I think I Cane

Written for the Flaunt that Flaw contest

I Think I Cane



By Chris Kuell



A cane is only as useful as the attitude of the person wielding it. I found
out the first time I went hiking with my family after losing my sight. Our
kids were young at the time, so we picked a relatively easy trail around a
small lake near our home in western Connecticut. Our son scampered ahead of
us, pointing out every interesting bird and flower. My wife, Christine,
carried our year-old daughter in a backpack, and I clung to her right elbow,
stumbling along in this new and unforgiving world of darkness.

Christine detached my hand from her elbow and said, "Use your cane." This
was the third or fourth time she'd done this in the quarter mile we'd gone
so far.

"It's too hard," I said. "Let me take your elbow. It'll be much easier." I
knew she had the extra weight of our daughter, but I didn't understand what
the big deal was. Did she really expect me to walk this uneven, root-filled
trail  without getting hurt?

A few steps later I stumbled over a rock the size of a small terrier, and
fell hard, scraping tender flesh from my hands and elbows.  Months of anger
and frustration erupted inside me. I smashed the cane into the rock like
Paul Bunyan with his axe, bending it to an angle that matched my bloody
elbow. A few seconds of absolute silence followed-not even the birds or
chipmunks dared make a sound. Then the kids started to cry, Christine and I
exchanged a few unloving words, and our hike was finished.

            At thirty-five, I lost my sight, my career, my confidence, and
my self-respect. To me, the white cane represented a neon sign, my scarlet
letter, proclaiming to the world that I was blind, and I wanted nothing to
do with it. Two days after the hiking fiasco, a new cane arrived in the
mail.

I'm blessed to have a wife who is caring, smart, and tough. Even though both
of our lives had been turned upside down, and the weight of responsibility
grew heavier on her shoulders, she had the good sense that I was lacking.

"We've got two kids," she said. "And I won't have them growing up feeling
sorry for their Daddy." She paused to let this sink in. "You need to get off
the pity pot and learn how to take care of yourself. I want my kids to be
proud of you."

Those words proved to be the arrow that penetrated my layers of depression.
She was right. If I couldn't do it for me, and I couldn't do it for her, I
had to make some changes for my kids.

Over the next several months, I began a new phase in my life. I received
Mobility and Orientation instruction from the state agency for the blind.
Once a week an instructor visited my house and taught me proper cane travel
technique. He showed me how to get around my neighborhood, and how to use
public transportation. The cane gave me a physical connection to the places
I traveled, and helped me to develop mental pictures of where I'd been.
For practice, I'd go for walks downtown, to the pharmacy, or the library to
check out a book on tape. This was when the real lessons occurred, because
sometimes I'd get lost. I'm yet to find a panic equal to being blind and
completely confused about where you are. You have to resist the urge to
bawl, and utilize the sounds and your physical surroundings to figure out
where you are, and how you went wrong.

On one such occasion, I found myself in a parking lot full of cars. I
figured I must have drifted into the lot, and attempted to retrace my steps
to get back to the sidewalk. Everywhere I turned, I found only more cars. I
paused, and listened for sounds of traffic. But, at ten-thirty on a Tuesday
morning, all the streets were quiet. I tapped around, trying to find a way
out. At some point, I heard the distinctive clicking of high heels, and made
my way towards the sound.

"Excuse me," I said. "I'm blind, and I'm lost. Can you please show me where
the sidewalk is?"

"Désolé, je ne parle pas anglais," a woman answered.

I pointed my face skyward and thought-God, if this is your idea of a joke, I
'm not laughing. I tried in vain to communicate with the woman, who really
didn't know a word of English, until I gave up and wished her a nice day.
She went to her car, and then the solution hit me. I listened while she
backed up, and followed the sounds of her vehicle as it weaved through the
aisles and back to the street. Once there, I found the sidewalk I'd lost a
half-hour ago, and made my way home.



I joined a support group and talked with other blind people to find out how
they did things. I began to believe in myself, and with support and
encouragement from my family, I mastered some of the alternative techniques
blind people use to get along in life.

With a newer, and lighter, fiberglass cane, I walked my children to and from
school. In time, I learned Braille, and how to use a computer with a speech
synthesizer. As I gained understanding about the true nature of blindness, I
started doing advocacy work on behalf of the blind and visually impaired.

Three years after losing my sight, I traveled solo to Atlanta. Two years
after that, I traveled to West Virginia and attended a Writer's
conference-by myself. Since then, I've traveled to our state capitol to
lobby our Senators and Representatives to improve training and opportunities
for blind people. I've co-chaired a legislative council overseeing our state
agency for the blind, and tapped my way to  meetings with the governor and
the Secretary of State.

I now have a wide collection of canes. Most are taller than that first one,
and most are lighter, fiberglass models-although I do have a sturdy aluminum
one I use specifically for hiking. Some are one piece, others telescope or
fold. Some have roller tips, others have a plastic ball or a thin aluminum
disk.

Now I can't imagine leaving the house without my cane, and I always have a
spare in my suitcase when I travel. My cane does announce to the world that
I'm blind, but I'm okay with that. It only symbolizes inferiority in the
hands of those who don't have the skills and confidence to use it properly.
When I'm walking down the street, it signals to cars and pedestrians alike
that I'm going places.


 

Reviews

[Angel Bird]

A standing ovation here! Wow!
What a great man you are - wow! - and such a very lucky one to have a wonderful and smart woman at your side!
Bravo for what you did, still do and gonna do in your life, and for being such an unexhaustible source of positive inspiration for so many others, and not only to blind people, but to everyone not able to grab life and squeeze everything possible out of it!

KUDOS!!!

[alternative_be]

Angel Bird sent me here too...
I am glad she did!
I can relate to your story very well... People reading this should realise that nobody is perfect and when we take that good look in the mirror everyday (I hope you do not mind me using that expression) we should realise that we all are impaired in some way or another, some even without realising it.
However some of these human restrictions are labeled as handicaps, others are not.
It is my opinion that this kind of pigeon holing creates a lot of predjuces ... on both sides. The so called normal do not know how to behave around so called 'handicapped' and the handicapped feel labeled...
Maybe we should look at our abilities and not at what we cannot do!
Thank you for writing this wonderful piece!

[George Love]

Excellent, very moving tale of determination and self reliance.

[The Mad Prophet]

Very deep, very nice meaning. I do like how you have learned to see your cane in two different symbols. This was a very touching story, and I have learned a lot from. Angle Bird sent it as a read request, and I am glad she did.

[Emily B]

"I'm going places!" Yes, you most certainly are. This is a smart and honest description of coming to grips with a handicap. I enjoyed your story very much. Good luck in the contest!!!!