According to the Gregorian calendar, which I carry in my breast pocket at all times, in a few days I will have completed one year in the business of being blind. I had promised myself that I would take an assessment after one year of what the effects of being blind really meant. While I was thinking about writing this one-year-anniversary essay, I had a basically bad day with blindness. After bringing the two garbage cans in from the street, I became confused in my own garage. I wound up with the ladders, the sledgehammer, and the adze instead of the door on the opposite side of the garage. Later in the day when I started to take a shower, I lost an argument with the wooden entrance door to the bathroom. It gave me a severe punch to the head. The day, however, was saved by Shana, a golden retriever who belongs to Janet Rubin, a neighbor down the street. Janet brought Shana by and we resumed our romance, which has been going on for quite some time. What Shana wanted was to be petted and hugged and snuggled. I am the guy who can do that job better than anybody else. When I think about Shana, I forget about losing my way in the garage and the bathroom door that took a round from me. Shana is a complete sweetheart.
You may recall an essay written called “Are You Going to Believe Me or Your Lying Eyes?” which marked the completion of six months of blindness. The current essay is a continuation of the assessment of my lack of eyesight as time goes on. The title indicates that this is only the first inning – or the first year – but in this case I do not know how long this game will last. If all goes well, we may even stretch it into extra innings. If it does not go well, I am resigned to the thought that that is the way the ball bounces.
My decent into complete blindness started in early August, 2005, which accounts for this being its first anniversary or, as I have called it, “The First Inning.” On that occasion, we visited the Irish Hunger Memorial in Manhattan. I had to be led throughout the Hunger Memorial and then had also to be led back to the ferry. My sight was pretty much gone at that point.
There have been some significant developments since I wrote the “Lying Eyes” essay which may be of interest. We will get to those developments in a moment or two. In the meantime, for those of you who may not be aware of the background of my blindness, it comes from glaucoma. For centuries, that ailment has been an incurable disease. Under the Ed Carr Doctrine, if you have glaucoma and if you live long enough, the chances are that you will end life as a blind person.
Finally, there is one more thought having to do with glaucoma. It does not come from overeating or over-drinking or hanging out with bad companions. It is passed from one generation to another through heredity. My father had glaucoma; he passed it to his five living children who fathered six children. Those children produced 15 offspring who may have inherited the glaucoma gene. The point is that glaucoma is going to be with us for a long time to come and it will affect an increasing number of people. What a crime.
This essay may be a little longer than usual because it is written with the thought that my descendants might find it helpful in the event that the glaucoma gene has been passed to them.
Sometime after the six-month assessment was written, I had a talk with Dr. Andrew Beamer, my cardiologist from the Summit Medical Group. I consider Dr. Beamer an excellent friend. During the conversation with Professor Beamer, I pointed out that things that go on in my head may well have an effect on my cardiac condition. Blindness may offer some lessons in logic and blindness may offer many lessons in patience. But the fact of the matter is that blindness offers no lessons in tranquility. The lack of tranquility translates into other conditions in the human body.
A blind person must calculate every move in advance in his head before he moves, and the first step is of paramount importance. If the first step is misdirected, the second and third and subsequent steps will be even further off course. For example, during the conversation with Dr. Beamer, my thoughts were often on the four doors that would lead me to exit the Medical Group offices. From that point on, there were a set of two steps, a walkway, a set of three steps, a set of Belgian blocks followed by the street and on the other side, another set of Belgian blocks, etc. Without sight, all of those things had to be taken into account and had to be planned for. That makes for no tranquility whatsoever.
It would be interesting for a person like myself to understand what the life expectancy is for a person coming late into blindness. My guess is that blindness will at one time or another cut a person’s life somewhat short.
I pointed out to Dr. Beamer that there were also some other considerations having to do with my head. All the details about my life have to be kept in my head rather than on a note pad. Further, there is the thought about blind people walking. For example, blind people tend to stare at the ground as they walk using their cane. I know there are blind people who walk with their heads staring straight ahead, but that has not been an accomplishment of mine so far. I stare at the ground, seeing nothing, but that is the way the new person to blindness must walk because of being afraid of being tripped or falling into a hole. The result of walking with one’s head down and thrust forward is to cause the head to be struck repeatedly by walls and by doors. From time to time, I have used the cane in my right hand and have put my left arm up in front of my face to ward off these blows, but it is difficult to remember to do that and, in addition, it is an ungainly posture. So you see, Professor Beamer whose main attention is directed toward cardiac problems also learned a little about blindness and the effect it might have on cardiovascular problems. All of this instruction was done of course, without charge to Professor Beamer.
My assessment is that of the tools that blind people use, the walking cane is by far the most valuable. It will not take the place of eyes, of course, but it will find the opening to doors. It will also find interruptions such as steps and Belgian blocks, and when crossing the street, if held out where every driver can see it, it often results in having the driver stop so that the street may be crossed. I know that there may come a time when a driver will say that he didn’t see my sunglasses on a dark day and the cane being held in front of me, and will clip me. That is a chance I suppose that will have to be taken.
There is one other thought about the cane. When it locates the opening to a door, the cane is pushed forward into an upright position, followed by the blind person who then uses his forearms to search for the doorjambs. My forearms have become slightly calloused from this exercise, but that is a small price to pay.
For reasons unknown to me, I now find that when sitting, my head is tilted back much in the manner of Franklin D. Roosevelt. Roosevelt used a cigarette holder and I suspect that he kept his head tilted back to prevent the ashes from falling on his suit. I have no excuse in that regard. In one way or another, my head seems to be tilted back and when I notice it, I try to straighten it out. I don’t want people to think that I am looking down my nose at them, even though I can’t see, of course. Now there is no great cause for concern until I begin to drop my “r’s” as in the case of “war” coming out as “wah” in the manner of FDR himself.
Another factor that comes into play is the thought that other people can see. When I get out of the car, I see basically just blackness or grayness. I have to remind myself that other people don’t see blackness but actually have visual sight. My advice to newly blind people in that circumstance is to never adjust your underwear or speak until you know who is listening. Again, as strange as it seems, other people can really see and even after one inning, I can still recall that phenomena.
In this year of blindness, I have been struck by several points. In the first place, people often, if they address me, speak in loud tones. Of course, my ears are pretty good. It is my eyesight that gives me the trouble. Further, when I approach a counter as at the Medical Group or the drugstore, the other people will almost invariably address their questions to Judy, my wife, rather than to me. On that point, without eye contact, I can’t see to whom their remarks are addressed. Yesterday, for example, one of the clerks at the Farmer’s Market asked Judy if I could see anything, even though I was standing there and was willing to answer that question. If you are going to address a blind person, it would be much appreciated if you were to say, “Joe, I have a question for you.” Otherwise, Joe can’t see to whom you are talking and so he is non-responsive. I understand that. Also, when taking your leave, tell the blind person so that he is not left talking to the breeze.
All things considered, people have been extraordinarily generous to me. They hold open doors, they summon elevators, and yesterday at the Farmers’ Market, we bought what would normally be $7.50 worth of rhubarb, but the owner of the Market said, “Hey, man, that only comes to five bucks.” I didn’t ask for the reduction; he did it himself. But I greatly appreciate his consideration. In other cases, on an elevator, I have heard women say to my wife, “Do you need help?” I don’t resent that at all. I regard it as a friendly gesture and a helpful one as well.
I find that as blindness continues, it becomes an expensive proposition. All of the jobs that I used to do such as putting in the screens on the porch and taking in the hoses for the winter have now been moved to a handyman whom we are delighted to have, but there is an expense involved. For my wife Judy, she has had to hire some additional help around the house as well as a woman who comes and takes care of some computer work. My thought is that if you intend to be blind, be prepared for certain additional expenses.
I have lived in this house for nearly 37 years. After a year of blindness, I can say that I can get from here to there in this house reasonably well. If I were to tell you that I could get from here to there flawlessly, please don’t believe me. Witness the confusion in the garage and in the bathroom. After having negotiated the rooms in the house, I am now trying to take the garbage cans to the street. It involves four trips, taking the garbage out and retrieving the cans the following morning. That happens twice each week.
There have been some faux pas in that I have taken the garbage can all the way into the street, and had to be told to take it back to my driveway by a passing walker. On another occasion, I went to the end of the driveway to bring the can back in but one way or another, I wound up walking down the street in front of my neighbor’s house. The reason is that our driveway is lined by Belgian blocks and the street is lined by Belgian blocks, so the sound to me is pretty much the same. Without a sense of direction, I beat on the Belgian blocks and sometimes I head in the wrong direction. At the moment, I am an expert on the sound of my walking stick hitting on linoleum, on wood, on tile, on Belgian blocks, on concrete, and on asphalt. These achievements are not necessarily in great demand among employers in this world, but they serve blind people quite well.
The thought that things rearrange themselves, such as the support beams in the basement, continues. I know the support beams do not actually move, but at times, it seems as if they have done so. In any case, it must be lived with. There are at least two or three dozen other effects of blindness that might be listed here, but in the interest of time and space, we will save them for another day.
This has been a long recitation of some of the things that occur to a person in blindness. I apologize if it has gone on too long. On the other hand, it has been my intention to create a list of things that are to be expected in blindness so that it may be passed on to others, particularly to my children and grandchildren. I know that is a grim thought, but better that they should know what to expect rather than to encounter some of these things without warning.
All of this business of my blindness pales in comparison with a diagnosis of Judy’s condition which was disclosed in March of 2006. At that time, Judy’s biopsy showed her to have carcinoma of the breast. Fortunately, it was caught quite early and she has undergone “two procedures”, as the doctors say. There have been two long six-day waits before the results of the biopsies were known, but it appears that the lumpectomy has taken the carcinoma away. Judy has now undergone some 33 sessions of radiation to be followed by a drug that will be taken for five years thereafter. The point is that I can live with blindness, but Judy’s problem is significantly more serious. Judy is a brave person who doesn’t deserve such treatment. But we will do the very best we can with the conditions that exist.
Now to close this essay, perhaps a few words about banshees, gossoons, leprechauns and phthisis may be in order. For the first year of blindness, I have been treated to a panorama of illusions which my ophthalmologist tells me are a product of my brain, and to a lesser extent, my eyes. Those of you who read the six month report of my blindness called, “Your Lying Eyes,” may recall the illusions I saw that provided me with a dozen water glasses on the table, trees in every parking lot and in the conference room of my lawyer, and the aircraft instrument panel that might be found in our biggest bomber. While the ophthalmologist attributes these illusions to my brain and to my “lying eyes,” every bona fide Irishman will recognize that this is the delicate work of banshees and gossoons. And the two three-year-old boys who dine with me regularly, are leprechauns fathered by the banshees, who are not bound by any religious rule about celibacy. The images were often entertaining, but now seem to be headed into oblivion.
For the better part of 50 years I have been involved with ophthalmologists because it was suspected that glaucoma would one day blind me. It was only recently, however, that I learned about phthisis (pronounced tysis). When a person becomes blind, it appears that there is a significant danger of the collapse of the eyeball. If the eyeball has not been punctured, it is referred to by the medics as atrophy. If the eyeball has been punctured, as in the case of trabeculectomies, it is referred to as phthisis. In my particular circumstance, as the first year drew to a close, I noticed that the eyelids were sticking together and that the eye itself seemed to be shrinking. My ophthalmologist told me that there was no need to visit him because what I have here is a clear case of phthisis. At this point, medical science knows of no way to stop the collapse of the eyeball. If for cosmetic reasons, one wishes to wear a glass eye, my ophthalmologist said he would look into that eventuality. I told him not to bother as my vanity does not require me to meet the world with a glass eye, no matter how attractive it might be.
One of the other effects of phthisis, aside from its difficult spelling, is that the illusions seem to be disappearing. The parking lots full of trees are now bare. The table which held so many water glasses is now completely empty. And the two boys who dined with me are becoming much less clear. So you see, the first year or inning of blindness has provided me with entertainment and now that the illusions are tending to disappear, I believe I will miss them. But nobody ever said that banshees would stick around forever.
After a year of blindness, the future looks clear to me. I believe that I have accommodated to blindness reasonably well, knowing that blindness can never be defeated. At this point, it is not going to go away, either by some medical miracle or by the power of prayer. I am quite certain that Jesus, the Holy Ghost, and Allah did not send this illness to afflict me and to torment me. The sum and substance of it is that glaucoma was inherited from my ancestors and no amount of prayer or medication will make it go away. I understand that and accept it because I have no choice. As I look at where things stand now, it seems to me that there is merit in two sports: one is boxing and the other is soccer or, outside the United States, football. In both of those sports, the end result is frequently a tie where one side does not prevail over the other. In my case, I know that I am not going to prevail over blindness, so the best I can do is hope to play blindness to a tie. So far, I believe that that is about where we have come out, if you bar such incidents as getting lost in my own garage. Ties in the two sports I mentioned are honorable. One side will say, “I held the other person or team to a draw.” Most spectators and teams will understand that holding the opponent to a draw is an honorable achievement. In my case, I believe that if all goes well, I will try to hold blindness to a draw. I never thought that I could beat blindness so holding it to the draw is an achievement in itself.
Lillie Carr, my mother, had a thought in this regard. She was a fierce Irish nationalist who disdained everything that Great Britain stood for. On the summer morning in 1942 when I left home to join the American Army, my mother and I stood on the driveway outside her kitchen window. She urged me to be careful. I tried to reassure her by telling her that the French, the Poles, the Canadians and the Australians would all be fighting on our side. And then stupidly I mentioned the British Army. She said to me, “You mean the English?” I shrugged in agreement, with which she said, “Son, in that case you will have to do the best you can.” The discussion was ended as she turned and went back into the house. And so, as it relates to blindness, I am going to do the best I can. And if that means fighting blindness to a draw, regardless of how many innings it takes, so be it.
E. E. CARR
June 23, 2006
Essay 197
(see postscript on next page)
Postscript:
Humor rarely attends non-sightedliness. Quite to the contrary, the inability to see is more often associated with melancholia. There are no blind comedians. Thus, when a humorous situation presents itself to the non-sighted, it must be attacked, knocked down and strangled into submission forthwith.
After the forgoing essay was completed, our lovely neighbor, Frances Licht, accompanied Judy and me to an avant-garde concert presented in the sanctuary of a local Presbyterian church. It featured a percussion band with drums and cymbals of every description. And they were LOUD, LOUD, LOUD. When the kettle drums were struck, when the bass drum was thumped and when the snare drums were played, leaves from the churchyard trees fell to the ground. And when the giant cymbals were struck, resurrection activity was noted in the church graveyard. There was also a chorus of 60 voices who could be heard when the percussion band took a musical rest. This world premiere played to a full house on the night we attended. I wore my sunglasses and carried my luminescent cane to the pews in the front part of the sanctuary. When this dubious music was finally completed and when the last drum was beaten and when the last cymbal crashed that woke up the dead, the three of us attempted to leave by an entrance to the side of the alter. People sitting in front of us seemed to want to leave by the rear doors which resulted in a traffic jam. One gentleman ran into me and said with great sincerity in his voice, “Oh I am so sorry, I did not see you there.” Immediately, I laughed and answered by saying, “That’s all right. I didn’t see you either.”
I know this story will not make the late-night comedy shows. And I am well aware that it lacks knee slapping capabilities. But boys, it is the best we’ve got. I told you that there are no blind comedians, and this tends to prove my point.
~~~
Kevin’s commentary: I would contend both that Pop has done the best he could, and that he has successfully held blindness to a draw. Losing to blindness presumably would mean something like getting seriously hurt as a result of not seeing something coming. There is little danger of that happening these days, so a draw seems like a good bet to make.
I’m rather curious if Pop was ever able to identify the ghostly 3-year-olds, or the little old lady who used to walk around with him and Judy. Perhaps they were purely fictitious, but I feel like something like that has to be tied to memory.
This is the 4th essay in a series on blindness.
Previous essay