Together: A Novel Of Shared Vision Part 5

"Well, here's the deal with relationships. If you find the right one, I mean someone who can really love you and appreciate you, your marriage can become even deeper because of the intimacy in the way you share. You'll read the newspapers together in the morning. You'll take walks at sunset holding hands. You'll listen when she's getting dressed to go out at night and know that she's making herself beautiful just for you. Your kids will be better off because they won't have any built-in prejudice.

"Blindness allows you to look past the labels and see life inside-out, rather than outside-in. Let me tell you something, kid-something I've really come to believe. Every disability can be turned into an ability if you want to make it that way. Now don't interrupt me. I know that doesn't seem true to you right now, but I'm telling you, you can count on it.

"If I had played in the NFL during the early seventies and gotten hurt, let's say in my second year, there was no insurance for players then or a pension to take care of us. I would have been a big black guy with beat-up knees and no real future."

"Okay," Brenden put in, "but you went to Vietnam and got all shot up. Are you telling me that's better?"

"No. That's not what I'm saying. What I'm telling you is that when G.o.d deals out a hand of cards, you have the ability to shuffle them any way you want. All of us can change our own destiny if we're willing to try. You have to decide if you're a gla.s.s-half-empty or a gla.s.s-half-full person. Let me ask you this, Brenden. What were you before your accident? I mean a month ago. Were you a gla.s.s-half-empty or a gla.s.s-half-full human being when you were climbing that mountain? How did you feel about yourself?"

Brenden thought for a minute, listening to the clock, this time taking even longer to answer the question. Finally in a soft voice, he said, "I was at the top of the world. Life was awesome. I had it all."

"Okay, kid," the man went on gently, "so what have you really lost?"

"I'm blind," Brenden answered, starting to tear up. "I'm blind!"

"That's right," Barnes said, "but you're still Brenden, and Brenden has a lot to offer life."

In a softer voice, Brenden said, "But not enough to offer Lindsey. I won't ever be enough for Lindsey."

"What?" Barnes said. "Speak up. Now I suppose I'm going deaf. What did you say?"

"Nothing," Brenden said. "Nothing. I was just talking to myself."

Barnes nodded but let it go and went on. "You know what I want it to say on my tombstone, Brenden, when I'm dead? 'Here lies big Marvin 'Bad News' Barnes-black man, husband, father, football player, veteran, activist, counselor, and friend, who, by the way, happened to be blind.' Listen to me, Brenden. I'm here for you. We're all here for you, and life is worth living if you just give it a chance."

The big man got to his feet and this time put his arm around Brenden's shoulder. "Listen, kid," he said, "I'm going to send someone in here to figure out what kind of a schedule you'll be on for cla.s.ses. Over the next couple of months, you'll learn how to be independent, and I promise if you give it a shot, you'll feel like living again. It's this simple. Right now you believe that you'll always be dependent on someone else, and I suppose what I'm trying to do is get you to consider the idea that you can become independent. But the truth is, if your girl loves you and you have good friends, you'll learn that life is about being interdependent. And when you really get that idea into your head, being blind won't seem that important."

Brenden felt the warmth and power of the big man's hug and sagged back onto the couch.

"I'll give you a few minutes to collect yourself," Barnes said as he walked to the door. "Somebody will be in to see you in just a little while. Good luck, Brenden. I'll be right here for you- 24-7. Okay, kid?"

After Barnes closed the door, Brenden sat very still, working to absorb the emotions he had just experienced. Was the man right? Could life take on meaning for him? Was there a possible light at the end of the tunnel?

The door opened, and a woman came in. She asked him a few questions and jotted notes on some kind of calendar or legal pad. In minutes, Brenden worked out a schedule and began a new chapter in his life.

chapter ten.

Over the next few days before Brenden undertook his rehabilitation program, Barnes's magic began to wane in the face of doubt, anger, and depression. Doubt because he still experienced difficulty even with the simple navigation of his own house. True, he hadn't fallen down any stairs, but he occasionally got lost in the middle of his living room when he rose from a chair and found himself turned the wrong way.

Doubt created anger, an emotion that was never far from the surface of his consciousness. And depression-well, depression was the natural spin-off from anger in those moments when he felt completely sorry for himself or missed Lindsey or hated the patronizing way his mother tried to be helpful.

He knew that she didn't mean any harm. She was simply being his mother. But his nerves were frayed to the breaking point, and even the smallest indication of patronage set him off, either into rage or into a pitiable state of sadness when he thought about his life circ.u.mstance.

It didn't make him any happier when on the first morning he was to report to rehab, the van provided by the program pulled up in front of his house, and he joined six other pathetic human beings headed for the place where they would be rehabilitated.

What a concept, he considered, as he sat morosely in the back row of the van. Rehabilitation. To be rehabilitated. That's what he was to become. Reengineered. Reorganized. Reconstructed. Revamped. Renewed. It was all garbage as far as he was concerned. Whatever you called it, to Brenden McCarthy it meant that he would never be the same free spirit he had once been and that his life, or what was left of it, would never be worth much to anyone, particularly to himself.

He learned that in this group of people riding to rehab, he was not particularly unusual. Two of his van-mates suffered from diabetes and just "had the lights go out," as they put it, in the last few months. Then there was a guy who had retinitis pigmentosa, a condition that brought him to blindness so gradually that he had gone into denial, unwilling to acknowledge and prepare for it. An older woman in the van had let macular degeneration go on too long, and by the time she finally went for treatment it was too late. And so all of them carried the same kind of symptomatic sorry that was eating him up inside.

Oh sure, he had been impressed with the stuff that Barnes talked about. And he had to admit that the big man seemed to be doing very well with his own adjustment. But he and Barnes weren't the same, and he just didn't believe that he would ever crawl out of the depths of his darkness and gain back the joy that had been so much a part of the person he used to be.

His days began with mobility training, another term that, to him, seemed deceptively innocuous. To Brenden-the mountain climber who could move from rock to rock with the surefooted agility of a cat-being limited to moving through s.p.a.ce either holding on to the arm of a well-meaning instructor or trailing the wall in search of a door-well, this certainly didn't feel much like independence.

Counting steps and memorizing the simplest of routes to get from one destination to another required tremendous levels of concentration. He realized early on that his adjustment to a world in the dark would not come easily. That was expressed best in the frustration he experienced in the cla.s.s the rehab people called living skills.

He figured out how to take someone's arm and understood how to move through s.p.a.ce and read body motion. He found that his senses were picking up more information. But he always hated the use of the cane. Carrying a stick in his hands seemed pointless, and it didn't prevent him from bruising his shins or tripping on a step, hitting an overhang or getting lost on a planned route.

He didn't like most of the people who were in the program with him because they seemed old and tired, and he hated the fact that Lindsey wasn't around very much. He knew he would have to deal with her to win her back, to make her understand that he could succeed. But more importantly, he knew that he had to believe in that possibility himself, and he had not yet reached that place. Would he ever get there? He wasn't sure.

Brenden's thoughts of suicide were losing their urgency. They were still there but less of a preoccupation-more a plan B. He himself wasn't aware of the change.

Brenden had to admit that he was surprised at all the options available to blind people, helping them cope with every element of daily life.

He found himself reluctantly absorbed in the training. From learning to cook on a stove with voice-actuated timers to the use of the Kurzweil reading machine and JAWS software; the voice-actuated clocks that could be set by holding down b.u.t.tons and listening while the chip moved the alarm to the time you wanted to get up. Then there was the question of finding the right clothes in the closet and working out a personal label system.

During this labeling process, Brenden was forced to begin learning Braille. It was soon obvious to him that this was a skill that would take a long time to perfect. Teaching your fingers to distinguish the Frenchman Louis Braille's touch code for letters and numbers was a slow, arduous process that carried with it incredible levels of frustration.

Consequently, most of the students either used stick-on dots placed in patterns that could be recognized by touch with an individual system of identification chosen by the students themselves, or by using a marvelous machine that was voice-actuated, called a talking color identifier.

This terrific little device was able to tell the listener the color of the garment. Brenden, not a particularly creative dresser, was pleased to be able to buy one of these units and organize his clothes in the appropriate color combinations. He learned to hang outfits together so that after a few weeks his closet was organized, and he was doing surprisingly well with his clothes.

Though he may have been dressed okay, his kitchen skills were woefully lacking. One of his most embarra.s.sing moments occurred the first time he attempted to pour his own milk and forgot to turn the gla.s.s right-side-up, flooding the table and causing a river of white to flow onto the laps of two other students.

The teachers believed that the best way for blind people to cook was to combine the use of microwave ovens with some of the small, easy-to-handle electric grills that cooked food on both sides at the same time. Brenden worked on a grill plugged on television by heavyweight boxer George Foreman, and he was pleased to learn that he could easily cook foods such as chicken or fish.

The center also used specialized microwaves. Brenden discovered that the best voice processor was one made by the Hamilton Beach Company. The voice not only took you through all the various settings of the oven but also kept you aware of the time in one-minute increments. So now he could bake a potato with his chicken or fish.

As the days went by, he had to admit to a certain feeling of accomplishment in learning to perform these seemingly basic domestic tasks, but he still felt inept and disabled.

One of the women in his cla.s.s had a husband and four children, and she had always loved to cook. She figured out a method for placing dots around the dial of a regular oven that would allow her to set the appropriate temperature and prepare her own Thanksgiving turkey. He didn't think he'd ever be doing that, but he did agree that her effort was impressive.

From the time Brenden was a little boy, he loved coffee. He didn't know why, but he just loved it, and as an adult, his day could not begin without it. He was happy to find that once again Hamilton Beach had made a coffeepot that allowed you to place your cup under a spout, activating the pouring process and eliminating a blind person's propensity for spilling.

There was also another voice-actuated device called a liquid indicator, shaped like a probe. When you placed it in a bowl, gla.s.s, or cup, it beeped as liquid was poured at one pitch and then beeped again in a higher tone when it reached the desired level.

There were a lot of fun toys, Brenden thought, but they were valuable only if you wanted to work hard and learn to use them. And he figured that he was only here to check them out for a little while; he wouldn't be around long enough for it ever to matter. The exception was computer technology, something Brenden had always been fond of, dating back to his love of video games.

He already owned a powerful laptop and was surprised at the sophisticated programs that were available on both Freedom Scientific's JAWS and Human Ware's Window-Eyes. As he typed, a voice told him exactly what he input, and there was a verbal spell checker available to make sure he got it right.

Along with this remarkable software, Freedom Scientific manufactured a terrific reader that allowed him to read anything by first scanning it and then reading it back in any one of over a hundred voices. He chose a guy named Perfect Paul, who sounded a lot like a good sports announcer, and the freedom to read a newspaper, magazine, or book was the only part of rehab that really brought a smile to his face.

Even more remarkable was the technology made by a company called Sendero Group. These amazing scientists created voice-actuated GPS units that could be either worn on the wrist or carried in the palm of your hand. And, exactly like the units found in anyone's automobile, this GPS technology made it possible for a blind person to know where he was at any given moment and program an accurate route.

In a weak moment, he told Charlie, "Some of this stuff is really pretty special. It's almost like being sighted." And then he added, "Almost."

Even though the science was truly remarkable, Brenden was still blind, and he knew life would never be the same. Science could not overcome the despondency of a young man broken in spirit and angry at his circ.u.mstances.

Lying in bed night after night, unable to sleep, Brenden lived in the memories of what once had been. He could still picture the touchdown pa.s.ses he had thrown to Charlie and the home runs he had hit out of the park in Little League. He tried to re-create the feeling of skiing downhill in Colorado powder, the snow flying up over his shoulders, and the speed taking him right to the edge of danger. And then there were the memories of climbing, climbing high above the timberline with the sun so remarkably bright against the clearest of blue skies. He remembered his feeling of high accomplishment when he received his diploma at medical school and began the work he had dreamed of all his life. Worst of all, he pictured Lindsey's face and cried into his pillow, knowing he would never see it again.

No matter what guys like Barnes said or how many parlor trick skills he learned in rehab, the reality was that the man who had been Brenden McCarthy was gone, now replaced by a blind man who felt sorry for himself and lacked the will to go on.

He railed at G.o.d for cheating him of his sight. What had he done to earn this punishment? Who had he hurt so badly that he now had to live with this curse? Was there some mystery he was to understand and accept?

None of it made any sense to him, and though he grudgingly admitted that some of what he was learning was interesting, he had no hope that his future could ever be as meaningful as it would have been had his vision remained 20/20.

After a particularly difficult day in cla.s.s, he came home to spend the weekend with his mother and Gus. It was the week of Halloween, and the air had taken on the first cold signature of winter. Brenden shivered in his light windbreaker as he tapped his way across the patio to the back door.

Before he could get there, Gus whizzed around the corner and dropped a tennis ball at his feet. Brenden bent to pick it up, but it rolled away, forcing the dog to grab it and try again. The second time, Brenden still couldn't find it on the ground, so the next time, Gus decided that he had to place the object right in his young friend's hand.

"Atta boy, Gus," Brenden said. "We haven't done this for a while, have we, fella?"

Over the next twenty minutes, the ball game was wonderful. The little dog raced around the yard, chasing the ball until he was exhausted, and the man enjoyed doing something that he always loved to share with this great animal.

His mother watched all this from the window, crying and laughing at the same time. Something was changing-each trip home showed progress. It was almost as if Brenden was beginning to decide that life really had possibility.

At dinner, his mother noticed that Brenden was getting better at cutting his meat, and though he was not yet willing to try pouring milk, he was able to move around the house with the beginnings of-what? Freedom?

Over apple pie a la mode, Mora broached the subject on her mind. "Brenden, have you talked to anybody at rehab about the possibility of a dog? I mean a guide dog?"

Brenden cut her off. "Gus is enough for me, Mom. I don't want to be responsible for anyone else or anything else. I don't even know if I can ever make it on my own, let alone have to take care of some big animal."

"I don't think that's the point," his mother put in. "From everything I've read, the idea is that you and the dog will learn to take care of each other. Seems to me that if you're going to move out of here soon and live on your own, you're going to need help, and I know you hate using the cane. Wouldn't you just consider giving it a try? I've read online about the guide dog school in San Rafael, and frankly, I've already written for an application."

"Mom-"

"Brenden, just give it a try. Please. If you go there for a couple of weeks and it doesn't work, there's no harm done. You can always come home. But I know how much you love Gus, and, well, I think a working animal could really make a difference in your life."

Brenden could hear the desperate sincerity in his mother's voice and decided that for now it would be simpler to go along with her, even if only to give Lindsey the idea that he was working to be independent.

After a pause, he said, "Okay, Mom," surprised to discover he could actually hear her smile. "Fill out the forms. If they'll take me, I'll go there and check it out."

Later that night, lying in bed with Gus snuggled close, Brenden was wide-awake. He realized he had made a commitment that postponed his plan B, in the event that he lost Lindsey. Instead of a clean way out, he was complicating his life.

"I don't know why I'm doing this, Gus. You're the best friend I have. I sure don't need another one."

The little dog moved deeper under the covers, seeming to agree.

chapter eleven.

Mora hadn't wasted any time. Before Brenden could reconsider, his application was approved and his plane reservation made. He tried to understand why the idea of getting a guide dog didn't appeal to him. He loved animals. Gus was a case in point, and he certainly wanted to be independent. But as he lay in bed the night before he was to leave, he realized that somewhere in his mind he had not yet accepted the concept that he was blind. Did he think there was some marvelous medical breakthrough out there? A miracle, maybe, that would give him back his sight? He and his mother spoke to a number of famous ophthalmologists around the country to get other opinions, and all of the doctors agreed. He was permanently blind. That was his reality. That was the way it was.

The next morning, even with Lindsey's arms wrapped tightly around him and the warmth of her good-bye kiss still fresh on his lips, Brenden still wondered why he was headed for San Rafael, California, and Guide Dogs for the Blind.

The only thing he was sure of, as the girl kissed him again, arousing the pa.s.sion that always burned inside him whenever she was close, was that his motivation-his complete motivation-was to hold on to Lindsey's love, no matter what it took. He didn't have a lot of faith in this journey, but right now he didn't have a lot of faith in anything, and if it all went bust, there was always . . .

How had he let his mother talk him into this ridiculous idea? He was blind, wasn't he? That was all that really mattered, and no dog was ever going to make the difference. All of the things he enjoyed in life, the outdoor activities and his hopes for medical practice, were taken away. So why was he on his way to San Rafael?

Lindsey turned him over to a United Airlines pa.s.senger service person, who would escort him onto the plane. He held the stick awkwardly in his right hand. The cane, he thought. The symbol that told the world everything they needed to know about him. Brenden McCarthy. Blind.

Now he was being patronized.

"Are we ready to go?" The voice of the airline woman asked, as if she were taking care of a little child.

Brenden stifled his anger and just nodded. Then there was the awkward dance between them as the woman tried to take his arm, and he tried to use the human guide system he learned during rehab. Eventually after jockeying for position, Brenden had the woman's elbow and followed her as she walked carefully down the Jetway. He had not been this careful when he climbed mountains, he remembered. Maybe he should have been.

Entering the plane, the overly solicitous woman was joined by a male steward, who almost tried to carry Brenden to his seat and wouldn't leave until he was sure the very physically fit young man was safely belted in.

"My name is Edward," he told Brenden. "Please call me for anything you need. Let me show you where your call b.u.t.ton is."

Again, an awkward sort of dance occurred as the men clasped hands.

Now Brenden's seatmates began to arrive, adding to his already mounting frustration. The luck of the draw gave him two children-a squirmy baby on his mother's lap and a precocious kid of about four, who immediately began demanding things and kicking the seat when he didn't get exactly what he wanted when he wanted it.

It didn't take long for the boy to notice Brenden.

"What's that?" he asked with no preamble.

Brenden didn't respond.

"What's that stick?" he asked again, insisting by his tone that Brenden answer him.

"It's called a cane."

"What's it for?" the kid asked.

"To beat little children," Brenden said, regretting the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.

"That's not very nice," the mother said, coming to the defense of her child.

"I know." Brenden shrugged. "I'm very sorry. I've only been blind for a little while. I kind of hate it, if you know what I mean."

"Okay, Tommy. Now, leave the man alone," the mother said.

After settling her children down, the woman couldn't help her curiosity. "How did it happen?" she asked, the pity obvious in her voice.

"I fell," was all he said, not willing to tell his story to a stranger. He was grateful to be able to put on his Bose headphones and cut off any further conversation.