Will the Owner of the Waving Arm Please Identify Itself?

6 OCTOBER 1991
The van did not sell in spring, so I am still driving, although I have cut back.

As I drive to church this morning on the empty streets I go through a red light. For some reason this shakes me more than any previous error. A nervous crying fit hits me and I have to pull to the side of the road to calm down. I make it to church and after the service ask a friend to drive
me home; he parks the van in the driveway and there it sits.

I cannot say for sure how much worse my vision is, but I find myself insisting that supervisors at work edit my reports with black pen, since pencil has become practically invisible. I find myself counting the seven, six, ten fuzzy multiples into which my vision has split, trying to pin them
down, watching them merge into almost one as I come within inches of the object being observed. I find myself needing to use a magnifying glass to read small print or print in odd colours, needing to ask bus drivers what number route they are on days when the sun is too bright
or the numbers are too easily confused, like 1 and 4, 5 and 6. I stop reading magazines at work and at home, and my small, scratched magnifying glass becomes my constant companion.

There is a growing dreamlikeness to the surrounding world. Objects bleed together, merge. The earth tones itself down: blacks, greys, dark greens and browns melt into background. Colour and contrast mark noteworthy events: bright pink of a blouse to guide me in the lunchroom search for friends, bright yellow of a store logo to tell me where to enter.

Reality comes in pieces, disconnected and abrupt: the grey crunch of gravel beneath my booted foot, the yellow warmth of sunshine through a window on my face, the blue sharpness of a chair leg against my shin. Slicing a radish, I cannot see where fingers end and food begins, cut slowly, feeling the smooth roundness of red skin, the soft sinking of knife into white flesh, pain free.

Separation surrounds me. I am a floating figure, unable to reach out for rescue to the residents of the dream. Outside, the white world of winter prevents me from venturing forth; inside, the grey walls of my grey world move in.

How long does the dream carry on? How far does it go? Will it ever end?

5-26 FEBRUARY 1992
Depression hits. I spend the three weeks following my revelatory visit to the ophthalmologist in a state of lethargy, unable to concentrate, wanting only to sleep.

Cataract. I am angry at the doctor for not making that plain before.

In this state of depression I almost believe that I am blind already; begin to act as though the verdict of continued deterioration had already imposed the harsh sentence of incapacity. My mind echoes with dark thoughts: I can’t, I won’t be able to.

In the midst of the depression I rebel, indulge in a reading binge as if to prove I still can, devour seven books in six days. The arrival of the introductory booklet from the CNIB, to whose low- vision clinic the doctor has referred me, cheers me since I see that services are available and that I will need to make use of a few: reading aids, a bus hailing kit, maybe some computer programs.

So when Linda, the social worker from the CNIB calls, I have rejected the verdict and am confident this will be a simple affair -- help me get what I need and I won’t bother you again, at least for a while. But she deals me another blow. "Do you want a free bus pass? They’re available to people like you who are legally blind." Legally blind? No -- I can still see, I can still read most things, I can still cook and clean and shop and work and write without assistance. Me? Legally blind? It can’t be.

At home after supper with a headache I do the dishes eyes closed to see how difficult it might be. Not too difficult, but then I can open my eyes to put the dishes away. I walk from room to room, look at the shelves of books, objects scattered over the tables, files piled on my desk. How will I reorganize my house, my life, as my vision continues to decline? What will I do to be able to continue to write? The future looms, uncertain, and I suddenly feel the urge to travel, go places and see things before I can no longer see well enough to enjoy them. An urge to do things now, before it’s too late.

There is a growing dreamlikeness to the surrounding world. Objects bleed together, merge. The earth tones itself down: blacks, greys, dark greens and browns melt into background

In this world of hazy figures, voices have become important to me. I sit in a business meeting or in church on Sunday and watch various sizes and colours of shapes walk to the lectern, the pulpit, begin to talk, read, preach. Sometimes the voices are familiar: warm voices that have shaken my hand, eaten beside me at lunch, chatted before a course or at a social gathering. Deep, mellow voices that are a pleasure to listen to; smooth, well-inflected voices that carry the magic of words; dry voices; broken voices cracked with worry or strain. Sometimes the voices have no memory attached, bring no encounter to mind -- I listen hard, then, try to remember the tone, the inflection, listen for the mention of a name or circumstance to provide me with some clue as to the owner of the voice.

2-4 MARCH 1992
Sitting at a table in a donut shop with my neighbour, I try to decipher the words printed at the top of a poster hanging on the wall. Less eggs, I think. I ask Moira. "Low fat," she says. Well, I got the L right. I tell her I have been labelled legally blind, that it makes no sense to me. Ten percent vision is a definition that makes sense, I tell her, legally blind does not. I can still see, I am not blind. And yet. Moira is sympathetic, knows the dangers of labels, agrees with me that nothing has really changed since I received the verdict, that there is no need for me to lock the prison door behind me.

At work, I begin to wonder if we are going overboard. I have informed my supervisors of my difficulties. Immediately a process is begun to investigate what aids are available; we visit the government technical loan bank and check out a closed-circuit TV for enlarging printed matter, a large-print and voice simulation computer program. Is this all really necessary? I have been managing fine with one simple magnifying glass, I can still see the screen, albeit at no more than eight inches’ distance. But two small facts keep me from voicing these objections: the echo of the words "progressive condition" and the awareness that the wheels of bureaucracy grind exceedingly slow. Better to start now and ensure that the equipment is there by the time I really need it -- and there is no need to reject what might already make life easier. In the meantime, I sit with my nose close to the screen.

Sounds have become valuable sources of information in the limited world I inhabit. I listen for the ring of the elevator bell when the light above the door is too dim, while heels clicking against parquet flooring inform me of someone’s passage at the end of a hall. I have become aware of
echoes: the closeness of my steps in a narrow corridor shifting into the deeper sound of emptiness as I walk past a door; the subtle variation in air movement around solid objects, barriers, walls.

Outside, invisible birds flit from branch to branch, revealing their presence only through their song. My black and white cats tussle and spit in the undefined shadows of unshovelled snow, and an invisible hot-air balloon hisses its windward path above the flat roof of the house. I hear the groaning and squeaking of bus brakes before the vehicle looms into sight at 40 feet, while the panting shadows of impatient cars warn me to hurry up and cross while my walk light is on.

5-11 MARCH 1992
My CNIB bus pass has arrived in the mail -- those four capital letters printed on it in unmistakable blue. I put it in my wallet, hesitant to use it -- every time I climb onto a bus I will be giving myself away. BLIND. But I’m not blind. The bus drivers will think I’m a hypocrite, a liar, taking advantage of the system, it’s so obvious I can see. And yet.

So much hinges on the word "clearly." There are things I can see at a distance: houses and buildings and clusters of trees. But none of it is clear and the little things, the all-important details, are lost to me. And the definition of distance is coming closer.

In darker moments I wish that I would just go completely blind, wish that I had lost both eyes at the age of three and gained the confidence of the young to move through an uncertain world. Wish that I would go blind now, fast, get it over with and adjust to life that way. That would be
much easier to take, I think, than this continuous adjustment to new, imperceptible levels of worse, this frustration of seeing the world close in on me from year to year, season to season, slow and inexorable.

Foolish thoughts. Any amount of vision is better than none at all, gives that much more freedom. I remind myself that cataract surgery is usually quite successful. But my vision may worsen yet again, my other voice says, another long slow descent into insularity. It is too emotionally taxing even to think of this. The pain of loss, the joy of sight regained, only to know the pain of loss
again.

All I need be concerned about is now. Take it one day at a time. I have already spent too much time in my life waiting for some future event that does not come. I will do what I want to, now, and let the future take care of itself

Scents and smells borne on the air around me keep me in touch with this fluid, distant world. I notice the smell of muddy earth where the snow has melted at the edge of lawns, the fresh scent of sunshine warming up the roads. The odour of oil, heavy and slick, informs me of the leak that has spread from the house next door into the street, turning the ice a foul brown, and on windless days the air settles heavy with exhaust along the asphalt surface of the nearest busy road. Inside, the warm musty odour of cats greets me at the end of the day, the scent of fried onions, garlic and spices sets my mouth to watering as it wafts from my neighbours’ place upstairs, and the sharp tingle of hot pepper rises from my own Brazilian stew. Barely noticed before, these scents draw my attention, arrest a new awareness.

30 MARCH 1992
Finally, as spring is on the verge of breaking, I settle into an uneasy acceptance of the verdict. All I need be concerned about is now. Take it one day at a time. I have already spent too much time in my life waiting for some future event that does not come, some time of freedom that, if it materializes at all, does so in a manner much different than expected. I will do what I want to, now, and let the future take care of itself.

Today I signed the bill of sale for my van and watched its new owner drive it away down the street. Although I have not driven for six months, I experience a certain sense of loss watching it go -- the driveway feels empty, barren. I have not been without a vehicle for ten years; this is
another signal of my new way of living.

For I will not call it dependence. I cannot drive anymore, I cannot read certain things without assistance and I miss much of what goes on around me beyond a certain range, but I am still able to do and give much. I can still manage fine.

There is an invisible line between one stage and the next of unseeing. I stand at my kitchen counter, looking out over mounds of snow. The fence at the back is a vague, elongated brown splotch to my eyes; the power wires all but invisible above. I look at the fuzzy outline of the
house behind, its black fire escape and white windowsills set against red brick. When will it, too, disappear?

(Roma Quapp is a freelance writer living in Winnipeg, MB.)