Together: A Novel Of Shared Vision Part 4

"Thank you," Mora said, understanding. "I'll just try to make it like home."

"That's worth a lot, Mrs. McCarthy. Love is always the best cure-all."

Lindsey had been in and out of the hospital for the last three days, and as she drove home to Denver, this time obeying the speed limits, she was angry at herself. Why had she been so uncomfortable with Brenden and his mother? Of course I'm worried, she thought. I love Brenden. I want him to get well, to see again. Is that it? Am I so selfish that if he's not perfect, I can't handle it? Do I not have the patience or goodness or love to share my life with someone who-she nearly choked on the words-is handicapped?

She pulled her car into a rest stop as the tears started to come. Were they tears of sadness or tears of disgust at the kind of person she was being forced to face? Eventually, she shook off her malaise and framed her own reality. It isn't wrong, she thought to herself. I'm not wrong if I'm not sure I can cope with this. I have hopes and dreams and goals of my own. If I can't handle the idea that someone I wanted to marry is going to be blind, that doesn't make me a bad person. Almost anyone with a life to live would feel the same way.

Her cell phone buzzed.

"Lindsey? It's Andrea. Are you going to make study group? We really need your precedent brief."

Lindsey was glad for the diversion.

"I'll be there," she said. "Tell everyone not to worry. Lindsey the litigator will be there."

That's who she was going to be: a lady lawyer litigator, driven to be a lioness in court, a winner in life, and a woman with an unswerving determination to be the best.

Brenden was back at home and in his bedroom. Another day. Another night. He didn't care. Nature was challenging his bladder, and he knew he had to deal with it. Earlier they had wheeled him out of the hospital, a requirement of the medical protocol, right to his mother's car, so all he had to do was get in and ride.

Arriving home, Charlie nearly carried him up to his room, both of them feeling completely awkward, not understanding how to move together. The newly blinded young man was hesitant to put one foot in front of the other, and his friend treated him as if he were a crystal vase. At last his mother kissed him good night and went to bed, and now he would have to make his first independent voyage.

Where was the bathroom? he thought, trying to picture it. Out the door, down the hall, to the right. That's what he remembered. Hands out in front of him, he moved hesitantly toward the door, but his angle was wrong, and he knocked a picture off his bureau- a picture of Lindsey, he knew-beautiful, independent, wonderful Lindsey. He hadn't heard from her today. That didn't really surprise him.

Finding the k.n.o.b, he stepped into the hall and turned left. One, two, three, four, five steps. The door to the bathroom should be on his right. Extending his hands, the feeling of the mountain returned. His toes rocked over the edge, and he teetered precariously on the stairway.

Instinct took over as he fought to maintain his balance, throwing himself backward. He slid down the first three stairs on his rear and stopped. Gus got to him first. He loved this little dog, and the animal's concern immediately registered as he licked Brenden's face. His mother was right behind.

"Oh my- Brenden! Are you all right?"

"Oh sure," he said quickly. "I'm fine. Sorry, Mom. I guess I just turned the wrong way and forgot to turn the light on."

Neither one of them laughed at his effort to make a joke.

His mother helped him to the bathroom and then back to his bedroom, and for the first time in his life, Gus stayed with him, crawling up under the covers and snuggling close.

"Hey, Gus," Brenden said, "what are you going to do, become a seeing-eye dog? I think you're a little small for the work."

The dog licked him again.

"You know what?" Brenden told the animal in the dark. "You shouldn't waste your time on me. I'm not worth it, and I'm not going to be around for very long."

The animal cuddled into the man's shoulder, making it clear that he didn't agree.

chapter eight.

By late-night stealth, a dozen roses for his secretary, and forged paperwork, Smitty once again enrolled Nelson, aka Bart, into the guide dog program. And the animal reluctantly took his place in the kennel with dogs on a string that were in stage three. Smitty hoped against hope for a student in his next cla.s.s who would have the skills and drive to handle this most special animal. For now he would work Nelson as a part of his string and say a small prayer.

Smitty loved training guide dogs. He loved it because he felt it was the highest form of human-animal bonding. He also loved it because he knew that these remarkable creatures gave without question once they committed to their masters. "Love in its purest form," he always told friends. "That's what we see when we work with these dogs, love in its purest form."

He learned the history of guide work when he came into the field after his years in the air force. The work began in Germany at around the turn of the century and found its way to America just after World War II. A remarkable woman named Dorothy Eustis became aware of young German soldiers blinded during the war who were using dogs as guides. She had the vision to bring the work to America, and over the years her work changed the lives of countless blind people across the country.

When he became a guide dog trainer, Smitty learned that only three out of every hundred canine candidates found their way into the work. Today with the scientific sophistication of excellent breeding programs and puppy raisers who teach basic socialization and obedience skills, that ratio had improved dramatically. Smitty was delighted that six or seven out of every ten dogs who made it through the difficult training process now went on to take their places with blind people around the world. He so admired the people who were willing to be those puppy raisers. These were the best of the best, as far as he was concerned- human beings who poured their hearts into the animals during their first crucial months and then gave them up to a higher calling. True, Smitty also had to endure the same parting when he completed his work with an animal, but somehow the civilians, as he thought of them, really deserved a lot of credit.

His string began its third stage of training, and, as always, he was behind in his paperwork. The animals were graded on a one-to-five scale, with no dog going into the field that didn't score a three or above on every criterion of behavior. So as Smitty labored to complete his overdue report on the animals, he considered the training cycle the dogs were going through.

First and foremost, all of the animals who arrived at Guide Dogs for the Blind had to become comfortable in kennel life. They had been living with families, and all of them hated the restriction of the kennel. So in the first few days of a.s.sociation with their new handler, a whole lot of TLC had to be doled out, and the dogs generally responded gratefully to the love.

Smitty always looked for patterns in the animals as he worked to reinforce the basic obedience instilled by the puppy raisers. Sit, down, stay, come, and let's go, a more informal way of suggesting the traditional heel. He always watched the dog's eyes for any hesitation or fear or to see if the dog was too sensitive when given gentle suggestion or correction. Smitty also looked for any extended lapses of attention as the dogs interacted with other dogs in the string.

He sat at his desk reviewing his notes on Nathaniel, a yellow Lab with much the same personality as Nelson. Nathaniel loved it when they employed the new technique of treadmilling the dogs. Treadmilling occurred the first few days after the animals got to know their trainers and enjoyed working through simple obedience. It was critical to the overall success of the work to create in the dog the desire to move forward in a straight line while maintaining a forward pressure in the harness. With that forward press, the blind master would be able to read every nuance of the dog's motion. This technique was called "harness pull," and it was critical if the dogs were ever going to perform appropriately in the field.

Using a treadmill and treats, the dogs would be encouraged- first for only fifteen to twenty seconds, and then eventually up to five minutes-to keep up with the pace of the treadmill, with the handler holding the harness. In this way the dog both felt the pressure of the harness on his chest and received rewards for maintaining his forward momentum.

Smitty was amazed at how well the use of the treadmill improved the way the dog translated his behavior to later work. Also, Smitty loved the idea that early in the training the dog and his new handler were having a sort of adventure that they both enjoyed.

Nathaniel did very well on his treadmill experience, and Smitty turned the page to take a look at Nathaniel's response to the next phase of training. This was called "pattern training."

The dogs spent about four weeks with their instructors literally patterning every behavior that would eventually be part of the real work. The catch was that none of it involved the use of the harness. The dogs were only asked to walk with their trainers and encouraged to understand the patterns that were presented.

During this four-week period, trainers provided the dog with every answer. They made sure that the animal moved in a straight line, avoided obstacles, stopped appropriately at the edge of curbs, and entered buildings safely. There was also the search for elevators and escalators, along with finding an empty chair or a car in a crowded parking garage. Then there were the overhangs. These were the most difficult obstacles to teach any animal, and instructors spent a lot of time reaching up and rattling the potential danger with their hands and encouraging the dogs to look up. In this process of positive conditioning, the animals were being exposed to the work they would eventually have to do for real with the blind people they would serve.

Smitty made a note in the margin that Nathaniel was one of those very good ones that seemed to take on the behaviors, even during this first month. He stopped at curbs on his own and even seemed willing to pick up his pace-"hop up" as they called it-whenever the trainer wanted the dog to move faster. He also noted that Nathaniel was a "little doggy," meaning that he could be distracted by other animals they pa.s.sed in the street, not a good thing in guide work but certainly correctable.

In the second month of the animal's training, Smitty was amazed when he thought of how much positive reinforcement came out of the first four weeks, when the handler provided the animal with all the answers. As an example, Nathaniel moved immediately in a straight line when the harness was put on, maintaining constant pressure and providing the handler with good harness feel. He also stopped on a dime whenever they came upon a curb, though he still demonstrated a certain affinity to being "doggy."

One of the most complex issues facing dog and trainer is that of traffic check. For Smitty, this was critical in training any animal. He constantly reminded himself that dogs were colorblind and that their relationship to traffic motion needed to be a constant process of conditioning to the idea of danger.

Even in the early stages, when an instructor took all the responsibility for teaching the animal, dogs were encouraged to be acutely aware of traffic. Trainers conditioned and tested their dogs with a sort of game. Every time a car came close or sped around a corner, the dog would be asked to go forward, and then firmly but with love the idea was imposed that the dog was to stop in spite of the forward command.

In the entire training process, the positions of go and stop had to be handled carefully. And as Smitty reviewed the notes on Nathaniel, he was pleased to see that nothing disturbed the dog's sense of well-being. Actually, Smitty had refined this technique over the years by never applying the word no to the stop. He found that if he just used gentle physical restraint, the dogs got the idea.

Smitty read on. Nathaniel held up very well during the second month, in which the same first-month patterns of training were reapplied, this time with the trainer working the dog in the harness. At the end of the second month, all the instructors went under blindfolds when they worked their animals as a sort of final examination of the dog's development.

Smitty had mixed feelings about this idea. The simple truth was that no sighted person putting on a blindfold functioned in the way that a student would who had been blind since birth or over an extended period of time. On the other hand, Smitty rationalized that in many ways the dogs had to work harder to compensate for their instructors' ineptness than they would when they took their place in the field with a real blind person. In the end, he decided that blindfolding was an appropriate exercise.

This marked the halfway point in the training process. The third stage was probably the most critical in the transformation of the dogs. Here the animal was asked to demonstrate intelligent disobedience, and this was where Nathaniel scored remarkably well. The theory was that the dog must be willing to countermand the command of the trainer for the sake of safety. Forward only meant forward when it was safe, because traffic, an overhang, bad footing, manholes, or any other obstacle might threaten the safety of the blind person.

Smitty was always amazed at the capacity of the dogs to love enough so that even if they were aggressively corrected by the master because the blind person did not understand what was going on, the dog would hold firm and never endanger his person.

It was also in this period that the trainers developed their dog's work inside buildings. They took trips into San Francisco, where the dogs were forced to face extraordinary complexity in traffic patterns and people movement. When the animal freely took on the concept of intelligent disobedience, a working bond was truly complete. Smitty loved watching dogs gain in confidence, becoming ever happier as they took on more and more direct responsibility.

He loved to see an animal work with bright eyes and a constantly wagging tail, as if the dog was doing the thing he had been designed for. It came down to this: when the dog was ready to meet his blind master, the animal had to have the confidence to compensate for the hesitance and awkwardness that new students often exhibited. That confidence was critical to being able to grow and work together.

Trainers like to say everything comes down the leash, meaning that in the beginning the dog absolutely knows his job; it's the student who struggles. The turnaround happens as the student gains confidence and provides the animal with the kind of direction that allows them to become one-a team together.

Smitty knew that students came to the program in all sizes, shapes, and ages. He understood that his job was to make sure that the dogs were completely confident and ready to take on any concerns that might be expressed by their new handlers.

Smitty sat back in his chair thinking about Nathaniel's future. It was clear that this animal would do extremely well in the field if Smitty could match him appropriately. The key to good matching was to make the connection between student and dog, based on the animal's sensitivity along with the student's lifestyle, desire, and capacity to get the most from the animal. This balancing of dog and person was the most important part of what Smitty did.

As he sat reading Nathaniel's report, he couldn't help but think about Nelson. Over the last few days, he had taken the black Lab out of the kennel and worked him, astounded at the animal's talent. No dog he had ever known demonstrated the immediate awareness for the work that he felt in the handle of the harness when Nelson did his thing. This was simply the best dog he'd ever known, and as he looked at the list of students that would be coming and meeting the N cla.s.s of guide dogs, he hoped to G.o.d there would be someone who could both handle and get the most from this astounding creature.

chapter nine.

The secretary informed Brenden that Mr. Barnes would see him in just a few minutes after he finished a conference down the hall. Brenden sat uncomfortably on the edge of a couch, listening to the sound of a clock ticking in the far corner of the room and wondering how much time he'd have to spend with this intake counselor.

Charlie brought him to the offices of the Colorado Rehabilitation Center for the Blind for this required meeting. Brenden decided he would answer this guy's questions and make the session as quick as possible. He knew what he was going to do. This was just a formality. Nothing would change his plans.

In the three weeks since his accident, he rarely came out of his bedroom. In fact, his mother brought him most of his meals on a tray. Until this morning, he remained unshaven and just barely clean. Lindsey had been by to see him only twice, and on other days she made excuses that her workload was extremely heavy. The inevitability of where their relationship seemed to be heading deepened his depression. And so he was sure that nothing this man could say would make any difference.

The big voice from outside the door seemed to vibrate everything in the room.

"Annie, is the McCarthy kid here?" It sounded more like a p.r.o.nouncement than a question.

"Waiting in your office, Mr. B."

Instantly, the door banged open, and Brenden heard the sound of an uneven step as he felt the floor shake under the big man's weight. The guy was on top of him before he could stand up.

"Welcome to Blinky University," the big man boomed, extending his hand and finding Brenden's, engulfing it in a ma.s.sive shake that made Brenden, a good-sized guy himself, feel like a dwarf. "Welcome to the place where eyes open and lives are changed! I'm Marvin Barnes. They call me 'Bad News.' Sit down. Sit down. Sorry I'm late. The conference ran long, and it takes me a little while to move on this bad knee. They say I need surgery, but I really don't want it. I figure I'll be back skiing in a month. That's how I hurt it-up in Winter Park. You know, 280-pound former defensive tackles really shouldn't be letting gravity and inertia take them down steep hills at high speed. You can't fight gravity or age!"

While all this was happening, Brenden heard the big man move behind his desk and seat himself, his chair groaning in protest.

"You ski, McCarthy?"

"I used to," Brenden answered woodenly, "all the time."

"Well, good," Barnes said. "I'm on the racing team at Winter Park, and we need new blind skiers for the World Championships in a couple of years."

Brenden came to attention. "Excuse me?" he asked. "You mean you're-"

Barnes interrupted. "Blind? You bet, kid! Blind as a bat and black to boot! What a combo."

Barnes. .h.i.t a b.u.t.ton, and Brenden heard a synthetic voice coming through a couple of speakers he figured were probably on a computer on the man's desk.

"Ten thirty intake appointment with Brenden McCarthy, age twenty-five, practicing physician doing his internship, newly blind, hurt in a mountain climbing accident up on the Bells." Barnes. .h.i.t the stop b.u.t.ton.

"Is that about right, Brenden? Are those the basic facts?"

"Yes," Brenden said in a flat tone.

"Well, your mother and your friend, Charlie, tell me you've been hanging out in your room, feeling sorry for yourself. Is that about it?"

Brenden felt the color rise in his face, and the anger began to bubble up inside him like a volcano about to blow.

"Who are you to say that?" he asked defiantly. "We don't even know each other, and you're already judging me, like you have all the information about who I am or what I feel?"

The chair indicated that the man sat back. "That's good," he said. "Very good. At least I know that you can get emotional. If I can get a rise out of you, that's the right first step. Now we just have to channel it. What do you know about being blind, Brenden, beyond that it means your eyes don't work?"

The clocked ticked off a few more seconds.

"It means that life sucks." Brenden spit out the words. "It means that I'll never be able to enjoy the things that have always brought me pleasure in life. It means that I won't have independence. It means that people will pity me. It means that I have to give up my career in medicine. It means that I'll probably be caning chairs or selling pencils or something like that. Isn't that what all of you do? Or maybe I'll become musical- tune pianos. How about that?"

The big man laughed quietly. "You know the guy who won the blind World Championships as a downhill skier went faster than Jean-Claude Killy did in the 1964 Olympic Games? Do you know that there's an amputee who holds many speed records for freeform skiing? Have you read about Eric Weihenmayer- the guy who climbed Mount Everest-or what about the blind people who become judges, senators, lawyers? There's even a fellow named David Hartman in Baltimore who is a practicing psychiatrist. He's got a medical degree like you, doesn't he? You can do all those things, Brenden, if you simply decide you want to. And if you want to, we'll give you all the training you need.

"And then there's something else. You'll learn that a life in the dark can open up levels of sensory awareness that you would never have believed possible. Talk about your mountains? I don't just go there in the winter to ski. I enjoy mountain bike riding in the summer on the back of a tandem with some poor soul driving on the front, working much too hard to pedal my fat self up and down the hills. And while I'm up there, I listen to meadowlarks and mountain streams. Things I might not have taken in before. You know what, kid? I've even heard deer running free and the trumpeting of elk in the fall during mating season. I've sat on a rock and enjoyed the best ham and cheese sandwich I've ever eaten in my life. Did you ever notice that food tastes a lot better at fourteen thousand feet?"

Brenden couldn't help but smile, and the big man heard it.

"I just heard you smile, young fella, and it's a wonderful sound. Give me five."

The giant reached over the desk and once again engulfed Brenden's hand, this time pumping it up and down for emphasis.

"What did you get out of that handshake, kid? What did it tell you?"

Despite himself, Brenden thought about it. "It says you ought to be a politician. It says you're trying to impress me with a lot of bravado about the beauty of blind. It tells me you're a cheerleader for the disabled of this world. And I'm not buying any of it."

The big man returned to his chair. "Okay, kid," he went on after a sigh. "I get the feeling you not only feel sorry for yourself, but you figure you're the only person on earth who ever got a bad break. Is that right?

"So here's my story. I moved to Colorado because I was the number one draft choice for the Denver Broncos, but there was also something going on called Vietnam that involved another draft. Getting picked by the NFL didn't stop Uncle Sam from sending my black hulk overseas. It was 1973, and with a little bit of luck, I would still have been playing when the guys began to get the big money. Yes siree, I would have been with John Elway and all the boys in the Super Bowl. And then there was a little matter of a mine blowing up in my face up by the DMZ, and it changed everything. I was kind of ugly before it went off in my mug. But now"-he laughed again-"now it's just as well you can't see because the scarring will never heal."

"Sorry," Brenden heard himself say. "I'm very sorry."

"You know what?" the man went on, "the scarring inside, well, that's healed pretty well. I'm quite a minority in this country-a 280-pound African-American blind guy with a wife and three kids, a house in suburbia that I can't pay for, and some bills that are overdue. All in all, I'm a pretty lucky son of a gun, don't you think?"

Brenden couldn't help it. He became absorbed by the man's honesty, drawn in by his openness. "Listen," he asked, "do you really like your life? I mean, the way it is? No bull? You're really okay about it?"

Brenden heard the big man lean forward, the desk creaking under the weight of his elbows. "Listen, Brenden," he said with sincerity in his tone, "you're in for a rocky road if you decide to try and take your place back in the world. Let me give you some statistics. There are a million and a half blind people in this country. Let's say out of that group there are about eight hundred thousand folks who could hold meaningful jobs. Yet only about 20 percent of us work. The rest of us, well, we live on the public dole, either because we haven't got the confidence or because we're simply lazy. You have to decide which one of those you want to be. Not many of us get married and have families, but frankly that's usually because we're much too focused on ourselves. A lot of us get involved in organizations for the blind. Not bad, but many of these organizations, well, frankly, they're pretty militant, and they become sanctuaries for angry human beings.

"In my own case, before I took this job, I spent ten years working on the outside just to prove I could. You'll still go through a lot of patronizing. You'll sit in a restaurant with some good friends some night, and a waitress will walk up to the table and say to them, 'What would he like to eat?' People will talk loud because they think that being deaf is also part of being blind. I suppose you can blame old Helen Keller for that.

"You'll get up some mornings, and if you're not well organized, you'll walk out of your house dressed like somebody left a rainbow in your closet. And a lot of times people will talk about you as if you're not really there. If you get lucky and get married and have kids, you'll probably get hit in the head with a baseball trying to coach Little League. And unless you're willing to work real hard here at the Center, you'll probably be eating frozen dinners or going out most of the time because you'll never really learn to cook. Are you getting what I'm saying, kid?"

Involuntarily, Brenden nodded, but before he could correct himself, Barnes interjected.

"I heard you nod. Starch in your collar. Got a girl, Brenden?" Barnes asked.

"Yeah-her name's Lindsey. She wants to be a lawyer."