Then there was the very nice lady dressed in a bright red suit who greeted me in the lobby of my opthamologist's office last time I visited. So nice in fact, that she took my hand, led me to the elevator and rode with me to my floor. Still holding my hand (which was becoming more and more awkward by the minute), she told me to check-in for my appointment using the touchscreen computers which had apparently replaced the usual front desk staff. I explained that I might need some help navigating my way around the screen and she looked entirely bewildered. She made a hasty retreat and whispered to a colleague that I appeared to be 'visually challenged'. I couldn't help but wonder how on earth she'd managed to avoid dealing with 'visually challenged' people in a retinal disease clinic. And if she wasn't there to help patients like me, what on earth was the hand-holding all about?!
All very odd, but then I suppose that this transitional stage between being sighted and not is confusing - for me and everyone else. How can somebody who can run at full pelt through an airport be unable to follow directions? How can somebody read texts on her phone (in an attempt to forget about holding hands with a complete stranger) struggle to use a touchscreen computer? Why would she bother writing a shopping list when she complains about no longer being able to read her own hand-writing? Why does she insist on buying magazines she can barely see?
Recently, I've been experimenting with different ways of describing what's going on. I've tried on a few different hats for size, starting with the entirely nebulous 'horrible eye-disease' and 'terrible eye-sight' approach, followed by a brief attempt to brave no-nonsense labels such as 'visually-impaired' and 'low-vision' before retreating to the comfortingly meaningless 'almost legally blind'.
At some point, the blindness might speak for itself but now and in future, I'm so happy to have friends and family who don't seem to mind the ambiguity of it one bit: People who'll listen to me moaning about not being able to see ANYTHING. AT ALL. ANYMORE one day and still be happy to take me to see a ballet or an art exhibition the next.
All very odd, but then I suppose that this transitional stage between being sighted and not is confusing - for me and everyone else. How can somebody who can run at full pelt through an airport be unable to follow directions? How can somebody read texts on her phone (in an attempt to forget about holding hands with a complete stranger) struggle to use a touchscreen computer? Why would she bother writing a shopping list when she complains about no longer being able to read her own hand-writing? Why does she insist on buying magazines she can barely see?
Recently, I've been experimenting with different ways of describing what's going on. I've tried on a few different hats for size, starting with the entirely nebulous 'horrible eye-disease' and 'terrible eye-sight' approach, followed by a brief attempt to brave no-nonsense labels such as 'visually-impaired' and 'low-vision' before retreating to the comfortingly meaningless 'almost legally blind'.
At some point, the blindness might speak for itself but now and in future, I'm so happy to have friends and family who don't seem to mind the ambiguity of it one bit: People who'll listen to me moaning about not being able to see ANYTHING. AT ALL. ANYMORE one day and still be happy to take me to see a ballet or an art exhibition the next.
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