positive into a more prominent position than the negative; and so I eat.  I eat and I gain weight and I become more and more unrecognizable to myself.

It has also occurred to me, because I have gained so much weight during O&M,, that perhaps I eat so I can keep the focus on being over- weight rather than on things that are so much more important, like my writing and RP and Zelda and my close relationships. In my family, there in nothing worse than being over-weight, so if I stay over-weight, I get to keep being the failure in my family; my role stays intact and my focus steady.

Most days, I wake up wishing I could step out of my skin and be a better person for everyone around me.  A better wife and daughter and sister and friend.  Perhaps all of these feelings are happening simply because my O&M lessons are ending and it will be me and Zelda and blindness,  in a world that is breaking apart, a country that is falling into ruin under fists of rage and hatred.

I don’t write about this for sympathy, or even understanding, but simply because it is the truth and I know that it isn’t just my truth. So many people feel versions of this and I hope that my writing about it may help someone else feel less isolated.

This sadness isn’t all of who I am, just a part that I recognize and try to rise above so I can become someone better, someone who I know I can be. I look forward to the day when I can see the person behind all of this darkness.

 

 

 

#8 Blindfolded

Tamar and I got right to work today.  I had a pretty good week with Zelda and I was running late this morning and screwed up Tamar’s schedule a bit, so no need or time for a therapy session; I also think we were both trying to avoid getting me too anxious about what was to come.

When I saw Tamar coming up my walkway, I noticed she was holding a surgical mask – aka blindfold – and I knew she hadn’t forgotten what she promised the week before; perhaps I was very slightly and secretly wishing she had.  She smiled and asked if I was up to it; she is always respectful and asks how I am feeling, but doesn’t let me get away with backing out of things she knows I can handle.  I was ready.

We walked to the south end of my driveway and she handed me the blindfold.  Before I started walking, we had an exchange that was so subtle, but empowering for me.  I asked her to hold onto my sunglasses while I put on the blindfold and after it was secure, I opened my purse, found my sunglasses case, asked her for my sunglasses and put them away.  I know it sounds insignificant to simply put one’s glasses away, but the fact that Tamar just let me do it without trying to help or take over made me feel competent.  Before I took a step, I had begun to feel confident that I could navigate the world without the use of my eyes.

When the blindfold is on, I always close my eyes; I can see light coming through but no images, and it makes me feel calmer when my eyes are shut.  I surrender myself to the experience, relax into the darkness and try to allow my other senses to tune in.  It is really a sort of meditative process.

After the blindfold is secure and my eyes gently closed, I take a breath and then a step.  Tamar tells me to stop.  We are in-between my driveway and the driveway of the building next door. She asks me to listen.  Do I hear cars?  The garage gate opening? She asks me to feel with my feet.  Do I notice the ground beginning to slope downward?  And of course, to feel with Zelda.  What is to the left and right of me to indicate we have come to a driveway?  The end of a grass line or wall?

I listen.  I hear cars, but they are behind me on Sunset; not close enough to be a danger.  The gate is quiet and there are no cars moving parallel to me.  I feel with my feet.  As I approach the driveway, the ground slopes slightly downward and my ankle pivots to adjust to the change.  I put Z to work, swinging her to the left and to the right.  She alerts me to a low metal wall on the right which I know indicates the north side of the driveway of the building next door.  She also lets me know that the ground level has changed.  I determine it is safe and we move on.

We are taking the same path as the previous week, and of course this is my neighborhood so I have a mental map of the terrain, but without the use of my eyes, the experience is completely different.  Using Zelda, I get a much better feeling for exactly how wide the side-walk is.  I know that there is grass on either side of me as I pass the building next door, but now I feel the contours of how and where the grass lines begin.  In some places, the grass sits above the sidewalk and in others it sits below and creates a subtle drop off; when I am using my eyes, a subtle drop off can have me flat on my face in less than a second.

We continue down the street, past more driveways and buildings.  At one point, I hear someone get out of a car, so I stop and listen to both what the car is doing and in which direction the person is going.  The car drives away and the man ( I know it is a man because I can hear him talking on his phone) crosses my path and proceeds up the stairs on my right.  I know he is walking upstairs because I can hear the change in his footfalls.  It is incredible; most of us have heard people on the stairs, but it is as if I was hearing the stairs themselves; the way they received the weight of the man and the material from which they are made; solid concrete that responds with dull recognition to the mans feet.  We walk on.

We are about two-thirds of the way down my block; I know this because I can hear the cars on Fountain Ave. more distinctly.  We cross more driveways, feeling the dips in the sidewalk and we encounter trash cans that have been left out and a couple of times I veer too close to the street and Z let’s me know by alerting me to a parked car.  We pass a friend’s house with tall hedges in the front and I know we are just one building away from the intersection.  I slow down, considerably, and Tamar tells me to keep going, trust Zelda.  I continue to walk, hearing the cars on Fountain as if they are inches from me, and then Zelda dips down abruptly and I know I have found the curb.

Tamar asks me to listen to the traffic and position myself so the cars are to my right, running parallel to me.  She says I should hear them at my shoulder.  I put myself in the right direction and again head toward the curb.  Zelda let’s me know I am there with no problem and I do my A (anchor) B (staying behind Zelda) C’s (check it out); I find the edge of the curb with my foot and test the depth with Zelda and then I stop again and listen.  I am listening to find out if my parallel cars are moving or stationary,  and for the presence of a possible right turner.  I know the light is green when my parallel cars are moving past me, so I flag my cane and proceed across the street.  Half way across, I hear something I never hear at a moderately busy intersection, or even on a quiet street; I hear a Prius.

When I am out with just my eyes and no Zelda, I am on constant look out for all Prius type cars.  They creep and sneak and barely make a sound; or so I thought.  I heard the Prius today as if it was as loud as any other car. It was such a distinct sound from all of the other traffic, like a voice joining an orchestra with pristine timing.  It turned left and raced over the cross walk in front of me.  I will fear the Prius no more.

Tamar and I continued down a small, narrow stretch of Fountain Avenue.  Zelda alerted me to low walls, telegraph poles, and the curb when I veered too far to the right.  When we got to the next crossing, I got myself positioned, waited for the surge of parallel traffic, flagged my cane and got on my way.  At the other side, Z found the curb where I did my ABC’s, made sure the path ahead was clear of poles, furniture, sleeping men and garbage cans and stepped up onto the curb.  Tamar didn’t have to give me a prompt this time; I listened and positioned myself to make sure the traffic was to my back and knew I was heading North on Martel Ave.

I was feeling in a groove; nervous but happy.  I was actually having fun discovering how amazing all of my other senses can be, and feeling a heightened confidence in Zelda.  Martel is the street with the crazy, colossal mountain of broken, raised and dipping sidewalk (all in one small area), and I knew it was coming up soon.  I wasn’t nervous; I think I may have actually been looking forward to it.  It wasn’t because I had done it the week before, but because the anxiety of having to use my eyes wasn’t there.  I knew that I could trust my feet and my ears and Zelda, so much more than I can trust my eyes.

I made it across the mountain obstacle and up Martel to Sunset Blvd, where I veered to the right at one point, toward the curb and traffic, but Z let me know and I corrected my position and walked on.  I apparently have an unfortunate tendency to veer to the right, but with Zelda to warn me of what’s ahead, I can deal with it.  During all of this, Tamar didn’t once try to pull me out of harms way or shriek in fright as I neared a potentially dangerous area; she just trusted that I could do it and let me do it.  Of course I know that she would never let anything happen to me, but I know that she has faith in my ability to make it through this and that helps me believe it as well.

Tamar asked me how my anxiety level, when I was blindfolded and with Z, compares to being out with just my eyes to assist me.  I realized the difference is astounding; it is as if all the stomach tightening, teeth clenching fear and distress are pulled off my back when my eyes don’t have to be in the picture.  I was nervous and, at times, wary; but not once did I stumble, trip , fall, stub my toes,  injure myself or crash into anything. I think I may be warming up to this white cane thing.

 

 

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