I get compliments on how well I handle my situation, this limpy-gimpy blind guy routine. Some compliments are direct by words. Others, demonstrated through actions, mean even more.
Things are a struggle, daily and continuously. I’m stating that clearly, without whining about it.
In some ways, I could cope better. My roommate demonstrates awe for my struggle. He says he could not handle it as well. I disagree, because he likes being taken care of. I built my life on self sufficiency, and that has been the greatest loss overall. I know my roommate likes having someone do all his shopping, meal prep and driving. He would not feel an inappropriate shade of shame when he needs to be led from the car to any unfamiliar building. I know this for certain as a roommate and a former employee. He can feel accomplishment for having requested or ordered something to be done and come back later to find things squared away. I always found accomplishment in doing for (and often by) myself.
I still cook, not as well as I once did, but with remarkably few mishaps. On bad days, it is an accomplishment to pour my own coffee and bring it to another room without spilling it. I’ve learned to find accomplishment in small things. I could never paint a fresh even coat in a room again, but I can still change locks.
I believe that luck is an exchange of fortunes and misfortunes that all evens out in the end, between individuals if not for one individual. This whole eye thing, that’s bad luck that forever stole so many of the things that had provided me true happiness. I’ve trudged and limped on since then. The exchange of luck came with my writing. At about the same time as the blood hemorrhage, I started being published regularly. This blog gets good readership, especially since I don’t advertise it outside my website, email signature and Facebook links. My short stories have usually been well received (usually.) I never expected to set literary or commercial worlds afire. Story submission can be grueling and brutal, more often than not a constant stream of rejection for personal and heartfelt work.. Thick skin is necessary. I learned to take pride in the small accomplishments.
My ability to submit to editors is hindered. I used to regularly review all unpublished stories that had been returned for re-submission somewhere else. I can usually now submit only one in the same timeframe. Despite my de-acquisition of responsibilities, I still get called away from the writing with frustrating regularity.
The thing most important to the overall view of my life is the first things that must be put aside. "Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans," someone said long before John Lennon popularized a similar phrase.
Things are slower with the writing as with everything, but I am plugging on.
I got real close with the very last story I've written, "Stone Soup." A big "professional" magazine, Abyss and Apex, held onto it for months beyond their normal time. They said they had been considering it closely but ultimately chose other material. A bummer, but maybe because I've been spinning my wheels with the fiction efforts so much lately, I find it very encouraging.
"Stone Soup" a Sivil Galaxi tale based on the old folktale but with a couple of my psychotic twists.
It will be available, someday.
Showing posts with label Caution: Blind Driver. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Caution: Blind Driver. Show all posts
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Bowling Blind
I am still bowling. I’m blind and need to wear the orthopedic Crow Boot at all times, but I’m still out there trying. The Crow Boot is allowed, but I need to cover it to make sure that I do not introduce foreign objects to the floor as these could pose hazards to others or damage the lanes. I wrap the Crow Boot in a pillow case and secure it with a couple bungee cords. I chose dark pillow cases so I would pick up evidence if anyone was illegally using powder on their shoes.
Bowling is not easy. I’m contending with not being able to see the pins. My teammates tell me what pins remain standing after the first ball. I line myself up by the contrast between lane and gutters and hope for the best.
The Crow Boot is not always stable. The pillowcase can puff out and pose a tripping hazard to myself. My foot does not always feel stable or level inside the boot. I can be misaligned to the lanes and not fully realize it.
Sugar fluctuations plague me even more often. My sugar is inclined to fall suddenly with the onset of activity, and the bowling is the most exerting thing I do in life. Actually, it’s one of the few things I do.
My fourth barrier to success this season was my choice of purchase place for my new ball. I changed only because my blue ball blended in with all the other dark balls on the return rack. I bought a cow print ball just so I could see easily which one was mine. I could have–and should have–gone through the pro shop at the lanes, but I wanted to buy local to me and not in what I figured was a captured audience. I went to Bowler’s Edge in Pawtucket, essentially in my neighborhood. That was a mistake. He ordered the ball and said it should be in next week. He forgot to mention he would be on vacation for two weeks. When, a month later, the ball came in, he ignored my mention of being blind and needing to throw a straight ball and he drilled the finger holes for a hook ball. I certainly won’t be doing business with him again nor would I recommend him to anyone.
I started off lucky this year, but all the various handicaps with me and the ball before it was filled and redrilled played havoc. I was trying to learn to bowl with the Crow Boot, increasing visual impairment and a ball most definitely not reacting to my typical throw. I had plenty of nights where breaking 200 was an impossibility. That’s a 200 total between three games I could not do. My high game was a 157. I had to take time off from both leagues post victrectomy, and seem to be going a little stronger now.
I need of course to acknowledge my teammates in both leagues. Almost all are new teammates this year, and have been accommodating to my gimpiness. I am in less competitive leagues, and while I tremendously miss some prior years’ teammates, I still feel lucky to be bowling with such understanding people.
Bowling is not easy. I’m contending with not being able to see the pins. My teammates tell me what pins remain standing after the first ball. I line myself up by the contrast between lane and gutters and hope for the best.
The Crow Boot is not always stable. The pillowcase can puff out and pose a tripping hazard to myself. My foot does not always feel stable or level inside the boot. I can be misaligned to the lanes and not fully realize it.
Sugar fluctuations plague me even more often. My sugar is inclined to fall suddenly with the onset of activity, and the bowling is the most exerting thing I do in life. Actually, it’s one of the few things I do.
My fourth barrier to success this season was my choice of purchase place for my new ball. I changed only because my blue ball blended in with all the other dark balls on the return rack. I bought a cow print ball just so I could see easily which one was mine. I could have–and should have–gone through the pro shop at the lanes, but I wanted to buy local to me and not in what I figured was a captured audience. I went to Bowler’s Edge in Pawtucket, essentially in my neighborhood. That was a mistake. He ordered the ball and said it should be in next week. He forgot to mention he would be on vacation for two weeks. When, a month later, the ball came in, he ignored my mention of being blind and needing to throw a straight ball and he drilled the finger holes for a hook ball. I certainly won’t be doing business with him again nor would I recommend him to anyone.
I started off lucky this year, but all the various handicaps with me and the ball before it was filled and redrilled played havoc. I was trying to learn to bowl with the Crow Boot, increasing visual impairment and a ball most definitely not reacting to my typical throw. I had plenty of nights where breaking 200 was an impossibility. That’s a 200 total between three games I could not do. My high game was a 157. I had to take time off from both leagues post victrectomy, and seem to be going a little stronger now.
I need of course to acknowledge my teammates in both leagues. Almost all are new teammates this year, and have been accommodating to my gimpiness. I am in less competitive leagues, and while I tremendously miss some prior years’ teammates, I still feel lucky to be bowling with such understanding people.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Impaired Driving
For years, I drove despite one eye total blindness.
I did not drive overmuch. I bought the jeep Wrangler in late 2005 with 115,000 miles and sold it in December 2012 with about 145,000 miles. I was mostly local and worked out of my house and mostly in my own neighborhood. I planned shopping of all sorts for one day per week and generally gassed up to a full tank on that day, need it or not. Less than once a month I would make a strip to New Hampshire or Southern Maine on business for an antique dealer for whom I worked.
I had no accidents. Certainly other will find this post via search engines when their driving is "prohibited" when they develop problems in one eye. Here’s some tips and cautions.
Always remember that everyone assumes you can see them. You must be a defensive driver who anticipates everyone else’s stupidity.
The people in your life will always have reservations, concerns, and opposition to your driving. To get angry about this is to be angry that they care.
Your field of vision is reduced on the side you cannot see out of, so you must compensate for that. My blind eye was on the right. I stopped making left hand turns at uncontrolled intersections, which require a full range of vision. I’d turn right, then make a safe left hand turn and circle the next block. The safety far outweighed the inconvenience. Passengers who objected to the roundabout ways were asked if they would prefer to walk.
I still tended to be a cowboy when I knew the immediate area was free of hazards. This could make people who knew I had eye difficulties very nervous.
Pedestrians will always be a problem, and if you can’t see perfectly, you are extremely likely to miss some spots when washing their blood from your fenders. When driving through parking areas, drive slowly and with the destination building on the side of your good eye. Better yet, drive on the accessway further away from the building. Again, people will always assume you see them.
Park in what are called "sprews." A sprew is a spot that you drive into the bumper-to-bumper adjoining spot and pull through to the next. When you leave, you can pull straight out rather than have to back into the accessway where drivers can carelessly rush you and pedestrians can walk behind you. This means you can’t often park close to the building, but the ease in getting out again was always worth this sacrifice to me.
Don’t resume driving until you’ve had time to get used to the missing depth perception. Depth perception tends to be less important from four to six feet away as your brain will fill in the differences. It will take time to get used to and develop those "automatic translations."
And the basic stuff that applies to all drivers becomes even more crucial. Don’t drive overtired, after any alcohol or on any new meds. Don’t drive with distractions. Need to use the cell phone? Pull over.
I did not drive overmuch. I bought the jeep Wrangler in late 2005 with 115,000 miles and sold it in December 2012 with about 145,000 miles. I was mostly local and worked out of my house and mostly in my own neighborhood. I planned shopping of all sorts for one day per week and generally gassed up to a full tank on that day, need it or not. Less than once a month I would make a strip to New Hampshire or Southern Maine on business for an antique dealer for whom I worked.
I had no accidents. Certainly other will find this post via search engines when their driving is "prohibited" when they develop problems in one eye. Here’s some tips and cautions.
Always remember that everyone assumes you can see them. You must be a defensive driver who anticipates everyone else’s stupidity.
The people in your life will always have reservations, concerns, and opposition to your driving. To get angry about this is to be angry that they care.
Your field of vision is reduced on the side you cannot see out of, so you must compensate for that. My blind eye was on the right. I stopped making left hand turns at uncontrolled intersections, which require a full range of vision. I’d turn right, then make a safe left hand turn and circle the next block. The safety far outweighed the inconvenience. Passengers who objected to the roundabout ways were asked if they would prefer to walk.
I still tended to be a cowboy when I knew the immediate area was free of hazards. This could make people who knew I had eye difficulties very nervous.
Pedestrians will always be a problem, and if you can’t see perfectly, you are extremely likely to miss some spots when washing their blood from your fenders. When driving through parking areas, drive slowly and with the destination building on the side of your good eye. Better yet, drive on the accessway further away from the building. Again, people will always assume you see them.
Park in what are called "sprews." A sprew is a spot that you drive into the bumper-to-bumper adjoining spot and pull through to the next. When you leave, you can pull straight out rather than have to back into the accessway where drivers can carelessly rush you and pedestrians can walk behind you. This means you can’t often park close to the building, but the ease in getting out again was always worth this sacrifice to me.
Don’t resume driving until you’ve had time to get used to the missing depth perception. Depth perception tends to be less important from four to six feet away as your brain will fill in the differences. It will take time to get used to and develop those "automatic translations."
And the basic stuff that applies to all drivers becomes even more crucial. Don’t drive overtired, after any alcohol or on any new meds. Don’t drive with distractions. Need to use the cell phone? Pull over.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
The One Eye Plow Guy
My right eye went dark in 2003. I failed to leave a cornea abrasion covered long enough. The eye looked around the obstruction. The muscles pulled to the outside and peeled the retina off the back of the eye. Diabetic retinapathy, opportunistic of other problems.
I started plowing in 2006, in part because other peoples’ unreliability had crossed all acceptable lines. The city had thoroughly plowed me in, not just with a massive plow ridge, but by moving the snow from the main street to the dead-end access that led to my parking. I had a contractor plowing, but he vacationed to Florida every February. I have not driven since October 2011 but only sold the jeep two months ago. I’m feeling that loss and it triggers feelings of uselessness and helplessness via things outside my control. These things are issues I had handled after experiencing them but have come full circle.
I can only accept limitations. I can only try to impress those genuine limitations on others. A blind guy with a bad leg and reliance on an orthopedic boot brace cannot go shovel someone else’s car out.
I was good at the plowing. The first snowfall after I obtained the Jeep Wrangler was a minor but complicated storm. An inch of snow fell, then turned to rain. The precipitation stopped when a cold front blew in and froze the slush. Wanting to practice and play with the new equipment, I plowed the properties I managed. The tenants were thrilled. Their home lots were bare dry pavement while everywhere else, work, commercial establishments and most municipal streets, were slicked over with layers of ice that remained for days.
I no longer have the equipment to do that because I am no longer equipped to operate the equipment. I did not stop driving because someone made me, or because I had gotten into a serious accident because I was driving past the time I should have been. I stopped on my own because I didn’t want to kill myself or someone else.
Medications combine with insulin fluctuations to trigger periods of vertigo. I have a hard enough time moving and standing without carrying things when the ground is smooth and dry. Snowstorms had been my active times since 2006, and also periods of productive alone time. I miss those aspects. I would prefer to be able to continue some of them, but that’s now physically possible for me any longer. There’s a negative emotional charge to the entire situation for me.
A Wrangler is one of the shortest vehicles that can handle a plow (and I still burned out two transmissions.) Mine was equipped with the narrowest plow blade available. I could get into tight areas despite the fact that my field of vision was reduced and I lacked depth perception. I really was performing beyond my physical capabilities
Those physical capabilities are further diminished now, permanently. I am learning to accept that. Can others do the same?
I started plowing in 2006, in part because other peoples’ unreliability had crossed all acceptable lines. The city had thoroughly plowed me in, not just with a massive plow ridge, but by moving the snow from the main street to the dead-end access that led to my parking. I had a contractor plowing, but he vacationed to Florida every February. I have not driven since October 2011 but only sold the jeep two months ago. I’m feeling that loss and it triggers feelings of uselessness and helplessness via things outside my control. These things are issues I had handled after experiencing them but have come full circle.
I can only accept limitations. I can only try to impress those genuine limitations on others. A blind guy with a bad leg and reliance on an orthopedic boot brace cannot go shovel someone else’s car out.
I was good at the plowing. The first snowfall after I obtained the Jeep Wrangler was a minor but complicated storm. An inch of snow fell, then turned to rain. The precipitation stopped when a cold front blew in and froze the slush. Wanting to practice and play with the new equipment, I plowed the properties I managed. The tenants were thrilled. Their home lots were bare dry pavement while everywhere else, work, commercial establishments and most municipal streets, were slicked over with layers of ice that remained for days.
I no longer have the equipment to do that because I am no longer equipped to operate the equipment. I did not stop driving because someone made me, or because I had gotten into a serious accident because I was driving past the time I should have been. I stopped on my own because I didn’t want to kill myself or someone else.
Medications combine with insulin fluctuations to trigger periods of vertigo. I have a hard enough time moving and standing without carrying things when the ground is smooth and dry. Snowstorms had been my active times since 2006, and also periods of productive alone time. I miss those aspects. I would prefer to be able to continue some of them, but that’s now physically possible for me any longer. There’s a negative emotional charge to the entire situation for me.
A Wrangler is one of the shortest vehicles that can handle a plow (and I still burned out two transmissions.) Mine was equipped with the narrowest plow blade available. I could get into tight areas despite the fact that my field of vision was reduced and I lacked depth perception. I really was performing beyond my physical capabilities
Those physical capabilities are further diminished now, permanently. I am learning to accept that. Can others do the same?
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Snowblind!
I write from Providence, Rhode Island. I am told by roommate and TV media that everything out there is covered by some 20 inches of snow. I can’t see for myself.
It’s not just that basic fact that depresses me. I used to drive a Jeep Wrangler equipped with a plow rig. I never went out and hustled work, but used the truck to maintain the buildings I managed. I picked up occasional local jobs, but the purpose of owning the rig from the beginning was to be self sufficient. In 2005, the city ran out of space to put the snow on the main street and had plowed in the side street that serves as only access to the parking.
I sold the Jeep and plow rig last December, long after I should have. I had last driven it in October 2011.
There’s no self sufficiency left, for the storm or the property management or much of anything else. Things I was real familiar with I can still do. That list grows short. The combination of blind eyes and structurally deficient leg is a particularly bad one. I can’t really shovel 3 inches of light and fluffy snow. Twenty inches of the wet and heavy stuff is beyond me. I know that. I’m not writing it to whine or solicit help, but to add a layer of acceptance to my condition. Like not selling the Jeep for fourteen months after I could last drive it, sometimes the coping mechanism works slower than "it should."
The more valuable analogy for this post is the blizzard blinding white out. My eyes are like that all the time, although the level varies. Car visibility is measured in quarter miles. My visibility is measured in feet, but the cause and effect are identical. If there’s too much gunk between you and what you’re looking at, you just can’t see it.
It’s not just that basic fact that depresses me. I used to drive a Jeep Wrangler equipped with a plow rig. I never went out and hustled work, but used the truck to maintain the buildings I managed. I picked up occasional local jobs, but the purpose of owning the rig from the beginning was to be self sufficient. In 2005, the city ran out of space to put the snow on the main street and had plowed in the side street that serves as only access to the parking.
I sold the Jeep and plow rig last December, long after I should have. I had last driven it in October 2011.
There’s no self sufficiency left, for the storm or the property management or much of anything else. Things I was real familiar with I can still do. That list grows short. The combination of blind eyes and structurally deficient leg is a particularly bad one. I can’t really shovel 3 inches of light and fluffy snow. Twenty inches of the wet and heavy stuff is beyond me. I know that. I’m not writing it to whine or solicit help, but to add a layer of acceptance to my condition. Like not selling the Jeep for fourteen months after I could last drive it, sometimes the coping mechanism works slower than "it should."
The more valuable analogy for this post is the blizzard blinding white out. My eyes are like that all the time, although the level varies. Car visibility is measured in quarter miles. My visibility is measured in feet, but the cause and effect are identical. If there’s too much gunk between you and what you’re looking at, you just can’t see it.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
On the Road
I went away in late December. I don’t bring this up as automatic excuse for the lack of posts, although that is the main reason. I use the computer not just with glasses, but also with a 32-inch TV as a monitor and a magnifying mouse and at increased zoom levels. Computer things just weren’t possible away from home.
More significant was just how poor my vision has become. Most of the places I go are t least somewhat familiar, none, obviously, moreso than my own home. Removed from that for more than a week, I was totally and completely lost. Even most other places I go locally are familiar, including the same restaurants and grocery store. I do not leave the house alone and can usually get myself at least close to where I need to be within a building. Outside the building, I often cannot tell where the building is.
Yes, it’s gotten that bad.
While traveling, nothing was familiar. I seldom knew what town I was in, and often did not know the state. The layouts of unfamiliar hotel rooms became indecipherable mazes,
I live in a townhouse style apartment on the third and fourth floors of the building. This has become increasingly difficult for a blind guys with a bad foot and permanent reliance on a Crow boot. There’s thirty-three steps up to the apartment, a difficult proposition when empty handed, a challenge when doing something such as carrying groceries.
Away from the familiarity of home and familiar haunts, I was utterly useless. This made the trip harder on me and my companions.
The extent that I routinely utilize knowledge of my surroundings became acutely apparent without familiar surrounding.
Worse, my eyesight is further diminishing daily these days. Away from the familiar, I could not notice the further decline. Once home again, it was evident how much less I could see from barely more than a week’s passage of time.
I‘m coping. Self pitying moods are more common. Despondency is my most prevailing feeling. But I am coping, trying to stay positive.
I can see about a foot in front of me. I can see about two weeks ahead.
"Through Rose Colored Lenses" is due for publication around the 15th. This comedic short story is the only fiction I have written about the experience of going blind. A few days before that, I will be having what may be the last ditch possibility of restoring some level of vision and functionality.
More significant was just how poor my vision has become. Most of the places I go are t least somewhat familiar, none, obviously, moreso than my own home. Removed from that for more than a week, I was totally and completely lost. Even most other places I go locally are familiar, including the same restaurants and grocery store. I do not leave the house alone and can usually get myself at least close to where I need to be within a building. Outside the building, I often cannot tell where the building is.
Yes, it’s gotten that bad.
While traveling, nothing was familiar. I seldom knew what town I was in, and often did not know the state. The layouts of unfamiliar hotel rooms became indecipherable mazes,
I live in a townhouse style apartment on the third and fourth floors of the building. This has become increasingly difficult for a blind guys with a bad foot and permanent reliance on a Crow boot. There’s thirty-three steps up to the apartment, a difficult proposition when empty handed, a challenge when doing something such as carrying groceries.
Away from the familiarity of home and familiar haunts, I was utterly useless. This made the trip harder on me and my companions.
The extent that I routinely utilize knowledge of my surroundings became acutely apparent without familiar surrounding.
Worse, my eyesight is further diminishing daily these days. Away from the familiar, I could not notice the further decline. Once home again, it was evident how much less I could see from barely more than a week’s passage of time.
I‘m coping. Self pitying moods are more common. Despondency is my most prevailing feeling. But I am coping, trying to stay positive.
I can see about a foot in front of me. I can see about two weeks ahead.
"Through Rose Colored Lenses" is due for publication around the 15th. This comedic short story is the only fiction I have written about the experience of going blind. A few days before that, I will be having what may be the last ditch possibility of restoring some level of vision and functionality.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Caution: Blind Bowler!
Bowling has resumed. It’s one of the last things I can still do at all. Like anything else, I can’t do it as well, but I am lucky to have very patient teammates who sacrifice competitive edge yo bowl with a blind guy who has to cover the Crow Boot with a pillowcase.
To answer the usual and natural questions:
I have enough vision based on contrast of tone, shade and color to see the lane defined. The laminate is a very light wood color and the gutters are dark gray. I started bowling as a half-blind individual with no depth perception, so I always threw a straight ball. I line myself up for the throw and hope it stays straight.
I can see the contrast of the foul line and usually leave myself some extra space. Due to the Crow boot, I can no longer do an approach, so throw from a standing position.
The limitations of the boot are things I have to relearn. I’m not always throwing from a still position. I have to unlearn habits.
My teammates tell me what pins are still standing after the first throw. I try to realign according to pin positions. We hope for the best.
Obviously, I am bowling with some helpful and patient people. That they bowl on a team with me demonstrates good things about their characters. The people bowling for competition rather than a weekly social event aren’t as patient. It all depends on where the individual emphasis is.
I feel awkward sometimes about the heightened need. When my teammates get absorbed in their conversation, I need to interrupt or wait patiently to be told what pins to shoot for. I feel like a toddler on a carousel, waving frantically in demand for attention with every revolution. I don’t see well enough to even be able to pretend to be able to pay comparable attention to the efforts of my teammates or the opposition, and that does trigger twinges of guilt. I firmly believe in all people being equal, with everyone having times when they are a priority. I don’t indulge people who think they are always the priority, so truly hate anything that pushes me in that direction.
I can do as well as I can in part because the nature of it being a competitive sport, the lighting is well researched and planned. Lighting is very uniform, without glare, and never in my eyes. It’s actually one of the more comfortable places for me.
Vision is tougher when I am not actually facing the lanes. People are still shadowy and darkened. Identify individuals more by shape and body language and voice than by traditional ways. I am one of those people who always had a problem with faces, so a lifetime of adjusting to that may have become an asset in dealing with the vision loss. I do not often stray away from my table to socialize unless I am fairly certain who I will be bumping into (which all too often is literal.)
The first week of competition in the Thursday League achieved 83, 102 and 115. That’s certainly not competition for High Average awards, but should be a good enough foundation to realistically build off of as I relearn the sport with my new status quo of limitations.
To answer the usual and natural questions:
I have enough vision based on contrast of tone, shade and color to see the lane defined. The laminate is a very light wood color and the gutters are dark gray. I started bowling as a half-blind individual with no depth perception, so I always threw a straight ball. I line myself up for the throw and hope it stays straight.
I can see the contrast of the foul line and usually leave myself some extra space. Due to the Crow boot, I can no longer do an approach, so throw from a standing position.
The limitations of the boot are things I have to relearn. I’m not always throwing from a still position. I have to unlearn habits.
My teammates tell me what pins are still standing after the first throw. I try to realign according to pin positions. We hope for the best.
Obviously, I am bowling with some helpful and patient people. That they bowl on a team with me demonstrates good things about their characters. The people bowling for competition rather than a weekly social event aren’t as patient. It all depends on where the individual emphasis is.
I feel awkward sometimes about the heightened need. When my teammates get absorbed in their conversation, I need to interrupt or wait patiently to be told what pins to shoot for. I feel like a toddler on a carousel, waving frantically in demand for attention with every revolution. I don’t see well enough to even be able to pretend to be able to pay comparable attention to the efforts of my teammates or the opposition, and that does trigger twinges of guilt. I firmly believe in all people being equal, with everyone having times when they are a priority. I don’t indulge people who think they are always the priority, so truly hate anything that pushes me in that direction.
I can do as well as I can in part because the nature of it being a competitive sport, the lighting is well researched and planned. Lighting is very uniform, without glare, and never in my eyes. It’s actually one of the more comfortable places for me.
Vision is tougher when I am not actually facing the lanes. People are still shadowy and darkened. Identify individuals more by shape and body language and voice than by traditional ways. I am one of those people who always had a problem with faces, so a lifetime of adjusting to that may have become an asset in dealing with the vision loss. I do not often stray away from my table to socialize unless I am fairly certain who I will be bumping into (which all too often is literal.)
The first week of competition in the Thursday League achieved 83, 102 and 115. That’s certainly not competition for High Average awards, but should be a good enough foundation to realistically build off of as I relearn the sport with my new status quo of limitations.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Notifications
Now I’m about ready to start signing those online "petitions" that tell the world "Facebook made changes I hate" or the simpler "I hate Facebook" or "Boycott Facebook." Two things keep me from doing that. The first is that I find it silly. The second is that finding those things would be a major waste of time and energy, perhaps without success.
I can see enough to use the computer only with a tandem of aid. I use a 32-inch TV as a monitor. I need the otherwise useless glasses on. I enlarge the zooms in programs and/or use big font sizes. Font sizes for emails usually have to be reduced when cut and paste into the email so people do not think I am "yelling." I use a mouse that has an option of a magnifying square.
I navigate web pages in part by familiarity in knowing where to find specific things such as links. When pages or sites I am familiar with change, this throws major chaos into my world and wastes a lot of time. U can see general shapes and layout of entire pages, or I can see details like words in limited areas. I can’t do both, and searching with the magnifier can be a dizzying experience. I cannot see an entire line of type, so need to keep moving the magnifier from end of line to front and hope I don’t overdo the vertical axis so much that I lose the line.
I am not complaining outright. I am grateful I have retained enough to be able to get by on anything on my own. It would be awkward to vent irritations about my roommate to electronic friends if the roommate had to type the emails.
Hover menus for links are impractical. I usually cannot see the appearing list while still hovering over the button that triggered the submenu. Moving the magnifier a little bit to see the list triggers a new list or makes the first one disappear. These features are nifty little developer tools and may scream "modern website" but they are not the best use for all sites and can discourage readers. The barrier can be to visually disabled such as myself, but can also effect people with unsteady hands and other disabilities.
Facebook also made changes this summer, beyond corporate structural changes that drained investors of money. Earlier this year, I could find things on the sire’s complex but not complicated layout, and they sent automatic emails for friend requests and messages. They stopped doing that. I missed a number of messages and had begun to wonder why I had become such a pariah that no one ever answered any of my messages.
Worse, the basic page has become outright complicated with multiple window panes and boxes. I couldn’t find the links to send messages, so I resorted to sniping people who were online with the IM then logging off. Up until recently, I’d get a regular email that would clearly link me to any response. I can handle regular email much easier and recommend it to friends.
Don’t send me texts; I can’t see my phone screen at all.
The magnifying mouse is invaluable to me. It makes the section of screen I am viewing really bigger inside a box that moves when I move the mouse. In doing so, it displaces the regular
I can see enough to use the computer only with a tandem of aid. I use a 32-inch TV as a monitor. I need the otherwise useless glasses on. I enlarge the zooms in programs and/or use big font sizes. Font sizes for emails usually have to be reduced when cut and paste into the email so people do not think I am "yelling." I use a mouse that has an option of a magnifying square.
I navigate web pages in part by familiarity in knowing where to find specific things such as links. When pages or sites I am familiar with change, this throws major chaos into my world and wastes a lot of time. U can see general shapes and layout of entire pages, or I can see details like words in limited areas. I can’t do both, and searching with the magnifier can be a dizzying experience. I cannot see an entire line of type, so need to keep moving the magnifier from end of line to front and hope I don’t overdo the vertical axis so much that I lose the line.
I am not complaining outright. I am grateful I have retained enough to be able to get by on anything on my own. It would be awkward to vent irritations about my roommate to electronic friends if the roommate had to type the emails.
Hover menus for links are impractical. I usually cannot see the appearing list while still hovering over the button that triggered the submenu. Moving the magnifier a little bit to see the list triggers a new list or makes the first one disappear. These features are nifty little developer tools and may scream "modern website" but they are not the best use for all sites and can discourage readers. The barrier can be to visually disabled such as myself, but can also effect people with unsteady hands and other disabilities.
Facebook also made changes this summer, beyond corporate structural changes that drained investors of money. Earlier this year, I could find things on the sire’s complex but not complicated layout, and they sent automatic emails for friend requests and messages. They stopped doing that. I missed a number of messages and had begun to wonder why I had become such a pariah that no one ever answered any of my messages.
Worse, the basic page has become outright complicated with multiple window panes and boxes. I couldn’t find the links to send messages, so I resorted to sniping people who were online with the IM then logging off. Up until recently, I’d get a regular email that would clearly link me to any response. I can handle regular email much easier and recommend it to friends.
Don’t send me texts; I can’t see my phone screen at all.
The magnifying mouse is invaluable to me. It makes the section of screen I am viewing really bigger inside a box that moves when I move the mouse. In doing so, it displaces the regular
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Ankles Aweigh!
The blind thing is enough to deal with. The ankle is an additional permanent handicap.
The basics for newer readers and people with polite curiosity about that limpy gimpy guy at East Providence Lanes a couple nights per week:
In October 2011 I unintentionally self inflicted tendon damage in my foot. Even without bone breaks or stress fractures, I developed a rare diabetic complication called Charcot "Sharko" Foot. This causes massive swelling that the body uses to protect the foot from further injury. The link tag can direct readers to more detailed posts about the condition.
Diabetic circulation is typically reduced to begin with. The massive inflammation further reduced the circulation in my right foot, and the foot was unable to get the nutrients it needed. During the periods of worst swelling and least circulation, the central bone/s of my right ankle, the talus and calcaneus, lost density and mass. This softened those bones. They moved and turned a little. The tibia no longer fits with them correctly and is permanently out of place. Direct-weight use of the ankle risks further displacement of the bones.
A "medical appliance" called a Crow Boot protects the ankle from further harm. The crow boot encases the ankle, restricts all movement, and diverts weight from the ankle to the rest of the foot and upper leg. It is awkward and clunky, but allows mobility I otherwise would not have. I am pretty bad with crutches, and my house has too many stairs, inside and out.
It’s a bulky Iron Man type contraption of hard black plastic on the outside. The inside is foam that keeps everything snug and sheltered, like a clarinet case. It’s a shell with upper and lower halves that interlock and hold together with velcro straps. With the risk that weight-bearing use of the ankle could cause the leg bone to completely fall out of place and possibly puncture the skin from the inside on the way out, I need the Crow Boot or crutches to even move around the house.
I checked the bowling center management and the United States Bowling Congress about accommodation or allowance for the boot as I certainly could not heft even my lightweight ball without the boot. As long as it is covered to prevent "outside materials" from dislodging from the boot and posing hazard to other bowlers, there are no objections or rule violations.
The Crow Boot is a permanent fixture. The ankle is not going to "uncollapse." My right leg is now about an inch shorter than the left.
Yes, I tend to move like the mummy, THUMP step THUMP step THUMP step, but that’s a lot better than not being able to move around at all.
The basics for newer readers and people with polite curiosity about that limpy gimpy guy at East Providence Lanes a couple nights per week:
In October 2011 I unintentionally self inflicted tendon damage in my foot. Even without bone breaks or stress fractures, I developed a rare diabetic complication called Charcot "Sharko" Foot. This causes massive swelling that the body uses to protect the foot from further injury. The link tag can direct readers to more detailed posts about the condition.
Diabetic circulation is typically reduced to begin with. The massive inflammation further reduced the circulation in my right foot, and the foot was unable to get the nutrients it needed. During the periods of worst swelling and least circulation, the central bone/s of my right ankle, the talus and calcaneus, lost density and mass. This softened those bones. They moved and turned a little. The tibia no longer fits with them correctly and is permanently out of place. Direct-weight use of the ankle risks further displacement of the bones.
A "medical appliance" called a Crow Boot protects the ankle from further harm. The crow boot encases the ankle, restricts all movement, and diverts weight from the ankle to the rest of the foot and upper leg. It is awkward and clunky, but allows mobility I otherwise would not have. I am pretty bad with crutches, and my house has too many stairs, inside and out.
It’s a bulky Iron Man type contraption of hard black plastic on the outside. The inside is foam that keeps everything snug and sheltered, like a clarinet case. It’s a shell with upper and lower halves that interlock and hold together with velcro straps. With the risk that weight-bearing use of the ankle could cause the leg bone to completely fall out of place and possibly puncture the skin from the inside on the way out, I need the Crow Boot or crutches to even move around the house.
I checked the bowling center management and the United States Bowling Congress about accommodation or allowance for the boot as I certainly could not heft even my lightweight ball without the boot. As long as it is covered to prevent "outside materials" from dislodging from the boot and posing hazard to other bowlers, there are no objections or rule violations.
The Crow Boot is a permanent fixture. The ankle is not going to "uncollapse." My right leg is now about an inch shorter than the left.
Yes, I tend to move like the mummy, THUMP step THUMP step THUMP step, but that’s a lot better than not being able to move around at all.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Caution: Blind Bowler
For newer readers and people who haven’t seen me all summer, here’s a recap of my eyes as they see (or don’t) these days.
In 2003 I had a cornea injury that I did not leave covered up long enough. My eye started "looking around" the scratch on the surface, which caused muscle striations that pulled the eye to the side. Ever-present diabetic retina problems became opportunistic. The right eye has been dark and out of alignment ever since.
In 2009, Cialis caused a vitreous blood hemorrhage in the left eye. This filled an existing cataract and the center of the eye with blood. They did cataract surgery, which gave me good distance vision but eliminated reading vision due to the type of lense they used (with no consultation with me, the patient.) Because of the hemorrhage, I let them scare me into the "preventative" diabetic laser surgery to burn the retina on the back of the eye. The stresses of that and the cataract surgery and the hemorrhage all kind of made the diabetic thing happen, which reduced my peripheral in that eye.
In January 2012 I had retina reattachment surgery and another procedure where they replaced the blood-dirtied vitreous gel with silicone oil. This brought some clarity and keeps pressure on the back of the eye. The retina reattachment did not succeed as well as either the doctor or I had hoped.
The sight in the left eye has no perineal, so with the dark right eye, I can see only what I am looking at and cannot see that too clearly. My eye takes a long time to adjust to changes in lighting and does not process light very well. I see colors better, up to certain distances. My test by finger sight ranges from one to four feet depending on how adjusted I am to room lighting. I see most people in shadows, and can’t adjust distance vision very well. That brief experience of being eagle-eyed after the cataract surgery is long past.
I see by color, motion, contrast and feel. My brain fills in gaps. Familiarity is always an asset to getting around. I can’t successfully fake it for too long anymore. I cling to the last bits of independence I have left and learned to accept offered help without much comment or resistance.
Being stubborn and fiercely independent have been assets through all this. I need aids , such as contrasting-color tape on microwave buttons or using a 32-inch TV as a monitor and a magnifying mouse and glasses to see the computer. There’s things I can no longer do, like drive, but I try what I can before surrendering helplessly to the things I can’t., but I can do most things at least some of the time.
Life has always been pretty rough for me. I am not a fragile diabetic or a fragile person, so I try not to let it stop me. I will hold on to what I have of the old life for as long as I can,
It is unlikely things will get much better, even after the silicone oil is drained out. I will always need bowling teammates to tell me what pins are still standing in between throws, but at least I will be able to tell them that I
am still standing.I’m usually aware of it when I fall down. I’m smaht that way.
In 2003 I had a cornea injury that I did not leave covered up long enough. My eye started "looking around" the scratch on the surface, which caused muscle striations that pulled the eye to the side. Ever-present diabetic retina problems became opportunistic. The right eye has been dark and out of alignment ever since.
In 2009, Cialis caused a vitreous blood hemorrhage in the left eye. This filled an existing cataract and the center of the eye with blood. They did cataract surgery, which gave me good distance vision but eliminated reading vision due to the type of lense they used (with no consultation with me, the patient.) Because of the hemorrhage, I let them scare me into the "preventative" diabetic laser surgery to burn the retina on the back of the eye. The stresses of that and the cataract surgery and the hemorrhage all kind of made the diabetic thing happen, which reduced my peripheral in that eye.
In January 2012 I had retina reattachment surgery and another procedure where they replaced the blood-dirtied vitreous gel with silicone oil. This brought some clarity and keeps pressure on the back of the eye. The retina reattachment did not succeed as well as either the doctor or I had hoped.
The sight in the left eye has no perineal, so with the dark right eye, I can see only what I am looking at and cannot see that too clearly. My eye takes a long time to adjust to changes in lighting and does not process light very well. I see colors better, up to certain distances. My test by finger sight ranges from one to four feet depending on how adjusted I am to room lighting. I see most people in shadows, and can’t adjust distance vision very well. That brief experience of being eagle-eyed after the cataract surgery is long past.
I see by color, motion, contrast and feel. My brain fills in gaps. Familiarity is always an asset to getting around. I can’t successfully fake it for too long anymore. I cling to the last bits of independence I have left and learned to accept offered help without much comment or resistance.
Being stubborn and fiercely independent have been assets through all this. I need aids , such as contrasting-color tape on microwave buttons or using a 32-inch TV as a monitor and a magnifying mouse and glasses to see the computer. There’s things I can no longer do, like drive, but I try what I can before surrendering helplessly to the things I can’t., but I can do most things at least some of the time.
Life has always been pretty rough for me. I am not a fragile diabetic or a fragile person, so I try not to let it stop me. I will hold on to what I have of the old life for as long as I can,
It is unlikely things will get much better, even after the silicone oil is drained out. I will always need bowling teammates to tell me what pins are still standing in between throws, but at least I will be able to tell them that I
am still standing.I’m usually aware of it when I fall down. I’m smaht that way.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Diabetes Development
Based on a site inspection in late July, 2012, I express my usual opinion of the diabetes industry. The site I looked over was the main site of the American Diabetes Association, http://www.diabetes.org/
I write this without clicking on any links to more involved or in depth stories. This isn’t laziness. I am legally blind, and even triple-magnified onscreen reading is usually more difficult than it’s worth. I will fact check or seek specific information, but general browsing is just too difficult.
And that difficulty is the first observation of the ADA site. Diabetes is the leading case of blindness. Therefore a diabetes site should be in large print and as easy to navigate as possible. It should not contain multiple columns and smatterings of design elements that scatter attention. The page does not follow in an easy to follow pattern. I need a magnifying mouse; I cannot see an entire page all at once in any detail. The combination of horizontal and columned elements makes it tough for me to tell what goes together without clicking on the magnifier and examining each element separately.
I thought, to their credit, that they do not use "hover-activated" or "floating" hyperlink menus. Those are next to impossible for me to catch in the magnification. I was wrong; the pop up menus actually appear too far down for me to see with the magnifying box. The first link under the first nav-bar link is a list of links that begins with the pharmaceutical company-created condition called "pre-diabetes."
The page contains at least three different navigation bars in different locations. This does not make things easy to find.
I do have training and professional experience in electronic and print publishing including layout and design, so I am not issuing empty criticism. This blog contains more thought to deign elements geared to my "expected audience" than would be readily apparent to casual observers or home-taught developers. This is "Blindsided!" and is of natural interest to other people with visual impairments. The type is large. The white on black reduces glare. The main content is arrange vertically and appears in full on zoom-magnified screens with links and extras off to the right. This positioning decreases the chance that the readers need to scroll right to see all of the main content panel at once. Other elements do not interrupt the main flow of information. I have yet to use any pictures. These aren’t of high value to blind folk and can fluster programs that do the reading.
Some of the ADA’s site’s pictures change, which is jarring to people who can’t quite see what’s happening and if the change was a rollover effect or just something that happens. The hover menu I first hit appeared over the rotating images, which as why I first thought the ste did not use hovering menus.
The navigation bar extends past the edge of the screen on my usual 150% magnification. A more casual look would have led me to miss the link for "research." Maybe I am being presumptuous, but I think that research and other details are more important than some of the links that appear more prominently. This of course leads me to a brief analysis of content, but to keep things in blog-friendly length, that can of worms will be opened next time.
I write this without clicking on any links to more involved or in depth stories. This isn’t laziness. I am legally blind, and even triple-magnified onscreen reading is usually more difficult than it’s worth. I will fact check or seek specific information, but general browsing is just too difficult.
And that difficulty is the first observation of the ADA site. Diabetes is the leading case of blindness. Therefore a diabetes site should be in large print and as easy to navigate as possible. It should not contain multiple columns and smatterings of design elements that scatter attention. The page does not follow in an easy to follow pattern. I need a magnifying mouse; I cannot see an entire page all at once in any detail. The combination of horizontal and columned elements makes it tough for me to tell what goes together without clicking on the magnifier and examining each element separately.
I thought, to their credit, that they do not use "hover-activated" or "floating" hyperlink menus. Those are next to impossible for me to catch in the magnification. I was wrong; the pop up menus actually appear too far down for me to see with the magnifying box. The first link under the first nav-bar link is a list of links that begins with the pharmaceutical company-created condition called "pre-diabetes."
The page contains at least three different navigation bars in different locations. This does not make things easy to find.
I do have training and professional experience in electronic and print publishing including layout and design, so I am not issuing empty criticism. This blog contains more thought to deign elements geared to my "expected audience" than would be readily apparent to casual observers or home-taught developers. This is "Blindsided!" and is of natural interest to other people with visual impairments. The type is large. The white on black reduces glare. The main content is arrange vertically and appears in full on zoom-magnified screens with links and extras off to the right. This positioning decreases the chance that the readers need to scroll right to see all of the main content panel at once. Other elements do not interrupt the main flow of information. I have yet to use any pictures. These aren’t of high value to blind folk and can fluster programs that do the reading.
Some of the ADA’s site’s pictures change, which is jarring to people who can’t quite see what’s happening and if the change was a rollover effect or just something that happens. The hover menu I first hit appeared over the rotating images, which as why I first thought the ste did not use hovering menus.
The navigation bar extends past the edge of the screen on my usual 150% magnification. A more casual look would have led me to miss the link for "research." Maybe I am being presumptuous, but I think that research and other details are more important than some of the links that appear more prominently. This of course leads me to a brief analysis of content, but to keep things in blog-friendly length, that can of worms will be opened next time.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Able without the Cane
My resistance or refusal to use a blind man’s cane may be stubbornness. I haven’t thought that much about it despite having a number of reasons, the most basic of which is that I do not feel the need for one. I don’t go out much, and seldom go out alone. I take reasonable care and rely on others and figure that prevents most mishaps that could happen.
Around the house as a happy recluse, the cane would have the effect of whacking the cat Sasquatch. He’s used to being kicked into and tripped over, and causes this himself by blending into most flooring and intentionally going for my ankles. I don’t know that he’d be as forgiving if he was being beaten with a stick. I generally navigate well through familiar areas and the moving obstacle Sasquatch prevents amounts to the only real hazard.
A cane seems like it would be a burden if I need both hands, like a purse that always needs to be watched or keys or glasses to be forgotten and lost when folded up.
The cane most emphatically will be of no help for the things I really need, like seeing where I put something down, telling me what aisle in the supermarket I am in, seeing the display on my cell phone or discerning the label on a can of vegetables.
There’s no gain of independence for me by using a cane. Theoretically, I could walk to the grocery store, but would not be able to see effectively to shop alone anyway. And the theoretical aside, I am a double gimp with bad eyes and a bad foot so I cannot make that walk on my own anyway. If and when the worst happens with the ankle, I cannot visualize self propelling my own wheelchair and swinging a cane out in front of me.
There is a deeper reason for my objection to cane use. The friends who took me to task about it recently mentioned that objection precisely, as a reason why I should use it: they said it would make things easier for other people to know I am blind.
I am something of a cynic. I figure that being burdened with a cane in public equates to having a target sign on my forehead. Capable-looking forty-somethings are not the typical targets of muggings and ATM robberies Criminals target easy marks, and openly advertising my blindness seems as though it would put me in that category.
Going even deeper, let me make a blanket complaint, perhaps even a bit of whining about my situation, something that I try to avoid even when talking about it in person or on the blog. While I push on and be as active of a person as I can, things are very difficult for me. I dealt with the blindness remarkably well before the Charcot foot rotted out my ankle. I could deal with the foot problem much better if I could actually clearly see where I was trying to walk. The two problems together don’t add, they multiply, yet I have not surrendered to useless helplessness. I do what I can for myself with what I have left. Sometimes I am remarkably successful and capable, but it is never easy and often not worth the effort after all is said and done.
The expectation, even the suggestion, that I should try even harder to make other people, including complete strangers, more comfortable with my disability really pisses me off. I suppose I should put that in a more polite or literary way, but that also is me compensating for things that may make other people more comfortable. There’s got to be a limit to that, and I choose clarity: The expectation that I try even harder to make others more comfortable with my disability really pisses me off.
Around the house as a happy recluse, the cane would have the effect of whacking the cat Sasquatch. He’s used to being kicked into and tripped over, and causes this himself by blending into most flooring and intentionally going for my ankles. I don’t know that he’d be as forgiving if he was being beaten with a stick. I generally navigate well through familiar areas and the moving obstacle Sasquatch prevents amounts to the only real hazard.
A cane seems like it would be a burden if I need both hands, like a purse that always needs to be watched or keys or glasses to be forgotten and lost when folded up.
The cane most emphatically will be of no help for the things I really need, like seeing where I put something down, telling me what aisle in the supermarket I am in, seeing the display on my cell phone or discerning the label on a can of vegetables.
There’s no gain of independence for me by using a cane. Theoretically, I could walk to the grocery store, but would not be able to see effectively to shop alone anyway. And the theoretical aside, I am a double gimp with bad eyes and a bad foot so I cannot make that walk on my own anyway. If and when the worst happens with the ankle, I cannot visualize self propelling my own wheelchair and swinging a cane out in front of me.
There is a deeper reason for my objection to cane use. The friends who took me to task about it recently mentioned that objection precisely, as a reason why I should use it: they said it would make things easier for other people to know I am blind.
I am something of a cynic. I figure that being burdened with a cane in public equates to having a target sign on my forehead. Capable-looking forty-somethings are not the typical targets of muggings and ATM robberies Criminals target easy marks, and openly advertising my blindness seems as though it would put me in that category.
Going even deeper, let me make a blanket complaint, perhaps even a bit of whining about my situation, something that I try to avoid even when talking about it in person or on the blog. While I push on and be as active of a person as I can, things are very difficult for me. I dealt with the blindness remarkably well before the Charcot foot rotted out my ankle. I could deal with the foot problem much better if I could actually clearly see where I was trying to walk. The two problems together don’t add, they multiply, yet I have not surrendered to useless helplessness. I do what I can for myself with what I have left. Sometimes I am remarkably successful and capable, but it is never easy and often not worth the effort after all is said and done.
The expectation, even the suggestion, that I should try even harder to make other people, including complete strangers, more comfortable with my disability really pisses me off. I suppose I should put that in a more polite or literary way, but that also is me compensating for things that may make other people more comfortable. There’s got to be a limit to that, and I choose clarity: The expectation that I try even harder to make others more comfortable with my disability really pisses me off.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Raising Cane
I frequently hear the suggestion that I should be using a cane, not a walking cane for the bad foot, but one of those folding red and white rods for blind folk.
The most recent time I heard the suggestion was while out to dinner with two friends. He one who raised it had some legitimacy in doing so; I had admitted to him that while out with the other friend earlier that day, I had walked into a wall. The first friend was being slightly manipulative; he figured he could enlist the second friend to his cause. He also probably figured that the public restaurant setting would keep me quiet and the two people together would wear me down.
Dismissed the idea, as always do. That doesn’t mean I have not considered the concept; it means not now. The second friend is socially wiser than the first, issued his opinion then let the matter drop. The first friend pushed and got put down harder than might seem necessary, but experience has taught me that he will not stop on a subject until he gets his own way or gets figuratively slapped down.
He was not unwarranted in the concept. The day this had happened had been the second day in two months that I had walked into a wall, hard enough to bump my forehead. Maybe it will take a few more bumps to knock some sense in, but the specifics of each mishap don’t truly emphasize the need for a cane.
Both mishaps shared things in common:
I was in a public place.
The walls I walked into were soft colors that easily blend into the appearance of the foggy haze of "faded into the distance." Basically, from my visual perspective, it looked like nothing was there.
Both bumps were the first (perhaps overconfident) steps out from a standing position. Basically, I had stood still long enough and by my thoughts or conversation with the companions at the time, I had lost track of where or how I was standing. In other words, I had forgotten the walls were there and, having gotten turned to a wall that blended perfectly with my usual haze, took a first step into a solid barrier that ran from floor to ceiling.
Knocking on wood here, I have not yet actually tripped or walked into something while walking along.
In both these instances, the bump had been on the first step out from a standing position and had hit forehead first because my head was bowed while I made sure nothing would interfere with my gimpy feet. It’s not much different from walking into an open cabinet door or banging my head on something unexpected hanging down. Those types of mishaps have been more common, particularly in the first year of all this. During that first year, I was seldom without some type of bump or scrape on my forehead. I’ve adjusted to potential hazards better since then, and there’s not a one that a cane would have prevented.
Besides, watching someone walk into walls is amusing and feeling forward with a cane may not reveal the banana peel in my path.
The most recent time I heard the suggestion was while out to dinner with two friends. He one who raised it had some legitimacy in doing so; I had admitted to him that while out with the other friend earlier that day, I had walked into a wall. The first friend was being slightly manipulative; he figured he could enlist the second friend to his cause. He also probably figured that the public restaurant setting would keep me quiet and the two people together would wear me down.
Dismissed the idea, as always do. That doesn’t mean I have not considered the concept; it means not now. The second friend is socially wiser than the first, issued his opinion then let the matter drop. The first friend pushed and got put down harder than might seem necessary, but experience has taught me that he will not stop on a subject until he gets his own way or gets figuratively slapped down.
He was not unwarranted in the concept. The day this had happened had been the second day in two months that I had walked into a wall, hard enough to bump my forehead. Maybe it will take a few more bumps to knock some sense in, but the specifics of each mishap don’t truly emphasize the need for a cane.
Both mishaps shared things in common:
I was in a public place.
The walls I walked into were soft colors that easily blend into the appearance of the foggy haze of "faded into the distance." Basically, from my visual perspective, it looked like nothing was there.
Both bumps were the first (perhaps overconfident) steps out from a standing position. Basically, I had stood still long enough and by my thoughts or conversation with the companions at the time, I had lost track of where or how I was standing. In other words, I had forgotten the walls were there and, having gotten turned to a wall that blended perfectly with my usual haze, took a first step into a solid barrier that ran from floor to ceiling.
Knocking on wood here, I have not yet actually tripped or walked into something while walking along.
In both these instances, the bump had been on the first step out from a standing position and had hit forehead first because my head was bowed while I made sure nothing would interfere with my gimpy feet. It’s not much different from walking into an open cabinet door or banging my head on something unexpected hanging down. Those types of mishaps have been more common, particularly in the first year of all this. During that first year, I was seldom without some type of bump or scrape on my forehead. I’ve adjusted to potential hazards better since then, and there’s not a one that a cane would have prevented.
Besides, watching someone walk into walls is amusing and feeling forward with a cane may not reveal the banana peel in my path.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Limping Along
The last general update friends and acquaintances have asked about is life in general. Pre Charcot foot, the passive answer was "Hanging in." Now it is "Limping along."
This summer is the first season in seven or so years that I have not bowled in a league. The timing of the hospitalization interfered with the season start, and the "Crow boot" I must now wear will take some finagling and readjustment. I do intend to resume in the fall.
Mobility issues have me more limited, and my third- and fourth-floor townhouse-style apartment is less than ideal for someone who can no longer see nor feel stairs. I moved the computer to the dining room to get it on the main floor, but have not yet gotten the desk down stairs. As a result, I feel as though I have lost both the office and the dining room and the house feels like much less than what I bought.
This adds to the emotional depression that I feel funny admitting "aloud." People seem amazed at how well I’ve been dealing with the adversity of the last few years, so admitting that it has been and continues to be a struggle illogically feels as though I am letting some people down. The disabilities that have afflicted me have also catalyzed a new level of emotional depression.
The depression is worsened biochemically. Especially since the early Mat hospitalization, I have been keeping the blood sugar at lower levels. This has been good for circulation to the foot and behind the eye, but not good for temperament and feeling happy. The prednisone intake also contributes to those factors.
I stopped taking the generic Prozac after the hemorrhage, when the side effect of "suicidal thoughts and feeling" would irregularly arise. The quality of life issues have not improved, so I continue to avoid pharmaceutical anti-depressants.
I am adjusting to and struggling to accept my increased limitations. I force myself to adopt gratitude for what I can still do.
Most of the things I can still do cannot be done for as long. Gone are the days of 12+ hour exerting days; my stamina is not what it used to be. Gone are the marathons on the word processor; my eyes burn out after a couple hours.
What is not gone is my drive and the fiery will. This feeds the cycles of frustration as often as not.
I am working to do more with myself. I’ve been getting back to posting more regularly on the blog and am working on keeping up with short story submissions again. The next step with the fiction is to get some partially-done short stories finished
I’ve done a couple spots of yard work recently, minor accomplishments but more than most people in with my limitations would attempt, I think.
So I have had to slow down, but I have not stopped. Don’t cringe at the thought of a blind gimpy guy swinging a powered hedge trimmer over rough terrain. Just don’t get too close.
This summer is the first season in seven or so years that I have not bowled in a league. The timing of the hospitalization interfered with the season start, and the "Crow boot" I must now wear will take some finagling and readjustment. I do intend to resume in the fall.
Mobility issues have me more limited, and my third- and fourth-floor townhouse-style apartment is less than ideal for someone who can no longer see nor feel stairs. I moved the computer to the dining room to get it on the main floor, but have not yet gotten the desk down stairs. As a result, I feel as though I have lost both the office and the dining room and the house feels like much less than what I bought.
This adds to the emotional depression that I feel funny admitting "aloud." People seem amazed at how well I’ve been dealing with the adversity of the last few years, so admitting that it has been and continues to be a struggle illogically feels as though I am letting some people down. The disabilities that have afflicted me have also catalyzed a new level of emotional depression.
The depression is worsened biochemically. Especially since the early Mat hospitalization, I have been keeping the blood sugar at lower levels. This has been good for circulation to the foot and behind the eye, but not good for temperament and feeling happy. The prednisone intake also contributes to those factors.
I stopped taking the generic Prozac after the hemorrhage, when the side effect of "suicidal thoughts and feeling" would irregularly arise. The quality of life issues have not improved, so I continue to avoid pharmaceutical anti-depressants.
I am adjusting to and struggling to accept my increased limitations. I force myself to adopt gratitude for what I can still do.
Most of the things I can still do cannot be done for as long. Gone are the days of 12+ hour exerting days; my stamina is not what it used to be. Gone are the marathons on the word processor; my eyes burn out after a couple hours.
What is not gone is my drive and the fiery will. This feeds the cycles of frustration as often as not.
I am working to do more with myself. I’ve been getting back to posting more regularly on the blog and am working on keeping up with short story submissions again. The next step with the fiction is to get some partially-done short stories finished
I’ve done a couple spots of yard work recently, minor accomplishments but more than most people in with my limitations would attempt, I think.
So I have had to slow down, but I have not stopped. Don’t cringe at the thought of a blind gimpy guy swinging a powered hedge trimmer over rough terrain. Just don’t get too close.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Getting the Boot
The Charcot foot is now in Stage Two.
Essentially, this means that most of the abnormal swelling is down and that it is in a period where it should, could, or might rehabilitate and restrengthen from reduced use. As no imaging showed any broken bones in my case, I did not keep it as absolutely rested and normally recommended, specifically to keep the leg and foot from completely atrophying on me.
I am aware that my legs, like my eyes, will never be what they were.
The Charcot foot had effects that no doctor warned me about. Maybe some of these things were coincidence in timing, but I am much too paranoid to be a big believer in coincidence.
My blood pressure skyrocketed at the same time the swelling developed. It has receded with the swelling, but not yet back down to prior levels, even with medication.
The prednisone that I have been eye dropping can also raise blood pressure, so that may be a futile battle at this point. My cynical worry is that the Lisinopril will turn what would be a sudden and fatal heart attack into something that will allow me to live with further debilitation.
The atrophy I had sought to prevent happened anyway. The foot and leg is used less during Stage One, and the swelling restricts nutrient flow, which can result in bone and tissue loss. The outcome for me is that the afflicted ankle collapsed. My right leg is now somewhat shorter than my left leg. I feel lopsided orientation when standing or walking. This has already put strain on left leg and has the potential to screw up my back.
Combined with blindness, I’m really disabled now. It’s screwed up my bowling as I tend not to stand straight or square and can’t see that my straight-throw alignment to the pins is off. Talking about this point is probably more leaning to bitchfest rather than informing about Charcot foot, so ‘nuff said.
Dry flaky skin over what was so massively swollen remains. I promise not to pass around another small sheet of dead skin to my bowling partners to show as "something cool" and identifying it only after they’ve been handling it. Maybe with the next larger piece, I will rehydrate it and feed it to the cats.
Like the ill advised PRP treatment that would prevent diabetic retinapathy, the Charcot foot will have permanent effects beyond my mismatched leg lengths. I’ve been prescribed and fitted for a leg brace, what the dumbass foot doctor said would be supportive but what the caster at the orthopedic appliance place said would be largely immobilizing. It’ll take a few weeks to get in; and until then, it’s like the long term prognosis on the reattachment surgery: wait and see, as best as I can.
Essentially, this means that most of the abnormal swelling is down and that it is in a period where it should, could, or might rehabilitate and restrengthen from reduced use. As no imaging showed any broken bones in my case, I did not keep it as absolutely rested and normally recommended, specifically to keep the leg and foot from completely atrophying on me.
I am aware that my legs, like my eyes, will never be what they were.
The Charcot foot had effects that no doctor warned me about. Maybe some of these things were coincidence in timing, but I am much too paranoid to be a big believer in coincidence.
My blood pressure skyrocketed at the same time the swelling developed. It has receded with the swelling, but not yet back down to prior levels, even with medication.
The prednisone that I have been eye dropping can also raise blood pressure, so that may be a futile battle at this point. My cynical worry is that the Lisinopril will turn what would be a sudden and fatal heart attack into something that will allow me to live with further debilitation.
The atrophy I had sought to prevent happened anyway. The foot and leg is used less during Stage One, and the swelling restricts nutrient flow, which can result in bone and tissue loss. The outcome for me is that the afflicted ankle collapsed. My right leg is now somewhat shorter than my left leg. I feel lopsided orientation when standing or walking. This has already put strain on left leg and has the potential to screw up my back.
Combined with blindness, I’m really disabled now. It’s screwed up my bowling as I tend not to stand straight or square and can’t see that my straight-throw alignment to the pins is off. Talking about this point is probably more leaning to bitchfest rather than informing about Charcot foot, so ‘nuff said.
Dry flaky skin over what was so massively swollen remains. I promise not to pass around another small sheet of dead skin to my bowling partners to show as "something cool" and identifying it only after they’ve been handling it. Maybe with the next larger piece, I will rehydrate it and feed it to the cats.
Like the ill advised PRP treatment that would prevent diabetic retinapathy, the Charcot foot will have permanent effects beyond my mismatched leg lengths. I’ve been prescribed and fitted for a leg brace, what the dumbass foot doctor said would be supportive but what the caster at the orthopedic appliance place said would be largely immobilizing. It’ll take a few weeks to get in; and until then, it’s like the long term prognosis on the reattachment surgery: wait and see, as best as I can.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Rolling with the Changes
Part of the difficulty in dealing with the whole going blind thing is that the status quo keeps changing on me. Each of four setbacks changed things, as did the cataract surgery, the PRP sessions, bouts of improvement, and the double procedure of vitreous exchange and retina reattachment. There should be another change with a procedure slated for sometime down the line, when they drain the silicon oil from my eye and replace it with something that should allow for natural vitreous reformation.
The prescription of the prednisone and the development of the Charcot foot both also seriously undermine what I can do, and both those situations will also change.
The positive aspect is that the changes that can be expected should all be improvements. There’s a lot of hope I cling to there.
I do seem to get a lot of sincere compliments about how well I cope with all this. I know that the coping had been good, but I am, too aware of my private times of despair and hopelessness to grade my efforts as highly as others do.
I’ve clawed my way through the two and a half years since the hemorrhage with tools that all too often caused conflict in my life: obstinacy; a warped and off color sense of humor; cocky certainty; foolhardy courage; an unwillingness to readily surrender to my gut even when "everyone" would tell ne I was wrong.
My didactic life has been full of adversity, always one more thing to cope with and adapt to, literally since birth. None of it killed me, so all of it made me stronger.
I’ve learned to cover some of that strength these days. My unyielding demeanor had always been something people–particularly the parade of control freaks through my life–didn’t like about me, That solid strength in a slight frame and relative youth and among people who destroy anyone who fails to acquiesce to their presumed mastery carried me through.
It continues to carry me, and it often continues to surprise. These days I am trying to develop a kinder, gentler persona that meshes better with what people "expect" from a blind guy.
But I’m still not ready for a red and white cane because I will beat people with it.
The prescription of the prednisone and the development of the Charcot foot both also seriously undermine what I can do, and both those situations will also change.
The positive aspect is that the changes that can be expected should all be improvements. There’s a lot of hope I cling to there.
I do seem to get a lot of sincere compliments about how well I cope with all this. I know that the coping had been good, but I am, too aware of my private times of despair and hopelessness to grade my efforts as highly as others do.
I’ve clawed my way through the two and a half years since the hemorrhage with tools that all too often caused conflict in my life: obstinacy; a warped and off color sense of humor; cocky certainty; foolhardy courage; an unwillingness to readily surrender to my gut even when "everyone" would tell ne I was wrong.
My didactic life has been full of adversity, always one more thing to cope with and adapt to, literally since birth. None of it killed me, so all of it made me stronger.
I’ve learned to cover some of that strength these days. My unyielding demeanor had always been something people–particularly the parade of control freaks through my life–didn’t like about me, That solid strength in a slight frame and relative youth and among people who destroy anyone who fails to acquiesce to their presumed mastery carried me through.
It continues to carry me, and it often continues to surprise. These days I am trying to develop a kinder, gentler persona that meshes better with what people "expect" from a blind guy.
But I’m still not ready for a red and white cane because I will beat people with it.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Off the Grid and off the Leash
I’m back!
The absence here and in other parts of my life for the past while was to cover the fact that I had surgery for retina reattachment and vitreous gel replacement and possibly more on January 19. I can’t tell you how it went right now because this blog post, along with two others, are being written on 21 December.
I shared details of the impending surgery with very few people. Many of those who knew of the surgery heard lies about when it was. My intention at this point is to tell as few people as possible that I will even be having it. Look back on those mid-December posts and you’ll know I was not in a good frame of mind. Too many life events colluded to make my self control and self sufficiency issues explode. Perhaps my intention to conceal the surgery contained some level of spite towards people who really stressed me out about control issues; sometimes my subconscious does work that way, unfortunately. But on the conscious levels, I didn’t want to hear the input of people who care and/or control. There’s risk to the surgery. It’s all or nothing: it will/did either improve things, provide hope for "permanent" stabilization of how things are now, or make things go totally black.
To share information in advance on the surgery seems like it would foster concern and worry for those who do truly care for me. None of them will be able to control a thing about the surgery, so why foster needless worry?
I do not need to share this burden. Part of my reaction to December’s overload of stresses was that I was facing what could be my final stand. I had been strong and self sufficient my adult life and choose to face this high risk in that mode of operation. I am a tough little bastard who can and dud face this on my own.
The time of my planed absence from the blog and other areas has given me time to reflect on the experiences and time to prepare further posts. I’ll start revealing the experience after a few days, when a few further pre-op posts have been published.
In the meantime, if you are one of those who wants to be planting a boot in my ass for the "sudden disappearance," take a number and get in line.
The absence here and in other parts of my life for the past while was to cover the fact that I had surgery for retina reattachment and vitreous gel replacement and possibly more on January 19. I can’t tell you how it went right now because this blog post, along with two others, are being written on 21 December.
I shared details of the impending surgery with very few people. Many of those who knew of the surgery heard lies about when it was. My intention at this point is to tell as few people as possible that I will even be having it. Look back on those mid-December posts and you’ll know I was not in a good frame of mind. Too many life events colluded to make my self control and self sufficiency issues explode. Perhaps my intention to conceal the surgery contained some level of spite towards people who really stressed me out about control issues; sometimes my subconscious does work that way, unfortunately. But on the conscious levels, I didn’t want to hear the input of people who care and/or control. There’s risk to the surgery. It’s all or nothing: it will/did either improve things, provide hope for "permanent" stabilization of how things are now, or make things go totally black.
To share information in advance on the surgery seems like it would foster concern and worry for those who do truly care for me. None of them will be able to control a thing about the surgery, so why foster needless worry?
I do not need to share this burden. Part of my reaction to December’s overload of stresses was that I was facing what could be my final stand. I had been strong and self sufficient my adult life and choose to face this high risk in that mode of operation. I am a tough little bastard who can and dud face this on my own.
The time of my planed absence from the blog and other areas has given me time to reflect on the experiences and time to prepare further posts. I’ll start revealing the experience after a few days, when a few further pre-op posts have been published.
In the meantime, if you are one of those who wants to be planting a boot in my ass for the "sudden disappearance," take a number and get in line.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Accentuating the Positive
Things are more difficult these days. Adding a bum ankle that could easily become permanently deformed after months of treatment hasn’t helped ease things along, but I am still hobbling along. Where I had been walking along slowly with hands usually defensively waving in front of me, you can add a limpy gimpy foot dragging behind me to get the image of an incredibly thin and good looking Igor shuffling around dark dungeons. Just don’t expect any "Yes, Master" responses because I’m way too insolent for that.
I need to look at the things I can do rather than concentrate on what I can do instead of all the things I can’t.
I can still bowl. As often as not, I am maintaining my average. It was never an impressive degree of sportsmanship and great fun on the rare occasion when a good score is in the same game as better teammates’ weak games. My tagline "You can’t bowl better than a blind guy is always worth a cheap laugh. The response is often "How many fingers am I holding up?" and the answer is always "One."
I changed locks at an apartment just the other day. This was rekeying on one door and a complete change on another, done all by myself by feel and experience.
Computer use is assisted with the use of a 32-inch TV as a monitor and a magnifying mouse. That too has gotten harder with time, but I am still plugging along for now, slowly.
I made program booklets for the bowling league bylaws, not just stapled sheets of a standard document but four page printed folded books in large type. I know they came out good because I was accused of having help.
I can still cook. Other than a dish towel falling into th oven unseen, I’ve had no mishaps any worse than things that happened due to sheer idiotic inattention. I washed my hand immediately after putting the turkey in the oven, so found the towel while it was still smoldering and before it had burst into flames.
I can still use power tools, with great caution. I never could cut a straight line, so the output isn’t radically changed. I stay cautious in keeping hands and other vital body parts away from the central blur that makes all the noise.
Power garden tools are no less difficult. I was swinging a chain saw in some clean up after Irene. I bought battery operated Hedge trimmers and a weed whacker. There’s two particular dangers I found the need to circumvent. The first trick is not moving my feet while the tool is in use. My reduced visual field makes that particularly dangerous as I am a living tripping hazard. The second was cutting through the cords of my old electric models. Don’t be shocked that I never did so.
Some of these things may seem haphazard, but in times when I find I can do less and less with more and more difficulty, they are accomplishments.
I need to look at the things I can do rather than concentrate on what I can do instead of all the things I can’t.
I can still bowl. As often as not, I am maintaining my average. It was never an impressive degree of sportsmanship and great fun on the rare occasion when a good score is in the same game as better teammates’ weak games. My tagline "You can’t bowl better than a blind guy is always worth a cheap laugh. The response is often "How many fingers am I holding up?" and the answer is always "One."
I changed locks at an apartment just the other day. This was rekeying on one door and a complete change on another, done all by myself by feel and experience.
Computer use is assisted with the use of a 32-inch TV as a monitor and a magnifying mouse. That too has gotten harder with time, but I am still plugging along for now, slowly.
I made program booklets for the bowling league bylaws, not just stapled sheets of a standard document but four page printed folded books in large type. I know they came out good because I was accused of having help.
I can still cook. Other than a dish towel falling into th oven unseen, I’ve had no mishaps any worse than things that happened due to sheer idiotic inattention. I washed my hand immediately after putting the turkey in the oven, so found the towel while it was still smoldering and before it had burst into flames.
I can still use power tools, with great caution. I never could cut a straight line, so the output isn’t radically changed. I stay cautious in keeping hands and other vital body parts away from the central blur that makes all the noise.
Power garden tools are no less difficult. I was swinging a chain saw in some clean up after Irene. I bought battery operated Hedge trimmers and a weed whacker. There’s two particular dangers I found the need to circumvent. The first trick is not moving my feet while the tool is in use. My reduced visual field makes that particularly dangerous as I am a living tripping hazard. The second was cutting through the cords of my old electric models. Don’t be shocked that I never did so.
Some of these things may seem haphazard, but in times when I find I can do less and less with more and more difficulty, they are accomplishments.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Elderly Adolescence
I have entered what I call "elderly adolescence." I’m 42. Most people my age are dealing with parents in the elderly adolescent phase, not being the bratty cripple themselves. Simply put, "elderly adolescence" is that phase of declining ability when old folk overstep their bounds and feel capable of continuing things they used to do. They get rebellious and insolent when someone resets or reduces the boundaries. As teenagers feel more capable than limited life experience has prepared them to actually be, in the elderly version the troublesome imp hasn’t readjusted to decreasing mental and/or physical limitations. My limits are physical only, and that’s part of the problem. I’m still too sharp for my own good. The rebellion rooted in combination and culmination of the physical limitations of being blind and what could be permanent foot damage called Charcot foot, and multi-front psychological crises of a very stressful period since Thanksgiving.
The very last time behind the wheel was just sheer reactionary rebellion. I only went to 7-11 six blocks from my house, but that’s left of my house and on the nearest controlled intersection, so I went the longer roundabout way of multiple right hand turns. These days, every flasher and floater lends me to see things that aren’t there and potentially miss things that are actually there. It was a jumpy stressful experience that I should not have undergone.
The physical and personal stresses of life that week and during the preceding one had just made something snap. I needed to get out, to do something for myself and by myself. Due to the Charcot foot, walking is no real option for me either. I didn’t want to call someone or particularly even talk to anyone that day. It was something I "needed" to do that day, as wrong as it was.
Nothing came of the experience. My "handlers" don’t know about it. Nothing got hit and no one got hurt, but I was jumping at shadows the entire time. It didn’t relieve any stressand probably raised the blood pressure for the day. I repeated this is a bad idea" for every ten feet the jeep rolled along.
I completed the errand and sat in the driveway behind the wheel for quite a while afterwards, trying to ingrain the stress I felt for the drive in order to force acceptance that I couldn’t do it again.
I have stopped driving. My elderly adolescence phase has not fully passed, but has gained enough of an angry, insolent edge that I will take all comers head on rather than sneak around. That’s more my style anyway. No one needs to take the keys, even if they could find all sets. The jeep is more unwieldy now anyway; it’s set up with the full plow rig for the winter.
The very last time behind the wheel was just sheer reactionary rebellion. I only went to 7-11 six blocks from my house, but that’s left of my house and on the nearest controlled intersection, so I went the longer roundabout way of multiple right hand turns. These days, every flasher and floater lends me to see things that aren’t there and potentially miss things that are actually there. It was a jumpy stressful experience that I should not have undergone.
The physical and personal stresses of life that week and during the preceding one had just made something snap. I needed to get out, to do something for myself and by myself. Due to the Charcot foot, walking is no real option for me either. I didn’t want to call someone or particularly even talk to anyone that day. It was something I "needed" to do that day, as wrong as it was.
Nothing came of the experience. My "handlers" don’t know about it. Nothing got hit and no one got hurt, but I was jumping at shadows the entire time. It didn’t relieve any stressand probably raised the blood pressure for the day. I repeated this is a bad idea" for every ten feet the jeep rolled along.
I completed the errand and sat in the driveway behind the wheel for quite a while afterwards, trying to ingrain the stress I felt for the drive in order to force acceptance that I couldn’t do it again.
I have stopped driving. My elderly adolescence phase has not fully passed, but has gained enough of an angry, insolent edge that I will take all comers head on rather than sneak around. That’s more my style anyway. No one needs to take the keys, even if they could find all sets. The jeep is more unwieldy now anyway; it’s set up with the full plow rig for the winter.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
End of the Road
The last adventure behind the wheel had been in late October, after the undiagnosed foot problem was causing all sorts of problems and new limitations that I would not accept. The prolonged problem throughout October had me ready to lay off the bowling for a while. I had a planned absence in one league that I needed to prebowl for anyway, and my roommate who serves as primary control freak caregiver did not want me bowling at all. Like a naughty teenager I had been once upon a time, I stole my own car and went bowling. My scores sucked.
Under ideal circumstances, I could still do OK driving then. Some legs of the journey were actually enjoyable driving. The parts of the journey that were not enjoyable more than overcompensated for the easy parts.
Due to the closure of the School Street exit, I had to go by a less familiar route. If I had thought to go via Newport Avenue, I would not have had the scarey moment. The road markings are clearer on Newport Avenue and other traffic would have kept me in line with the road. Instead I went by the industrial highway. The traffic markings there grossly need repainting. I guided by the side of the road, which worked only until the industrial train tracks leveled and opened to the car traffic road and there was a break in the curb and the asphalt crossed and merged with those tracks.
While driving on the tracks, I did not test the claim of that old MacGyver episode that Jeep Wrangler wheel bases perfectly align to standard railroad track widths. I thought it more prudent to use the rugged vehicle to jump the curb and get back on the car roadway. I don’t recall ever seeing a train on those tracks, but why take chances just because the non-traffic ride on the tracks was somewhat more worry free than contending with other drivers who might be paying less attention than I could physically give?
No train came; I could have made it the half mile or so to where the tracks opened to the next street.
I did take the better marked road home. That caused its own problems as the setting sun flared against the dirty windshield and my dirty eye, stopping me dead at one point, an action not appreciated by other drivers with loud horns.
I’d never been so tempted to kiss the ground in gratitude of safe arrival from my own driving before. I decided I wouldn’t be driving again.
I didn’t get caught for having snuck out and never did tell the roommate. I fessed up to two caregiver type friends, one of whom found it horrifying and the other hilarious.
So why did I, one last time after this harrowing experience? It’s what I call "elderly adolescence."
Under ideal circumstances, I could still do OK driving then. Some legs of the journey were actually enjoyable driving. The parts of the journey that were not enjoyable more than overcompensated for the easy parts.
Due to the closure of the School Street exit, I had to go by a less familiar route. If I had thought to go via Newport Avenue, I would not have had the scarey moment. The road markings are clearer on Newport Avenue and other traffic would have kept me in line with the road. Instead I went by the industrial highway. The traffic markings there grossly need repainting. I guided by the side of the road, which worked only until the industrial train tracks leveled and opened to the car traffic road and there was a break in the curb and the asphalt crossed and merged with those tracks.
While driving on the tracks, I did not test the claim of that old MacGyver episode that Jeep Wrangler wheel bases perfectly align to standard railroad track widths. I thought it more prudent to use the rugged vehicle to jump the curb and get back on the car roadway. I don’t recall ever seeing a train on those tracks, but why take chances just because the non-traffic ride on the tracks was somewhat more worry free than contending with other drivers who might be paying less attention than I could physically give?
No train came; I could have made it the half mile or so to where the tracks opened to the next street.
I did take the better marked road home. That caused its own problems as the setting sun flared against the dirty windshield and my dirty eye, stopping me dead at one point, an action not appreciated by other drivers with loud horns.
I’d never been so tempted to kiss the ground in gratitude of safe arrival from my own driving before. I decided I wouldn’t be driving again.
I didn’t get caught for having snuck out and never did tell the roommate. I fessed up to two caregiver type friends, one of whom found it horrifying and the other hilarious.
So why did I, one last time after this harrowing experience? It’s what I call "elderly adolescence."
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