Santa Maria Del Traje

This story is for Bee, who I know will understand and appreciate the sentiments…

Being vision-impaired is a ‘funny’ thing sometimes. Because I cannot rely on my poor ailing eyes to see, other senses have jumped to my rescue (and those of my family) as invaluable tools of the blind-trade. Eyes do what they can – but my hearing, sense of touch, taste and smell, memory and intuition, complete the survival tool kit.

I have noticed how sighted people are a little lazy when it comes to remembering details like phone numbers or web addresses or even where they last put something down – because of course, they can simply look for it again. But I cannot afford such a luxury -  the frustration is too great. My dear friend, Ms Memory, is always ready to record details and file them in folders and subfolders that reside somewhere in my brain – a filing cabinet full of trivial and important notes written in a hurry but filed impeccably by Ms Memory. Without her skill to retrieve data at a moment’s notice, I don’t think I would function so confidently in a sighted-world.  

I am forever touching things to remember them, wherever I go, to make sense of the blurry things in front of me - sometimes annoyingly so. In a queue, at a market stall, in an office supply,  at a fruit stand, among fragile homeware products and while standing idly at shop counters. Often it is my children that say “Mum! Stop touching everything!” I feel like a naughty child trying to understand a myriad of things all around me, and I find it amazing how gracefully my fingers can locate items without knocking them onto hard tiled floors.

At home, the ‘hand police’ patrol the domestic precinct and often come across misplaced objects – mostly my partner’s – so Ms Memory jots it down. Yep, his wallet in the washing basket…guitar capo in the bookcase, because, guess what? Without fail, I know he will ask,

“Have you seen my…?”

This common phrase in our home amuses me. Yes, the blind lady will find your misplaced item, dearest - shoes – glasses – keys – camera lens – laptop (a game usually played in haste on the way out of the door to a gig or before a weekend getaway).

The other thing that keeps me happily chugging along without full sight is being organised – very organised! There is a place for EVERYTHING. This saves precious time, energy and helps to steer clear of deep frustration and feelings of inadequacy. People may not appreciate how important it is not to move or change the way a blind person arranges their work space or home. I have crumpled to the floor in a pool of tears on several occasions, defeated by despair at having to give up the search for a simple kitchen utensil put away by a ‘helpful’ person. My dear friends reading this will now wonder if it is a reference to them? Relax – this was a few years ago – I have trained most people in my inner circle to understand the reason for my bossiness to leave things alone (especially the settings on my laptop). Now if they asked me if they could tidy up grubby stains on the cream walls? Not a problem - go for it!   

Being methodical, tidy and organised brings reliability. I prefer to allow time when  preparing to go out into the big wide world of unexpected obstacles. Calm order allows me to fully concentrate as I march with cane in hand, sweeping a clear path in front, body language clearly stating to oncoming human-traffic, ‘keep out of my way, I’m on a mission’. If, however, I am asked to fly by the seat of my unprepared, unironed pants, as sometimes naturally happens, particularly when caught up with Hurricane-Harry – life becomes…interesting…

“Have you seen my laptop? I’ve got to be at the gig in fifteen minutes,” he says.

Without time to look properly, he leaves the house and within ten minutes my mobile phone rings. What has he forgotten now? 

“I’ve left my suit behind!”

Why am I not surprised? He gabbles about where he put it, in the hall, intending to take it but so many things to remember… Calmly, I reassure him I will catch a tram, in the rain, and bring it to him, ok?

So, wielding trusty white cane, holding beloved umbrella purchased in the south of France, and carrying heavy suit wrapped in special covering:

on a tram…into the city…in the rain...went Santa Maria del Traje! 

(Spanish for Saint Mary of the Suit!)

©  Maribel Steel 2012

***

Making Scents

The best and most beautiful things in the world

cannot be seen nor touched, but are felt in the heart.                           

Helen Keller

In the late 90’s, I qualified as an Aromatherapist after two years of extensive studies - while retaining the role of mother, wife, nurse maid, family chef and chorister. I was thrilled with my new sensory career, relying on touch, smell and intuition as my guides. Then my fourth child decided it was a good time to arrive on the scene, bless him…and a year later, my children and I had moved to Melbourne.

With several mouths to feed, it was now a priority to establish my aromatherapy business to earn extra income for the family. I partitioned off a small area of our new home and made a cosy treatment space for my business endeavour. I had cards made, leaving them wherever I could - in ladies boutiques, hair and beauty salons, doctors’ waiting rooms, cafes and with parenting groups (hoping that the squeaky wheel would get the oil). I soon learned however, that it was word of mouth that brought in regular clientele more than advertising. My first client was a partially deaf woman, Barbara, who was a writer and performing clown – known as Lady Fruit Loop. As my first weekly client, we learned a lot about each other and became good friends. We loved going to the cinema together because we both played a very special role for one another: I was her ears, she was my eyes. During the movie, Barbra would ask me,

‘What did they say?’

And at times, I could ask her, ‘What are they doing?’

I loved my sensory work. Before each client’s treatment,I prepared a warmed room, placed soft clean towels on the massage table, selected an ambient CD, cleansed the air with fresh oils – and created aromatherapy massage blends like a cosmic wizard. My favourite oils were geranium, lavender, palmarosa, mandarin, sandalwood and vetiver for soothing emotions. Invigorating oils were rosemary, juniper, eucalyptus, lemongrass and bergamot. For a splash of sensory luxury, I would indulge my clients with frankincense, rose damascus, jasmine and neroli: I could not go past peppermint, tea tree, cedarwood, clove and sweet marjoram for muscular ache.

When measuring out the correct proportions of essential oil to carrier oil, I had to use a strong overhead light to see while carefully pouring the potent brew. I could either see the drop breaking the surface of the shiny oil or the tiny drops sparkling in the bright light as they hovered and dribbled drop by drop, from the fragrant bottles.

Some of my self-conscious clients were comforted by the fact that I could not see all their imperfections – but the truth was, I felt them with all-seeing hands! Working from home, my teenagers were expected to keep their death-metal music to an inaudible level but my toddler had a curious tendency to wander into the massage room to check out the stranger lying beneath sky-blue towels. I knew he was peeking when I heard the quiet turning of the door handle, a pause, a soft click as the door shut again and then the sound of thunderous little feet running down the hall. Luckily, my clients did not mind his inquisitive interruption.

There were the odd times when I received very strange phone calls from men who were, shall we say, looking for more than just an aromatherapy massage. Their tone was a dead give a way and the conversation did not last long. My policy was to only treat male clients who were related to a friend or existing clients. I did get caught off guard on one occasion when a male caller asked if I did ‘hand relief massage’. Thinking it to be a new form of therapy I had not yet heard of, I naively asked,

‘What sort of massage is that?’

The male voice was silent. Suddenly, his thoughts hit me loud and clear. The suggestive penny dropped. ‘Definitely not!' I said as if a dazzling bolt of lightning had passed down the phone, and added quickly, ‘I suggest you look elsewhere in the classifieds,’ not able to put down the phone quick enough…

Our bodies are our gardens –

our wills, our gardeners.

William Shakespeare

***

In Search of a Miracle

When I was first diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa at the age of sixteen, it was almost as if the eye specialists had delivered a death sentence to my family.  Your daughter is going to go blind. We don’t hold much hope for her future. There is nothing more we can do for her. No support was offered – we were on our own. The door of possibility shut firmly in front of us. Surely there was something we could do? A short time later, my father stumbled across an article in the English Sunday Observer Magazine that changed our lives for ever…a remarkable treatment offering renewed hope, a cure!

For a fuller account I urge the reader to read my father’s indepth posts on his blog with the link given after this story. This particular excerpt is plucked from Chapter 3 of my draft autobiography. As bizarre as the situation may seem now, in hindsight, I hope people can find it in their hearts to understand – chasing a cure through bee venom therapy seemed the only tangible course of action available to us under very strained circumstances.

Setting the scene: I am seventeen. My father has flown over to England with me to reside temporarily in a large house, sharing rooms with other hopeful patients from around the world. Monday to Friday, we are given bee sting treatment by the ancient therapist, Mrs Julia Owen. It was often easier to bear the heat of the stings than to go through the fire of her fanatical interrogations. After a couple of months, my mother became seriously ill so my father flew back to Australia to be by her side in her dying weeks. My dear mother insisted I remain to give the treatment more time to work just in case…. She prayed every day to  her Omnipotent God to grant her daughter a miracle.

**

With my father now back in Australia, two new patients came to take up residence in the big white house. I welcomed the presence of the middle-aged Yorkshire sisters as for quite some time there had only been Frau Greta and myself rattling around in the empty house. On their first day of bee stings, Mrs Owen informed them that the treatment would take a few weeks. The cost was not disclosed but the Yorkshire sisters were only too keen to give the painful therapy a go. And, so it was: Mrs Owen’s new guinea pigs stayed.
Four females in the house and we all got on beautifully, sharing household duties and lots of cups of tea. I was so grateful for their considerate ways but poor Frau Greta now spent most of her idle time locked away upstairs in her room pining for home. I did my best  to converse with her as much as my newly acquired German would allow as we shared breakfast and, on a good day, she cooked Austrian treats for afternoon tea.
During a conversation with one of the Yorkshire sisters, I was surprised to hear her express her sadness, the tragedy for humanity when Mrs Owen dies. Really? Yes, her bee sting secrets would die out with her. That was tragic, wasn’t it? But these were the new kids on the block, I thought. Give them time. A few more weeks of  Mrs Owen’s relentless bullying would most probably change her mind. It had for me.
An issue arising for the four of us was house keys. Mrs Owen refused to give us any more keys, since there were already two in circulation. When the Yorkshire sisters pleaded for another key, she simply refused. End of story. Her usual angle of attack. I knew how difficult Mrs Owen could be, the sisters would soon learn. We felt it was an attempt to keep one of us trapped in the house at all times so we just had to outsmart the fox. A key was placed in a flower pot by the front door until I had two new keys made by a locksmith.
The problem with Mrs Owen was coping with her fanatical habit of changing the truth to suit herself. She was the one who decided how improved one’s condition was becoming and if one did not agree, her patient was lying – so dogged was her denial.
Mrs Owen delivered her secret stings of pleasure daily to the four of us as we sat quietly taking our turns like well trained mice on her treadmill. There was nothing sweeter than the sound of the front door closing and the tyres of her chauffeured car backing out of the gravel driveway. The room fell blissfully silent – apart from soft, deep groans. Two hours passed as we coped with the throbs of invading venom pulsing in our temples. No chatting, only breathing, until the magical moment of release. The stings were removed gently with tweezers – my job, happy to set my inmates free. In spite of the swellings under the skin forming on already swollen glands and joints, we remained cheerful, proceeding to put on the kettle and to resume life as normal. Bizarre – but true. 
We could now enjoy listening to the Wimbledon tennis tournament on TV. That year, 1978, top seeds, Bjorn Borg (my Swedish hero) versus Jimmy Connors, the bad-tempered American who often threw his racquet in childish tantrums. Not that any of us could see the court properly, let alone the fast bouncing tennis balls flying across the court. But I sat a few inches to one side of the TV adding my commentary to the crowd's reactions which created great excitement. We clapped and cursed on cue. My hero won the men’s final among our blind squeals of delight.
A few days later, Mrs Owen decided to terminate one of the sister’s treatments because there was no improvement to her eyes. Strange? Naturally, I wondered why on earth I was still here. Then Frau Greta received her marching orders – after all these months without a sign of improvement? The night before Frau Greta flew home to Austria, our kind friend Bill, shouted us all drinks at the local pub in celebration of her happy departure. Frau Greta was overjoyed, blushing with excitement from all the goodwill, and the champagne. The following day, we hugged and cried in broken English and German, knowing we would never see each other again. With teary eyes we expressed our mutual gratitude: for me, her gift of friendship and her gourmet cuisine. Frau Greta expressed her sincere thanks for my attempts at speaking in her native tongue.
With a final warm bear-hug, we spoke one last - Danke schön……Bitte schön.

©  Maribel Steel 2012
***

For further background reading please go to:
http://briansteel.wordpress.com/2012/01/08/julia-owen-retinitis-pigmentosa-and-the-media-part-3/

I also strongly recommend the book: Ordinary Daylight. Portrait of an Artist Going Blind
by Andrew Potok. He writes of his personal experiences as one of Mrs Owen’s patients, shedding more light on the bizarre and true.   

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