Tag Archives: Vision Loss

Blindness Isn’t Black or White

The Foundation Fighting Blindness has launched acontroversial campaign encouraging sighted people to blindfold themselves for a short time to see what it’s like to be blind. Most blind people I know are vehemently opposed to this idea. I am no exception. It’s however not because simulation is wrong by definition.

First, simulating disability is often seen as fundamentally wrong by the disabled. The reason is that you don’t know what it’s like to live your entire life or the rest of your life with a disability by putting on a blindfold, sitting in a wheelchair or trying out other disability simulations. You will be able to take off your simulated disability when you’re done with it, after all.

Though I mostly agree with this, I can see how simulation can be useful for relatives of someone with a disability to learn to understand the alternative ways in which the disabled accomplish everyday tasks. They will also experience, though to a lesser degree, the obstacles people with disabilities encounter as they use these alternative techniques. For example, when I was at my country’s blindness rehabilitation center in 2005, my parents tried to put jelly on a slice of bread while blindfolded. My mother and I made a mess, while my father didn’t. Then again, he noticed as he took off his blindfold that he’d placed the can of jelly, the butter, the bread etc. all around his own plate. In a similar way, sitting in a wheelchair can help able-bodied people understand the need for ramps.

However, by experiencing “disability” for a short while, you will not experience the systemic societal oppression that comes with being in the minority position of being disabled. You will not experience the psychological and social impacts of disability. You will not have time to adjust, but then again, you won’t need to have time to adjust.

Another problem specifically with blindfolding to see what it’s like to be blind, is that blindness comes in many forms. (I’m sure there are analogous explanations of this for other disabilities. For example, most wheelchair users can walk a short distance. However, since blindness is what I know best, I’ll go with that.) Blindness, in other words, isn’t black-or-white. Only a small percentage of people who are blind have always been totally blind (with no light perception) or went totally blind (with no light perception) in an instant at one point in their lives.

Most people have at least some viison, whether that be useful or not. Many people who say they are totally blind, in fact have light perception only. Light perception is the ability to tell whether it’s dark or light. In its most limited form, it is the ability to tell the difference between daylight and nighttime. Light projection is the ability to tell where the light comes from, such as where there are windows in a room. Since both light perception and light projection are measured with the eye doctor’s flashlight, not large sources of light like windows, it is possible to test as having light perception only when you really have some light projection. I am an example of this. When I went to the blindness rehabilitation center, they were initially informed by my doctor that I am totally blind, since in the doctor’s opinion I had no functional vision. I have heard from many people who have experienced true light perception only that indeed this would be the point at which they’d consider themselves completely funcitonally blind. However, this is the reason there’s a difference between functional vision and vision as measured by an ophthalmologist.

However, I always say that I am “blind.” This led to a particularly frustrating experience one time in 2010 or 2011, when I had to undergo oral surgery. One of the doctors or assistants said that I didn’t need a sheet over my eyes because I’m blind anyway. Guess what? Even those with the most limited forms of light perception can be bothered by a bright dentist’s light shining right into their eyes.

Then I didn’t even mention people who are judged to be functionally blind but who do have some very limited but useable vision. I was in this group from age eight till age eighteen. I had very limited color, form and object perception, but my parents and even psychologists working with the blind said I needed to accept the fact that I am blind. Maybe I wouldn’t have had that much trouble with it had they not constantly suggested that blind meant no useable vision. Visual techniques may not be the most efficient in many situations, but that doesn’t mean the vision isn’t there.

Realizing I’m Blind

During the #AtoZChalenge, I had all kinds of ideas in my head about what I wanted to blog about once the challenge was over. Now that it’s May and the challenge is over, I however experience a bit of writer’s block. All these ideas that I had during April seem to have vanished. However, O just remembered one of them, which was to write a kind of series discussing topics related to blindness. I am going to answer some of the questions from the Thought Provoker. The Thought Provoker was a monthly question relating to blindness between like 1998 and 2004. The provoking stories and questions are still online. Today, I will write a response to Thought Provoker 10, which asks what a person thinks when they first realize blindness or vision loss has touched their life.

The story seems to be about a person going blind later in life. I was born legally blind. My parents tell me I first realized I was visually impaired at around age seven, when Braille reading was introduced to me. I know my realizing that blindness affected me was a gradual process. At around age eight, I’d ask my parents: “How can yu see that?” According to my parents, it seemed as though I thought I could learn to be sighted.

My parents have always been open about the nature of my blindness. I knew I had a retinal condition. When a great uncle had a retinal detachment and described what it was like, I feared I’d get it myself, because I saw those flashes he described too. It wasn’t that far from the truth indeed.

Strangely, I also feard going blind from totally unrelated, ridiculous causes. Like, I learned about people who drank cleaning products with methanol in them and who subsequently went blind. From that moment on, when my parents used said cleaning product, I was always afraid that I’d accidentally touch it, then lick my fingers and go blind.

In 1993 and 1994 I had two eye surgeries to hopefully save my vision. They were largely unsuccessful, though I still had “hand motion” vision after the second surgery. This means that at 20 feet away, I could see someone’s hand moving but not count their fingers. My parents say that my eye doctor gave up on me after the surgery in 1994. My vision would deteriorate and there was no way of preventing this.

I never accepted this until I entered mainstream secondary education at age thirteen in 1999. I tried for a while to show I still had some vision, but quickly learned it was useless, certainly when compared to sighted people’s. This was the point at which I gave up on myself vision-wise.

Still, my attitude was more one of resignation than of active acceptance. The thought that my sight might be restored someday was on my mind all the time. When, in 2001, a cataract was discovered on my “good” left eye, I pretended to be more concerned with the appearance of my eye than with my vision. Inside, I did worry what had caused this. Was it the distilled alcohol I had drunk in chemistry class the day before?

I finally decided to go pursue cataract surgery in 2013. I wanted to know once and for all whether my sight could be restored and the only way to find out was to get the surgery. It was largely unsuccessful and I gained only very minimal improvement in vision from it. Since then, I realize blindness is not jus tin my life, but I’m in fact totally blind.

The emotion that went through my mind when I realized this was at first stoicism. I never really cared about my sight, I reasoned, and nothing had changed for the worse after surgery anyway. Then came depression and hopelessness. It dawned upon me that this had been my last chance for sight restoration until or unless technology advances. I hate that adage, because it gives me false hope, but I can’t shake it off. In this sense, I’m still in denial.

Seven Things

Last week, one of Friday Reflections’ prompts was to list seven things about yourself. I was at my parents’ for the week-end, where the desk I had my computer on was uncomfortably high. I also I had a hard time concentrating with my parents, husband, sister and her boyfriend in the room. For this reason, I didn’t write a post this week-end. (On Friday, I attended a concert so didn’t have the time to blog at all.) I’m still not very inspired today, so I just choose to use last Friday’s prompt. Here are seven keywords that describe me.

1. Preemie. Last week was World Prematurity Day, so I just got to choose “preemie” as my first descriptive word. I was born a little over three months premature in 1986. I was very lucky to have been born in the city of what I believe is the oldest children’s hospital of the Netherlands and even luckier that the Netherlands is a developed country with good health care. Read this article on Preemie Babies 101 to find out more about preemie care in developing countries. This made me realize how fortunate I am.

2. Intelligent. This is the first thing my parents would say if they had to describe me, or at least it was when I grew up. When I was twelve, my verbal IQ was measured at 154 (my performance IQ cannot be measured because I’m blind). This means I may be intellectually gifted. At least, Mensa considers a verbal IQ of over 130 to suffice for membership if you’re blind. Yes, I did at one point consider joining Mensa.

3. Blind. Okay, let’s start the collection of disability labels here. I am blind. I have always been legally blind and have been practically totally blind since age eighteen, although I still keep noticing that my vision can get better or worse. I notice even tiny changes that are not measureable by ophthalmologists. I am clasified as having light perception only and have been classfied as such ever since 2004, but I still use the tiny bit of vision I have for orientation sometimes. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I can’t shut it off.

4. Autistic. And possibly otherwise neurodiverse. I wasn’t diagnosed with autism till age twenty but suspected it from age twelve on. My parents didn’t want to hear of it, so after they voiced thir strong disapproval of my “hypochondriasis”, I pretended I was completely neurotypical. I failed, of course. Even though my autism diagnosis has been questioned a few times, most professionals are sure that I’m not neurotypical.

5. Mentally ill. After all, I have a mental health diagnosis. I am not one of those neurodiversity activists who believe that a psychiatric disorder is completely separate from a neurodevelopmental disorder. That distinction is, in my opinion, entirely political. I however do sometimes wish I didn’t have the diagnosis of borderline personality disorder, but that’s because BPD is one of the more stigmatized mental health diagnoses.

6. Blogger. I have been a blogger since 2007 (or 2002, if you count my online diaries that have been republished on my old blog). I don’t like to be associated with my old blogs though. I have this idea in my mind that I need to blog regularly or i need to start over and not associate with my old blog at all. It’s really surprising that this blog has been active for over two years, because I’ve started and restarted my Dutch blogs half a dozen times in the last year.

7. Wife. I don’t like this word, although I do like to refer to my husband as such. It’s probably because, in Dutch, the word “wijf”, which sounds like “wife”, is an insult for a woman. I always feel that the word “wife” sounds slightly submissive. However, I like being my husband’s wife.

A Reluctant Braille Reader’s Journey

A few days ago, I was contacted by Mary Hill from Mary-andering Creatively, whose blog is mostly on literacy. She asked me to write about autism and literacy, but I have little knowledge of this subject, partly because I wasn’t diagnosed with autism till age 20. I also do not know which of my difficulties learning to read were due to blindness and which were due to autism. I believe, in fact, that most of my difficulties were due to a lack of motivation.

I was a fairly early reader of print. When I was four or five, my mother made little books with large rub-on letters. Each page had one word on it and the books had a theme, such as “house” or “school”. In the Netherlands, at the time, kids didn’t learn to read till age six. I could read first-grade early reader books by the time I entered the special education equivalent of first grade.

By the time I had to learn Braille at age seven, however, I started to hate reading. It wasn’t that I didn’t like books, magazines or anything with letters in it. In fact, I’d listen to children’s books and magazines on tape all the time. I just didn’t like, or rather I hated, learning Braille. It was probably that learning Braille reminded me of the fact that I was rapidly losing my vision. After all, I did read print books till I’d lost so much vision that even giant print didn’t work for me anymore. This meant that, at age nine, I’d still be reading early learner books because of the large print. I had too little vision for low vision aids.

I continued to hate reading Braille till I got a computer at age eleven. Even then, I strained to read from the screen, magnifying the font six to eightfold. When I really needed to use another sense than vision, I rather used my text-to-speech software.

It was probably the annoying, robotical voice of the text-to-speech software that turned me into a Braille reader. By the time I entered mainstream secondary school at age thirteen, I could read computerized Braille with relative ease. I however still rarely touched Braille books. This may’ve been more a matter of convenience, as Braille books are bulky.

I did for a while read Braille books again through the UK’s national library service for the blind when I was nineteen. Unfortunately, some books were lost while being returned, so I was refused further library services. Now I enjoy a mixture of eBooks, which I read with Adobe Digital Editions and my screen reader, and DAISY digital talking books. I still hope to someday be able to subscribe to BookShare, the U.S.-based accessible book sharing site, but as I said before, my doctor still hasn’t filled out the proof of disability form.

Everyday Gyaan

Also linking up with Literacy Musings.

All the Light I Cannot See: Adjusting with Blindness

This month, it’s two years ago that I had my last eye surgery, an attempt at removing a cataract from myleft eye. It was hoped that I’d see a little again – before then, I only had a tiny bit of light perception. Though the surgery was a partial technical success, I gained only very minimal functional improvement. I am still classified as having light perception only.

The adjustment process to my blindness is ongoing. I remember ten years ago when I was at the blindness rehabilitation center, my psychologist, herself blind from birth, telling me I just had to accept the fact that I am blind. I didn’t see myself as low vision anymore – hadn’t fo ryears -, but I still had trouble accepting the fact that i’m essentially completely funcitonally blind.

For those who are coming here from a linky and don’t know my story, I was born three months prematurely in 1986 and developed an eye condition common in preemies. It left me legally blind all my life, but until I was around eight, I had considerable vision that I used everyday. I had some vision beyond light perception until I was seventeen.

Even though I’ve been (almost) totally blind for over ten years now, it’s still hard to accept. I don’t miss the loss of independence as much, as I was never all that independent to begin with. Also, though I lost some independence over the years, it’s more to do with my increasing executive dysfunction than with my blindness. What I miss most, is the loss of appreciation. For example, when I craft, I can no longer see what colors I’m using.

I don’t know for sure that I ever had the abilities that I wish I had. For example, it frustrates me that I cannot add pictures to my blog posts without help, because the requirement of having an image go with every blog post is one of the most 101’ish lessons in blogging. Blogs didn’t exist when I still had considerable vision, so I cannot be sure I was ever able to work pics in blog posts. I do appreciate the help kindly offered to me by some fellow bloggers in checking images for me to make sure they go well with my posts. It is a nuisance though having to constantly ask for help. In this sense, I cannot say I miss the loss of independence, but rather the lack thereof.

Sometimes, I wish I were partially sighted again, even though I cannot even know what I’d be able to do that I cannot now with low vision. After all, like I said, blogs didn’t exist back then and I didn’t do many crafts. IN this sense, I wonder whether I truly wish for myself to be the old, partially sighted me, or for myself to be able to compete on equal footing with sighted people.

This post was inspired by the one-word blog challenge. The choices of words for this week were “shame” and “light”.

Everyday Gyaan

First Steps Towards Independence: Blindness Rehabilitation in 2005

This week on the spin cycle, we’re discussing firsts. Last Friday, I visited a woman I first met at the blindness rehabilitation center in 2005. Another guy we both met there too also came over. This was my first time meeting them since I graduated from the rehabilitation center.

The rehabilitation center experience was quite interesting. I had just graduated from high school two months earlier and didn’t want to go straight to university. So in order to have some practice on my first steps towards independence, I became a resident there four to five days a week for four months.

The program was quite intensive. I had orientation and mobility training, occupational therapy, physical therapy, music, textile arts and handycrafts, as well as three different types of communication training and counseling with a psychologist. I also had vision therapy.

During orientation and mobility training, I learned to plan to go someplace and to travel there effectively using my white cane. I learned to be quite a good cane traveler even though I’d always had trouble using the cane correclty, and still do. After about six weeks at the center, I started using public transportation to go there on Monday and to travel back home on Thursday or Friday. I also learned to travel to and from the local supermarket and to use customer service to get my groceries.

Occupational therapy had several components to it. First, there was the teaching of housekeeping and cooking skills. I didn’t yet master these when I graduated from the center, so went on to live at an independence training home afterwards. Another part of occupational therapy was group-based training in compensating for our visual impairment with our other senses. This, for me, was quite easy in the practical sense, but my social skils difficulties emerged there. There was one great workshop on applying make-up without sight. I loved it.

I also had physical therapy because I have poor posture and had developed mild scoliosis as a result. Physical therapy wasn’t all that effective, because I didn’t practise the exercises out of session.

Vision therapy was very interesting. At first, I had a vision therapist who didn’t acknowledge my admittedly tiny fraction of residual vision. When at one of the communication sills training sessions though, another vision therapist joined the trainer and I arranged for sessions with her. My vision was still virtually non-existent, but I learned a lot about what I could and couldn’t do with it. I also had an opportunity to select NoIR sunglasses that would help me cope better with my light sensitivity. This vision therapist was very patient and thorough in answering my questions. Though in the end my emotional adjustment problems surfaced, which of course she wasn’t trained in dealing with, I did feel very much validated.

Music, textile arts and handycrafts were quite useful too. Though I didn’t practise what I learned there for another few years to come, the instructors there taught me that I could indeed do arts and crafts with no vision. Music wasn’t my cup of tea, so I stopped playing the keyboards after graduating from the center.

The communication skills training sessions were great. I took basic communication skills, assertiveness and communication about your visual impairment. I had one trainer for both basic communication skills and assertiveness and another for the communication about your visual impairment training. The first one was great at letting me see that, if I moved past my anxiety, I could be quite sociable. The second trainer was the one who cooperated with the vision therapist.

Counseling was the least useful bit about the rehabilitation program. The psychologist was blind herself and for one thing didn’t grasp my emotional adjustment issues. She focused on the fact that I had to put non-disabled values into perspective and for example learn to ask for help. Though I did accept this eventually, I still couldn’t cope with the many losses of vision loss. I don’t think a four-month-long rehabilitation program is enough for that anyway, as I still don’t fully accept this ten years on. However, the other problem was we just didn’t click in terms of communication styles. I didn’t open up easily and there just wasn’t enough time in the program for me to work on even just those issues that are due to blindness. I understand that, but the psychologist could’ve refrained from rushing me through a dozen issues.

I was a residential client there even though the rehabilitation center was in my home city. In the evenings, the clients spent lots of time amongst ourselves discussing our rehabilitation process. This was very healing to me. It also was a great opportunity to practise social skills.

Even though my rehabilitation was supposed to be my first step towards independence, I was in many ways at my highest point in terms of independence while there. I don’t like to admit this, since I did learn other sklls in the ten years since. Also, the fact that I didn’t become more self-reliant makes it look like I just need a kick in the pants. In fact, however, the program had lots of one-on-one instruction incorporated, which I can’t get now that I’m a mental patient. I still grieve this loss of independence, but this possibly has to do with my adjustment to my psychiatric illness.

The Color Green

I have not been totally blind all my life. In fact, I could see some colors until I was around seventeen and still have grapheme-color synesthesia. This means that I see colors on the letters and numbers that I read on my Braille display.

The first colors I was no longer able to distinguish were green and blue, even though I have a vivid understanding of both colors in my mind now. I was about eight when I lost the ability to tell green and blue apart. Then, at around age twelve, I started seeing darker shades of green as black. For example, in summer, trees would appear black to me. This was one of the saddest experiences in my journey towards total blindness.

One of my favorite colors is green. Though I have a vivid memory and imagination of what it looks like, it’s hard to describe what green is if I had to describe it to someone wo was born totally blind. The fact is, after all, there is no way of perceiving colors except through sight. I, having had some sight as a child, can visualize what a color looks like when someone gives a description, whether that visualization is at all correct or not. Someone who was born totally blind, cannot visualize anything. Their brain just isn’t wired for it.

If I were to describe the color green to a totally blind person, I could of course name things that are green. I could say grass is green and trees are green in summertime. Green, in fact, is a color often found in nature.</P

I could tell them what feelings I associate with the color green. For example, green reminds me of a feeling of youthfulness, of fresh energy. Green, with its prevalence in nature during spring and part of summer, reminds me of the weather getting warmer. I don’t personally see green as a cool color, though many people do.

I could describe what colors I feel go well with green in clothing or the like. I for one happen to love the combination of green and blue, though I was once told when I wore a green and blue jacket to school in fifth grade, that the colors bite each other. I also love green with purple, pink and of course red. I don’t care for the combination of green and yellow or orange. Then again, these are personal opinions.

I remember once reading a book by Dutch comedian Vincent Bijlo, who is blind, in which the totally blind protagonist met the former tenant of his room. She told him that the walls were painted pink. He was in love with the woman so he said he liked pink because she did. This signifies the fact that blind people associate colors with the people and situations in which they hear about these colors. Pink is not a typical men’s favorite color, and blind boys may be raised with this idea. The man in Bijlo’s book clearly wasn’t. He had absolutely no concept of color, but he liked the color pink because his crush liked it.

Of course, it is useless to try to convey the actual image of color to a totally blind person. That doesn’t mean that blind people shouldn’t learn what color common objects are or what colors go well together in clothing. They may not be able to conceptualize colors. This however is also true of those who become totally blind later in life. I may be able to imagine what a color looks like, but I will still need to have sighted assistance for matching colors of clothing, for example, because the nuances of colors aren’t easy to describe. This is one reason why I usually wear black.

This post was inspired by one of the journaling prompts in 397 Journal Writing Prompts & Ideas by Scott Green. The prompt was: “If you were to describe the color green to a blind person, how would you do it?”

Stopping at two

Grief

A few days ago, I read a post on grief as it applies to parents of special needs children. I am a disabled person myself, not a parent, but I can relate to a lot of what is written in this post.

Having been born with most of my disabilities, I didn’t have to face the sudden loss of a normal life, as people with acquired disabilities do. I did have to face the loss of the remaining sight I had growing up, and this has been tough, but I’ve never been fully sighted. I’ve also never been non-autistic, but in this light, I can relate to the issues faced by parents getting a new diagnosis for their child, since I wasn’t diagnosed till adulthood.

Grief never really ends. You can not feel it for a while, but something can always bring you back to the grieving place. For example, I thought I’d accepted my blindness after I had lost my last bit of vision when I was seventeen. I grieved this loss for a while, but then I picked up the pieces again and thought I was fine. But I wasn’t. When, in 2013, I had surgery that could’ve restored my vision but didn’t, I was brought back to the grieving place all over again. I knew this could happen, as I knew the results of surgery were uncertain, but still, it was tough.

Sometimes they’re the bigger life events that take you back to the grieving place. Sometimes, it’s an anniversary or special event. For example, I’m taken back to the grieving place now that it’s high school graduation time. I did graduate high school, but never succeeded beyond that and never had a good high school experience anyway. I also grieve when my relatives are talking about their college endeavors, because I realize I’ll likely never even get close to finishing college.

Sometimes, they’re the tiny nuisances of life that make me grieve. The Internet is becoming more and more visually-oriented, and this makes it tougher for me to get by. When I see a great crafting idea but can’t seem to reproduce it because I can’t see the pictures, I grieve. When I join a blogging community and 99% of the members are Moms, I grieve. And as for real life, when the weather is beautiful outside but I can’t go for a walk because the staff don’t have time to accompany me, I grieve.

Some of my grief involves current inabilities, like the inability to go for a walk whenever I want to or the inability to see pictures. Some grief involves the loss of dreams, like the dreams of a college degree or a child. Some grief involves the loss of freedom and independence. Grief, in short, comes in many forms and shapes. How to deal with it? I wish I knew.

Time Heals All Wounds?

“It has been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.” – Rose Kennedy

As people who have gone throgh something traumatic, we often wonder when the pain will be gone. We wonder how long the grieving process takes. I wondered this when being confronted with the reality of my total blindness last year. When will I finally accept that there is no way, save for technological advancements that might come in the future, that I will be able to see again?

Looking at this quote, I realize that the trauma of my having gone blind,a nd all the other traums I survived, will never not have happened, and the wounds they caused in my mind and soul will remain. The mind will create scar tissue that protects the wounds from being torn open over and over again, but the wounds are still there. Treatment for PTSD is not aimed at making the traumatic memories go away – well, I’ve heard of some medications that could in the future do this, but whether that’s ethical , is another topic entirely. PTSD treatment is focused on restructuring the person’s memory so that the emotional burden is lessened. This is comparable to creating mental scar tissue. And the thing with scars is, they itch sometimes, reminding us of the wounds that are underneath them.

A person may have seemingly fully processed their trauma. I thought I had processed the feelings surrounding my blindness in 1999, when I moved to a mainstream school and my tiny bit of vision was insignificant. Then, in 2004, I lost that tiny bit of vision and was confronted with the reality tht the scars from the original trauma of blindness were still there. I learned to ignore my feelings with the help of a rather pragmatic psychologist, herself blind from birth. I thought I had created mental scar tissue, but I hadn’t or it was too thin. The wound kept being torn open, and at last I took a different road by asking to be referred to al ophthalmologist to find out if any sight-restoring treatment was still possible. I had surgery in September, but it was unsuccessful. Now, I’m trying to build another layer of scar tissue, but I realize now, the wound will remain.

This does not mean recovering from PTSD or other post-traumatic symptoms is not worth it. It is rather useful to be able to function well in spite of trauma. I also know that scars can make you stronger, ie. post-traumatic growth. This, however, does not mean the trauma is gone. It means we’ve moved on with our lives in spite of it.

Three Months Since My Eye Surgery

Today it’s exactly three months since my eye surgery. I’m not sure what to think of it, given that it failed in all respects. That is, it did give me clarity about my prognosis, ie. total blindness for the rest of my life, but I’m not sure I’m adjusting ot this well. It constatly strikes me that I don’t really miss stuff that comes naturally to the sighted, like reading or independent mobility, but I do miss stuff that came naturally to me. I don’t wish to become sighted, and this is not even because it’s unrealistic. Becoming a low partial again is equally unrealistic now, and I do grieve that.

About eight years ago, I drafted a few responses to Robert Leslie Newman’s Thought Provokers, which were story-based discussion topics circulating on blindness E-mail lists in the late 1990s and early 2000s. One of the stories was about sight restoration. I just thought of this.

When I was twelve in 1998, my father came up to me with some new research he’d heard about that would allow blind people who had previously had some sight, to see through a computer chip or something like that. They were testing the thing with sighted people at the time and planned on testing it on blind people by about 2005, he said. “So when you’re in college, you might be a participant for the research,” he said. Not only did I not get into college by 2005, but his ideas were likely totally off-base. I have been severely visually impaired my entire life, in 1998 had some useable vision and now have none, and those equipments would most likely not work for my eye condition, since many require a retina to be attached to the back of the eye. At that time, I didn’t think about the research much. I had recently lost some of my vision and was scared of losing more and all I thought was: “By 2005, I won’t be totally blind.” When I originally wrote this comment, I said I wasn’t, but realistically speaking, I was.

I don’t have all the facts, but it seems to me that in 1997 and 1998, there was some hype about the possibility of blind people getting their sight back. I know about blind people like Stevie Wonder wanting to see for a short while, and I think he even had surgery so he might see for a few minutes (I don’t understand the technicalities) a few years back, but I never quite wished that for myself. In a way, this is strange, since I used to be about as poorly adjusted to my blindness as could be, given my situation. However, I’m realistic and I know that artificial vision doesn’t work for me at the moment, and vision for a short while would be useless.

As I looked for the above comment, I came across several other drafts of responses to Thought Provokers. One was about which would be easier: being born blind or losing your sight later in life. Another was about whether losing your sight slowly or fast would be easier. I talked in these posts about grieving the sihgt I had, not the sight I never had. This may seem odd, but when thinking aobut vision loss, I always miss seeing colors and some pictures. I wish, for example, that I could use Pinterest. Oh wait, I never had that ability and if Pinterest had existed in 1998, I wouldn’t have been able to use it. (I remember having tried to use a mouse but failed.) I guess after all what I miss are the things I could enjoy with viiion. I don’t miss reading print because I’m pretty proficient in braille, and I never cared much for independent travel so I don’t miss that either. What I did care for, and still do, are crafts, pictures and colors. Especially colors, and these can’t be repplicated non-visually.