28 Nov 2011

Hide and Seek



‘everything is funny, as long as it’s happening to somebody else’

Will Rogers

I am remembering how, nearly thirty years ago, my sighted daughter gave me a new outlook on motherhood by helping me to see through her curious eyes. From the moment she could string coherent words together, Claire was able to bring obscure objects to life in my mind’s eye by describing them in child-like detail. She learned that if she placed something in my hand, or drew a particular shape into my open palm, it meant mummy could ‘see’ the thing she was describing or playing with. Mother and daughter kept in constant communication through touch, smell, sound and with the bantar of inventive descriptions. Little Claire was only too pleased to have constant interaction with her mother, and I had a child helping me with sighted tasks, making life easier, most of the time!

I was forever asking her to describe objects or find items in the house as my eager assistant. She ran up and down the corridor with galloping footsteps on countless missions retrieving the object I had requested from another room. We sifted through cupboards to find matching pairs of socks, pillow cases, earings or parts to favourite puzzles, turning everything into a game of hide and seek. Claire enjoyed these random challenges, it didn’t matter to my child that her mother couldn’t see properly and sometimes this was an added bonus for her: sticky hand prints on walls, crayons on clothing, cereal under her chair, were scenes brought to my attention only by family or friends. I felt a little embarrassed to have a messy house but at least I had an excuse and could conveniently ‘turn a blind eye’ to it, as my daughter did.

When her younger brother was born, Claire dutifully kept a close eye on his every move. Russell could not get away with anything, Warden-Claire was always on his case.

‘Not to touch Sussell, not to TOUCH! Mummy, Sussell’s being nordy.’

On peaceful afternoons, the three of us sat on the carpeted floor and looked at large tactile books or worked together fitting wooden pieces into puzzles. If I couldn’t see the images on pages in ordinary children’s books, I asked chatty-Claire to spell out words or tell us the shapes, colours or pictures being flashed past my face. My children loved being ‘mummy’s eyes’ but there were times when I needed a quick answer to finish a particular task and my daughter would go into a silly mood - rolling around on the floor, pretending not to hear my request. At these frustrating moments, I felt held to ransom by having to rely on the sight of one so young. The only thing that worked at these times, was to coax her with a bribe. On hearing the new game we were playing, her competitive brother pipes up, ‘I’ll help Mummy.’ And then I had both children scrambling and argueing to claim the promised reward.

One day while walking to the local shopping centre, Russell snug in the stroller and his four-year-old sister on duty by my side, I ask my observant daughter to look out for the street sign that begins with the letter ‘B’. I am confident that we are on the right track but am surprised when Claire suddenly pulls the stroller to a complete halt.

‘No Mummy, this street doesn’t start with the letter B,’ she states anxiously.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, it begins with the letter S.’ Claire is adamant. She knows her alphabet. I know the points of the compass. I ask her to sound out the letters on the sign.

‘Ss. Tuh. O. Puh.’


I laugh, then explain the mystery for her. ‘Oh sweetie, that’s a stop sign for the traffic.’ She looks confused, and refuses to believe me. We search for the actual street sign and compare the two metal boards with their different shape, colour and letters so she knows for next time.

With her puzzled mind now clarified, we walk on to the large department store. My children suddenly scamper off with typical excitement, as if this expansive space is a glorified indoor playground. I search in vain to find them. Heads turn and sigh at me as I try to locate them, needing my children’s visual help to read price tags and clothing sizes. I can hear them, but where are they? I grab Claire by her cardigan sleeve as she sprints past, recognising her giggle and growl at her,

‘Claire, stop running around. Tell me quietly, what does this price tag say?’ Hoping for a discreet reply, I cringe as she yells,

‘DOLLAR SIGN. ONE. THREE. FULL STOP. NINE-FIVE,’ and wriggles free from my grip to hide once more with her partner in crime under another rack of clothing somewhere. I call for them both to come back, pushing an empty stroller and spend most of my shopping time as a super-sleuth, tracking their naughty giggles coming from under racks of ladies lingerie, then over to mens winter shirts. It is a hide and seek paradise for my children with a blind mother doing the impossible seeking. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry … little devils, just wait till I get hold of them again. Wondering how to go about this sighted task, I start to circle the isles, narrowing down the spot where I hear contriving whispers.

‘If you come out now, I’ll buy you both a lolly?’


Russell is first to come out from his hiding place and darts back into the waiting stroller like a joey scrambling into an empty pouch. Claire crawls out from underneath a dressing gown rack and resumes her angelic chaperone position with a sweet expression as if to show she had never left my side.

‘What well behaved children?’ says the lady at the front door.

My little cherubs grin from behind sticky lollipops and we glide past, a serene picture of happiness -  with my empty shopping basket dangling on the handles of the blue and white-striped stroller.

‘Never judge another person until you have walked a mile in their shoes

– that way, when you do, you will be a mile away AND have their shoes…’

****

25 Nov 2011

His Guiding Eyes

His Guiding Eyes
In appreciation of my guide dog

‘Hi, I’m Jonathon,' says a voice as I hold out my hand, surprised he does not take my lead to shake hands. I feel somewhat embarrassed.
'Sorry, I can’t see very well.'
'Me neither,' he giggles making accidental contact with my floating hand.
He takes up the harness of his guide dog and says, 'forward Sam, find
the way.' Turning his head towards me, he adds, ‘my office is this way.'

This was my first experience of the blind leading the blind, a moment of
heart-felt connection with a person of ‘my kind’. When I had made an
appointment to see the disability officer, I had no idea that the social
worker himself was blind. Our conversation flows easily and mutual
admiration is kindled as we exchange stories, both embarrassing ones
and sensitive reflections. I am pleasantly surprised by Jonathon’s
honesty as he relates his blindness story and his reasons for choosing to
work with a guide dog. He speaks with such genuine confidence and a
realistic acceptance of his limitations, that I realise it might be just the
right time for me to seek help for my own independent mobility needs:
that very day, I call the Guide Dog Centre.

Only ten days after the application had been approved, one of the
trainers call me,
‘We have a dog we think is perfect for you. When can you start
training?’
Chaotic thoughts scramble into a bubbling mess - excitement, doubt,
fear…knowing that my life was about to dramatically change! Am I
really ready for all this? Can I cope with another mouth to feed? If she is
a true Labrador, she’ll eat me out of house and home. I reassure
negative thoughts: this is not a baby, it’s a highly skilled dog trained to
be my eyes. Amazingly, Jonathon had successfully applied for his second
guide dog and would be in the same training group. Over the next 4
weeks I learn a great deal from Jonathon: his candid advice is practical
and very matter of fact. 'Just remember, treat your dog like your own
kid, say what you mean and mean what you say. Pure and simple.’

It was exciting to think that with one more sleep, I was about to meet
the newest member of our family. What is her name? What colour is she?
What type of personality does she have? With belongings in place, in
our accommodation room at the training centre, I wander up to the
lounge area, guided by the handrail while my three year old son skips
along by my side. Four other clients sit around chatting with the trainers
and staff. My son runs around the room energetically like a wild flying
object making himself very much at home. He is the only child staying
here, the other clients kindly accept his exuberant presence.

Peter and Jung conduct a casual introduction session where we all finally
learn about our new guide dogs individually. Even though we are not
meeting our companions until tomorrow, we are given their leads to
fondle, fresh with the new smell of leather, while the trainers reveal to
each one of us the mystery of our four legged companion. Up until now,
none of us had any idea whether we had a female or male, a black
Labrador, blonde or golden, and our new canine friends already have
Names. Peter addresses the group,

'Who wants to go first?' Jonathon pipes up instantly, the rest of us are
not so confident. Jonathon‘s new dog is a black Labrador called ‘Riley’.
He is thrilled with both the dog’s name and the fact that the loose
strands of black fur will blend with dark work suits. Next is Pearl, a
vision-impaired client from Perth, who is given her first guide dog, Marie,
a blonde Labrador with a kind nature. An older gentleman, Mike, is next
to be paired up with fifteen month old black lab ‘Ollie'. Two of us left:
Judith learns that her four-legged blonde companion is called 'Orina'. I
wait with bated breath. Peter looks at me,
'Maribel, your dog is a golden male Labrador. He’s quite a lad, his name
is Nev.'
'Nev? What sort of a name is that?'
'You’ll get used to it The name actually suits him.’
Hmm, I am not impressed.

The next day – is our first blind date! The trainers ask the new clients to
wait in our bedrooms where one by one, our guide dogs will be brought
to our rooms from the kennels. Peter’s last minute advice is to have
some doggy-treats in my pocket and goes off to get this Nev character. I
sit nervously crossed-legged on the floor waiting for my new companion
to arrive. Outside the door, I hear Peter’s soft voice, calming the dog
who, judging by the sound of claws slipping on terracotta tiles, must be
as excited as I am. The door slowly opens.
'Steady, Nev.' Peter commands firmly, 's-t-e-a-d-y.'
I hear the brittle rattle of the leash as Peter pulls gently on Nev’s
choker chain to contain the dog’s exuberance. Nev comes prancing
towards me, putting his head right up into my face as if he knows I can’t
see him.
'He’s very excited,' Peter says as he hands me the leash, 'just sit quietly
with him for a few minutes and when you are ready, come and join us in
the lounge room.' Peter glides quietly out of the door and the dog and I
are alone.
'Hello, Nev.’ I hand him a dog biscuit from my pocket and unclip his
leash, expecting the obedient animal to sit calmly by my side on the
floor. Instead, he bounces wildly, free from the constraint of the lead, to
frantically circle the room in search of more doggy-treats. I am stunned.
Here before me is a monster shark in search of FOOD – what about me?
Hello? I grab his collar as he skates past, quickly attaching his leash to
re-establish control. 'SIT, NEV!'
Looking surprised, he sits down by my side still sniffing the air. I run my
fingers through his warm fur, feeling his well defined forehead, hard and
wide, his velvety triangular ears and long whiskered nose: surprised to
feel just how long it extends with small veins popping out on its smooth
surface. Nev sits with his paws stretched out in front and I glide
my hands down his slender legs to complete his image in my
mind’s eye. Nev now licks my hand apologetically, and we begin
to make friends. Was he really going to be my guiding eyes?

The first week of training was fraught with many emotional ups and
downs: from being high as a kite when a command was remembered
correctly to then feeling totally hopeless at forgetting the procedure and
collapsing into a pool of tears. Failure – success – success – failure. We
had to learn how to use our tone, how to correct a mistake, how to
praise, how to walk together and how to trust the guide dog! The
newness of it all was physically exhausting and emotionally
overwhelming. But the patient support from our trainers, encouraged us
through our moments of vulnerability and self doubt. The reality of
having a dog by my side twenty four hours a day brought on post-dog
blues as I struggled to cope with the newness of it all: a three year old
child on my right, a fifteen month old puppy on my left, both so full of
mischief and inquisitiveness, and me, the clown, in the middle.

A guide dog is the pilot and his handler, the navigator. What was truly
remarkable was that Nev really understood the commands ‘find right’ or
‘find left’, at which he would flick a quick glance up at me and then turn
immediately in the direction I had just requested. Once the harness
went over his head, his personality dramatically changed: before the
harness, a lively scatterbrain, after the harness: a focussed and
dedicated pilot.

After a couple of weeks of training in the comfortable confines of the
centre, the big day came when we had to climb aboard the minibus and
try out our newly acquired skills in public. Five obedient dogs, five
anxious handlers and two confident trainers all set off for a secret
destination to carry out our first ‘real’ walk. Jonathon repeats his simple
mantra, 'just say what you mean and mean what you say, you’ll be fine.'
Suddenly, the bus stops and the trainers brief us on what to expect next.
I feel like someone waiting in the back of a sky divers’ plane about to be
pushed into the vast unknown. The sliding door opens,
'Jonathon?'
I sit back into the hard vinyl seat, relieved, touching Nev’s warm back
for reassurance. He lovingly looks up at me as I rub his velvety soft ears,
like holding onto a comforting teddy bear.
'Maribel and Nev?' comes the next call. On hearing his name, Nev
springs to his feet, leading me towards the bus door and prances down
the two metal steps. Once on the footpath, I organise my guide dog into
the correct starting position, Nev fidgets as I untangle the leash from
around his legs, my fingers fumbling to take proper hold of harness
and leash.
‘When you’re ready?' Peter smiles.
Nev and I do a couple more nervous circles.
'Sometime today would be good.'
I flick a sideways glare and nod. This is it, the test of all our training
time. Our task is to walk with my guide dog through the local shops to
the end of the street without colliding with any objects on the way. Peter
will follow at a distance in case we get into any difficulties. I have to
trust Nev completely. Let’s hope no one has dropped any trails of food
along the way…

'Forward Nev, find the way.'
My canine guide prances slightly in front, his body swerves gently to the
left and I follow his lead. We cruise past inquisitive people sitting at the
tables of a café and feel the heat from staring eyes on my back as we
strut by. Keeping our combined focus, Nev and I proudly continue our
journey with grace and skill. I am deeply moved by Nev’s genuine
concern and ability to guide us successfully around varying obstacles:
rubbish bins, advertising signs, benches, bicycles, toddlers, potholes
and other potential dangers. As we reach the end of the street to our
destination, I burst into tears. Peter sprints to my side,
'What’s wrong Maribel?'
'I’m so proud of Nev. I can’t believe he just did all that for me.'
Peter removes his hand from my shoulder, ‘Oh, good grief, that’s his
job!’
Hugging my guide dog, my face in his warm fur, I whisper,
‘My dear Nevie, we did it.’

****

23 Nov 2011

at the gateway to blindness

at the gateway to blindness

By Maribel Steel

One may not reach the dawn, save by the path of the night’

Kahlil Gibran



Introduction

Hello dear reader,

Let me introduce myself as I join the world wide blogging-brigade of enthusiastic writers, to share my experiences of living with a vision-impairment. The thought of creating my own blog has captured my imagination and I am looking forward to relating stories that may give people an insight into the world unseen: the good, the bad and the unbelievable!

I live in Melbourne, Australia with a wonderful partner and teenage son – my sighted guides who are almost as well trained as my retired guide dog. I love to get around independently too with a white cane which took many years to accept but have happily learned this cane is my magic wand of power… it gets me to the front of long queues, brings help from kind strangers, parts a clear pathway (usually) through busy city streets, gets me on a plane first and then escorted off last, on the arm of a handsome pilot - and so much more...

Yes, I might be described as an opportunist – it is the journey towards blindness I can be grateful for, learning to use many other senses: to hear, to touch, to smell, to intuit, to love and to laugh. But I do not pretend that the sun shines every day, and at times I cry with sheer frustration or feel wild indignation, for the gradual loss of sight, for things that might have been, for the tedious effort required on my part to carry out a simple sighted task.

At the age of sixteen, I was diagnosed with an incurable eye condition, Retinitis Pigmentosa (RP), then I received bee-sting therapy in the UK, in the hope of a ‘cure’ and in the same year, at seventeen, my family lost our dear mother to cancer.

Somehow I moved on to fill the job description of mother, masseur and musician, holding this position for over the next thirty-odd years…which are some of the stories in my unpublished autobiography, Chasing the light.

The stories yet to come in this blog, are intended to not only be my reflections of the challenges encountered along this journey, but is an invitation to the reader to suggest topics of interest, by asking those questions you puzzle over but dare not ask for fear of offending a blind person. Consider this blog as your opportunity to be in touch with a different view point as we stand together, facing the gateway to blindness.



‘What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly’

Richard Bach



23 November 2011

Blindness is bliss.

By Maribel Steel



It occurs to me, as I stand at the shop counter over run by gadgets, toys and an overwhelming assortment of ‘things’ that the silly season is well and truly upon us -  and I can blissfully ignore their silent plea ‘come on, buy me…you know you want me…’ I can’t be tempted. This vision-impaired shopper is on a mission, with blinkers on and is happily waiting for the three items she has already purchased, to be tied up with pretty ribbons and bows by the kind shop assistant. I stand patiently, completely oblivious to the items bulging on shelves in the shop trying to lure my cash from out of my purse. My hand glides over the counter and feels a smooth tin, a small cardboard box and curiously, I ask ‘what is this? Just another useless must have. I take a casual look around the store pretending to see and laugh, ‘It is at times like this, I am really glad I can’t see in your store.’

But withholding from impulse buying has not prevented my reputation as ‘the bag lady’ as even with partial sight, I can still sniff out a bargain! Such is my joy for shopping that recently when my dear menfolk and I were touring the scented streets of Paris, I would often ask, ‘what shop is that?’

Their reply, wanting to keep moving onwards, knowing how long I take to touch everything in the store, came the unanimous, ‘Fish shop!’

‘Come on guys, there can’t be that many fish shops in Paris?’

‘Yes there can.’

‘Look, what is that shiney thing in the window?’

‘Fish.’

‘Smells like Chanel to me.’

‘Yep. Chanel for fish.’

And we keep striding onwards to their desired destination – the mobile phone shop.



****