It's a girl!

Welcome to my latest little grand-daughter, Silver Lily – this post is for your wonderful mummy who came into my life thirty years ago and changed my world forever – now it is your turn!  …

As a vision-impaired and inexperienced mother, I was petrified that I would accidentally hurt my new born baby - especially when changing her cloth nappies with sharp pins (disposables were not an affordable option in those distant days). I had to feel my way slowly into motherhood. The first six weeks were horrendous, as any new parent can testify: sleep deprivation driving one to utter despair.

I felt so inadequate when my baby daughter continued to cry in spite of all my well intended efforts to comfort her. Can’t she at least stop crying when her own mother is doing her best to settle her? When sleep was completely absent after five days in a row, I collapsed in the back of our Bedford van parked in the drive way, desperate for sleep. I had to escape her constant screams and gave her father the opportunity to do his best for a few hours - just so I could smile again.

My husband bought me a lovely old rocking chair that worked a treat to breastfeed our new  baby in comfort which seemed to calm her at least. However, my mother-in-law, with whom we wer sharing the same house at the time, did not approve of demand feeding. In her old fashioned view, this was a ridiculous modern method : she had followed the advice of baby-expert, Truby King.  He advocated a strict feeding regime in the 1940’s, where feeding a baby was recommended at four hour intervals, not a minute sooner. Well, my little Claire had not heard of the Truby King approach so we had to sneak away to the bedroom every two and a half hours to demand feed my unsettled baby - praying her  grandmother would not come looking for us. In these divine moments of rare contentment, Claire clung to me like a sweet angel as we rocked in the warmth of motherhood.

Despite fumbling through the first few months, inadequacy was replaced by confidence, anxiety became acceptance, chaos transformed to welcome routine – but the need for sleep was, still, the need for sleep!

Claire’s crying settled more and more as she grew older, giving her father and I the confidence to  attempt going out for a family meal like real adults. On one memorable occasion, we were enjoying our dinner with Claire sitting between us, upright in a portable high chair. I was feeding her little portions from my plate, locating her mouth with my finger as my eyes. All of a sudden, her father leans towards me saying calmly,

‘You know you are putting the potato salad in her ear?’

‘What? Don’t be stupid.’ Then I hesitate. Struck with horror, I check Claire’s face and almost die of embarrassment – it was true! She had turned her head just at the crucial moment of inserting the food and I had mistaken her little ear for her petite mouth. Who else in the restaurant had noticed? ‘Oh God, you do it.’ I snap, thrusting the spoon into her father’s hand. All I wanted to do at that very moment was to slink quietly under the table to die of shame.

If at first you don’t succeed –

find out why!    Anon

Blind People Shouldn't Eat Meatballs

Snippets from my unpublished autobiography…

‘You know, Mum, blind people shouldn’t eat meat balls’
‘What do you mean Michael?’
‘Well, meat balls are very messy. Blind people shouldn’t eat them’
 ‘Why not?’
‘They might get them all over their clothes’
‘So what should they eat?’
‘Toast!’

Seeing the world through my children’s eyes was a natural way of life for our family. As my eldest daughter had not moved to Melbourne with us, I turn to young Michael and train my son to be highly observant, as quite frankly, it was less traumatic to teach my two year-old new skills than argue with uncooperative teenagers. It was emotionally difficult for me to accept I should, perhaps, be using a white cane – but false pride hindered acceptance of the truth.

I just couldn’t see myself doing the ‘blind’ thing. The term dis-abled just did not fit my way of thinking or being. So, I used Michael’s stroller as my guiding eyes with him safely strapped inside. The wheels shuddered over rough pavements, the vibrations showing me the way to shop entrances. I got away with bumping into things as if I were just another sleep-deprived mother distracted by her chatty child.

Michael always enjoyed our shopping jaunts. I feared them with a passion. For the non-sighted, supermarkets in particular, are a sensory nightmare. The amount of mental energy and good humour required to function amid such chaos is immense. Unfortunately, my hungry family required feeding,  I would have been quite content to munch on raw carrots and drink red wine!  So, once a week, I head off to hunt and gather. Michael sits in the shopping trolley, oblivious to my stress, as I chant, ‘I can do this…I can do this.’ We surge forward into the unpredictable trolley-traffic hoping to avoid an accident. I cling fiercely to the handle while wandering in a daze. Thousands of similar looking boxes, tins and packages. How am I going to find Anything? Michael gives little clues as we wander the isles. ‘Chippies mum?’ It is difficult to rely on my other senses in an environment as artificial as a supermarket. The odour of strong chemicals over power subtle food smells. Michael’s unintentional clues guide me. ‘Lollies. Juice. Jelly. Ice cream.’ I stop and touch the items on the shelf and narrow down the selection with logical precision. If this is a tin of green peas the canned tomatoes must be just around here somewhere. ‘Michael, can you see the tin of tomatoes?.....Clever boy.’ Sometimes I latch onto a trainee shop assistant packing shelves and lure them away from their work to follow me up and down the aisles in search of several products. 

There was a time when I could not bring myself to accept a white cane, fearful of the judgement of others…gladly, much has changed…
Market days were a weekly event which brought every man and his dog out into Main Street, and I mean, every man and his dog. Caught up in the crowd shuffle I push my son’s stroller in front of us, like a battering-ram until we get through to the end of the street. Every now and then I pause to feel home-crafted wares. To see them properly means picking up the item, working it out by its shape and texture and putting it back down again.

As I do this, the stall holder hovers close by offering information I really don’t want.’Thank you, I’m just looking,’ I say politely – then move on to another stall to do exactly the same. In a sighted persons world the act of picking up an item equates to interest in purchasing the item. In a vision-impaired person’s world, I am just browsing with my hands. I pull out a note from my purse. Not quite sure how much I am holding in my hand, I peer at it very closely for several moments before handing it over to the man in the stall. 'Saying goodbye to a good friend are we?' he asks, with a smirk in his voice. Later that day, I make a purchase over the phone. To process my order the operator asks, 'Can I have your driver’s licence please?' 'Sorry, I don’t have one, I’m legally blind.' After a moment of hesitation she says, 'Oh. You don’t sound blind?' ‘Hmm. Really?' I am astonished. How am I supposed to sound?

'Yes, you really don’t sound blind at all. You sound so, um…intelligent.'

'Gosh. Really? How do blind people sound?' I’m really curious. 'Oh, well you know, they can be a bit vague,' she replies as if this is a very insightful thing to say. 'Vague?' I repeat, trying now to sound vague. 'Yes…but you don’t sound at all like that.' 'So, blind people don’t sound very intelligent?' I persist as if cross-examining like a defence lawyer. 'Well, you know, they are a bit vague.’ I’m lost for words. She adds quickly, ‘But I’m so glad you’re not.' 'So am I.' I reply, hoping this conversation had been recorded for training purposes. Next she’ll be asking me if I eat meatballs too…

A great many people think they are thinking when they are merely rearranging their preferences
  William James

Many Different Hats

In 2008, I entered a short story in the Vision Australia Dickinson’s Literary Awards and won an Honourable Mention in the autobiographical section for the following story. As a result, I was asked to be one of the judges for last year and again this year’s, Dickinson’s awards which I am proud to be a part of. Good luck to all this years entrants - as entries have now closed – let the judging, and great stories, begin…!

While standing on the pedestrian island in the middle of Dandenong Road with peak hour traffic zooming past, I stop to consider just how challenging it is to get from home to my workplace. Firstly, with my mother hat securely in place, I walk my son to school, kiss and hug him goodbye, then negotiate my way to the tram stop.

 The entire time, all of my senses are switched to high alert, manoeuvring around a host of obstacles in this unpredictable environment. My ears prick up for the slightest hint of anything different today: workmen, rubbish bins, old mattresses dumped on the footpath.

My mother hat is swiftly replaced with a survival hat to help me cross the six-lane highway with its heavy traffic using my white cane as my trusted guide. I listen intently with complete focus and concentration – not one other thought crosses my mind except “Stay safe”.  Luckily, the audible beeping lights actually work today – well that helps! Cautiously I cross the tram tracks and appear calm as I wait with the other city-bound travellers.

 With my sensitive hat on, my nose twitches at the noxious fumes of trapped pollution. My eyes are stinging and my ears are bombarded with the unpleasant roar of the traffic. At the tram stop, a friendly old gentleman starts chatting with me, attracted by the white cane.  He helps to identify the right tram, which is a relief. Our chat continues until my stop.  The brief interaction with a kind stranger gives me a sense of connectedness to others.  I step off the tram clinging to two hats, my well worn survival hat plus my “Don’t panic” hat.

I am delicately poised on a metre of uneven ground, between a tram line and a wide highway, ready to lunge forward at the next break in traffic. My body is tense, my hand and feet rigid, my thoughts and hearing focused. It is an unnerving place to be, heavy metal roaring past, with trams thundering by only inches from my heels. The deep vibrations on the metal tracks linger well after the tram has moved on.  I hear people darting across the road and I dare not run this gauntlet as I have no idea if they are jumping the traffic lights since the warning beeps are not working on this crossing. An observant young woman comes to my rescue and gently guides me over to the safety of the pavement. My cane always alerts others to my impairment and often brings much appreciated help which has sometimes lead to lasting friendships.

I count the ten large concrete steps to the front foyer of my work place with a sense of relief and achievement. Not only have I located the right building in these busy city streets, I  have arrived safely and its time to don my work hat, but I am not at my desk yet. There is still the tiny lift to locate. I squeeze into it and listen to the robotic voice announcing the floors.  At the right moment I dash out, careful not to get my cane caught in the uncompromising doors. I confidently make the final short trek to my desk on the ninth floor and slump into my chair. Even though the trip has taken under an hour, so many hats have been necessary: mother hat, survival hat, don’t panic hat, focus hat, stay calm hat, courageous hat, alert hat …

It has taken a lot of mental energy and emotional courage just to get this far but although the journey into the city may have ended, new challenges are about to present themselves. A new unpredictable environment awaits me – they may not be life-threatening but it can bruise my ego if I stumble over unexpected objects amid the clutter of desks, filing cabinets and even loose items on the floor.

My work day passes quickly and before I know it, it is time to set off again for home, in reverse order – the lift, the steps, the roads, the traffic, the tram stop, school, home.  I climb aboard the number 5 tram, relieved to have a few minutes to rest my eyes. Check list: work hat off, multi-tasking mother’s hat on? Yes! I arrive home safely with my son, my brain thumping and eyes stinging. My tense body lets go of rigid muscles in the comfort of our home, where most things are predictable.

Each time I step out of the house, a whole new adventure begins, presenting a new set of unpredictable challenges as well as hazards of all descriptions:  people, poles, rubbish bins, post-boxes, shop signs, outdoor chairs, benches, tables, steps, uneven sections of pavement, parked motorbikes, bicycles, dogs on long leashes, small children on small bikes, waiters dashing out from café entrances – not to mention tram tracks, glass bus stops, overhanging branches (particularly not appreciated in the rain), puddles, unaligned kerbs … The list is endless.

As a vision-impaired person, to cope with my limitations and to successfully function in a sighted world, I have learned to refine certain qualities along the way, like razor-sharp wits, well-honed orientation skills, courage, trust, good humour – and, of course – a fetish for many different hats!

Speak To Me JAWS

JAWS, JAWS For Windows is Ready

I had this post ready just before the Festive Season – but a hiccup with Google has delayed things slightly…my blog was accidently deleted, but all has been forgiven. I send my gratitude to the people who helped set things right again. So – on with a new year of writing…   

I thought some of you may be wondering, how a person who cannot see the computer screen, is able to post a story on a blog, respond to emails, surf the net, and be daring enough to participate like a sighted person in a sighted tech-world!

Well, let me introduce you to the ‘guy’ who likes to run the show…the screen reading program with a synthesized voice known world-wide as JAWS. And they say women can talk? Cough, cough…  

JAWS (Job Access With Speech) is like having a verbose parrot perched on your shoulder, insisting on repetitive chatter once the computer is switched on. I have grown accustomed to his annoying ways: the way he announces things three times in a row: the unnecessary words he throws in all the time I have to ignore after every key stroke: the extra long winded announcements of numbers and figures not even present on the screen that I must listen to in order to hear the next key command.

Here is an example of what I mean.

On starting up my computer, these are the words I listen for to know I can begin pressing keys and searching files. ‘JAWS JAWS for Windows is ready.’

Nothing can happen before these words are announced, no rushing the process -  this male synthesized voice cannot multi task, so I let the over worked guy gather his strength for another full-on typing day. JAWS, is known throughout the blind community as a screen reading program. The incessant voice that guides and navigates me through the technical maze without using a mouse. A very clever speech synthesised program indeed, relaying information on every key I strike, accidently or on purpose, no matter how rapidly I scoot around my files, JAWS is right there with me, not missing a beat. I press his buttons and he doesn’t seem to mind. But, he does test the patience of any saint, talking far too much or disappearing to another window without mentioning where he has suddenly shifted. It’s a bit of a love-hate relationship, for when he is good he is very good but when he is bad, he is horrid!

Our relationship began in 2000 where we met in the beginners class of the training centre of Vision Australia. At first, my brain was completely frazzled by the end of each training session as I tried to remember countless new key strokes and finger commands required for starting the computer, locating a file, writing a document, filing that document and closing the computer. The hardest thing was getting used to the mono-tone robotic voice as the trainer explained the procedures: left ear on trainer, right ear on JAWS, my brain scrambled between the two. But like every new skill in life, the process thankfully became easier, logical, repetitive - and before long, JAWS and I were zipping through  complex lessons. I learned how to send emails and keep journals, type up course notes and file away documents, all without seeing the screen! It was liberating to have this new skill. Having already learned touch typing at school, I began to enjoy keeping a computer diary to save straining my eyes from over working.

I press the context key, One key, surely one word? No, this is what JAWS says on the press of this one key,

‘Applications. Menu. Cut unavailable T’.

Huh? And on cancelling the context key JAWS tells me,

‘Escape. Leaving menus. Print. Edit’.

So as not to confuse you, I have only press ONE key and cancelled that one key. Imagine what JAWS announces when we get into searching for files and folders?

My latest challenge in the auditory world of JAWS is joining the blogger-sphere to bring you a little closer into the world unseen – but VERY much spoken.

Here is a sample of the dialogue JAWS considers necessary when I venture into Inbox and find the first entry of that day…

‘Inbox. Inbox. Table. Set your 2012 writing resolutions writers digest 100 1.05am. Set your 2012 writers resolutions writers digest 100 1.05am. Unread’.

Ok, I am in my Inbox list. Now click enter – whereupon Jaws reads the above message all over again, three times in fact, with the additional words: ‘25%...60%...95%...100%’.

This is my cue to start pushing his buttons (which I gladly do, firmly) now we are in blog-land. As I thump away, he tells me,

‘Blogger navigation and search frame, blogger navigation and search frame’. 

Now I am in the text of the blog but wait, JAWS hasn’t finished yet, a mysterious notion in his wiring insists he read me the following ‘vital’ information 

‘Widgits slash hub 132433173 frame. Widgets slash hub 132433175 frame end’.

Happy JAWS? Can we move on? Only now, can I press the down arrow key to read/listen to the written word. And on completion of reading through the page, right at the bottom of the web document, it is not over until JAWS adds his final two bobs worth,

‘Flash end. Deal-do slash shopping js3 frame. Flash end deal-do slash shopping js3 frame end’.

Gee, thanks JAWS, what would I do without you? Not sure why but I can feel a headache coming on…..see you next time on Start Up.

What do you want the computer to do?’ are his final words as I press the button -

shut down!

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