I recently called the talking book library and requested an inspirational book that would help me with the task of being legally blind. I received a book the next day. The writer, an elderly, retired columnist of some sort, recounted for me the problems he faced, and documented all the things his wife did FOR him.
At first, I had wished for such complete custodial care.
I had already known those things this man spoke of, but I dutifully finished the book, boxed it up, and promptly sent it back. Then I wheeled myself out onto our beautiful deck and had a good cry.
I could have generated these emotions on my own. I had not needed the book I had spent my day reading. Then, I felt anger at the time and energy wasted in this effort to be "fixed." While I was atoning for my anger, it occurred to me: Since I hadn't found inspiration, I wondered if, perhaps, I might have it to GIVE.
Up to now, I have not shared my experience. I have guarded my feelings just in case they might not be "legitimate." But now I will share them.
Twenty_some years ago, when I was in my forties, my feet began to give me trouble. I did not have diabetes, but I had all the symptoms of peripheral neuropathy. My first task, it soon was apparent, was to convince the medical establishment, and their psychological cohorts, that my pain was not "all in my head."
That done, I traipsed to the major medical clinics, confirmed my own diagnosis, and discovered there was little else to do. I finally accepted reality and went about experiencing the painful loss of real sensation in my feet and legs. (It has since moved on to my hands, face, and gut, but is, somehow, not very relevant to the real living of my life anymore.) It just is part of my reality.
The nerve loss in my feet was taking away the long hikes in the Colorado mountain foothills and impeding my ability to drive, even with the hand controls I used at that time.
Reading was becoming increasingly difficult. I had read constantly since before I started school, so I thought perhaps I should cut back on what could be "over-use of my eyes." It did not help.
My ophthalmologist recognized the problem. Over the years, we had not much
discussed my macular degeneration, but in 1992, she sent me off to another specialist,
her friend, who specialized in low-vision problems, and she broke the news that
I was now "legally blind."
There were not many choices left to make. I had already given up my driver's
license. I was NOT ready to give up being a public school teacher.
Registration with the state department of vocational rehabilitation was a
given. The staff valiantly attempted to find a means for me to continue teaching.
My husband cooperated in every way. Nothing worked. I said goodbye to my last
student. I went home to accept my new situation and to mourn.
My husband returned to work. At home, I huddled under an afghan that my mother had crocheted for me long ago. I could not cry. I huddled. My dog, Daisy,a Cairn terrier, cocked her head and watched my behavior in dismay. She chased her tail in a futile attempt to get me to go for a walk. Then,when I laid down completely, she leaped up and settled herself ON TOP OF ME to wait. She sighed ... and waited. She waited for months. I dwelt on all the things that I could NOT do. Still, she waited.
Finally, my sluggish mind wandered. It wondered: what CAN I do?
If I could find my shoes, I COULD venture outside for Daisy. She was at the door, watching, waiting for me.
While I waited for her, I could see a tall weed in my Columbine garden. I COULD sit on the ground and pull it. I COULD.
I COULD scoot over a bit and reach another. I COULD. They needed water. I COULD.
That night, I met my husband at the door with a grin that he had almost forgotten. I COULD. Daisy smiled with my husband.
Each day, Daisy helped me find things that I COULD do. She smiled again as she got her first good hair brushing in a year. I could smile, too. I COULD.
My emotional and physical pain is not what I need to share with you. We are the experts of what is our own. What I want to give you are the things I learned while dwelling on the things I had lost. You will not have time to do that job yourself once you realize that you, too, CAN do.
In your own life, as you know, you will suffer losses, through aging, perhaps diabetes, peripheral neuropathy, macular degeneration, or some of the other ills of mankind. Whatever those losses are, I ask you to face them. Look at whatever it is in the light of reality. Look it over good. Get to know exactly what you have lost. ACCEPT IT. Mourn it thoroughly, but don't take too long. Life is short.
Then, ask yourself a question: What CAN I do about this condition, now that I have just accepted it? The keyword here is CAN. Don't waste your time on the reverse. Find one thing that you CAN do -- and act on it. Another "I can" WILL follow. If it is slow to appear, do the first "can" again while you wait. Celebrate it.
There might be something else you can do. Think about it; be creative. Hand
controls on my car allowed me to keep driving, for a time, in spite of neuropathy
and numbness in my feet. Another example: I now read books on tape. I didn't
quit reading -- I switched. And, I recorded my own favorite recipes on tapes,
while I still could read print. Then we found new measuring cups made for folks
with limited vision, at a discount store. We marked the temperature settings
better on my oven control -- and I was a cook again!
DO EVERYTHING YOU CAN THINK OF TO HELP YOURSELF. THEN, DROP IT. If there becomes
more you can do, you will think of it. DO IT and move on.
Mantra for dealing with loss: FACE THE LOSS. MOURN THE LOSS. DO EVERYTHING
YOU CAN DO TO MITIGATE THAT LOSS. LOCATE THE HELP YOU NEED AND ASK FOR IT. ACCEPT
THE HELP, GRACIOUSLY. MOVE ON.