Tag: RP

Oma-BOO!

Published on by yvonneannetteLeave a comment

In the mind’s eye, a memoir on the road to blind spots. This is an entry in the going blind journal. If hopelessness ails you, join me in learning to laugh at yourself. “Looking in the mirror never had such a good view until I was blind.” —quote from my father after RP took his eyesight. Sometimes the mind’s eye gives a better vision.

Eyesight loss brings with it a new sort of anxiety. Fears of poking the baby in the eye, accidentally hitting a moving toddler, stepping on the preschoolers toes, colliding on the stairwell with a toddler, running into a half open door…. All these things have a sense of the “boogie” man in them. And a week or two ago it seemed every thing should happen all in the same week. Thank goodness everything passed with apologies and not much damage was done to any one person or any one thing. But surprises have never been a favorite thing in my life. It seems around every corner is a little tiny fairy-demon ready to shout “Oma-BOO!”

Electrical fence sensation syndrome is something that I never thought I would be experiencing. Some people with PTSD experience this quite frequently. A couple of years ago, my daughter and I both had to get through the unexpected shocks after our car accident. She and I both had the unexpected tremors for nearly six months. I had it more so than she, simply because my eyesight did not let me see all the upcoming traffic possibilities. But eventually, riding in the car did not produce such anxiety.

Then one day when my husband was home for the weekend, it happened again. I came around hte corner in the kitchen and his sudden presence sent the shock wave through my body. I became aware that my body was playing tricks on me. The ability to move freely about the house in the presence of another person was changing. And one day while at my daughter’s house my anxiety reached a peak that while putting my coffee cup under the Keurig spout, the sudden presence of her hand prepping the coffee receptacle made me jump. And the accompanying electrical shock that ran through my nervous system told me it was just time to sit down for a spell.

Things that go boo in the dark use to be a fun game that children played. Now, not so much. However, it’s the middle of the day half open doorway that provides the most excitement. Thank goodness the closet pantry door at my daughter’s house found my left wrist instead of my face!

The coral Kalanchoe in the library has surprised me with a hefty dose of blooms this winter. I was happy to see the flowers agains the snow outside. Though the snow is melting a little bit each day, the winter is still hanging on to the cold. I am thankful that I live where we are supposed to have winter weather. Those poor people in California with foot upon foot of snow do not know what to do with it all.

When the darkness closes in on me, still I will say “Blessed Be the Name of My Lord.” And it’s odd how the darkness is more of a foggy visual that should have more it the view finder that what I can actually see. The mind wants to fill in the blank places, but after awhile I realize the blanks are simply empty. Though I know there are people off to the right or the left, the void is still there. It makes one feel very ALONE in the crowd. Greeting time at church is one of those moments that makes me feel like a really old birch tree with sagging bark. I feel so rooted and decadent. While everyone else seems to move freely about laughing and sharing morning greetings, I am firmly planted. Another verse phrase that goes through my head is “I shall not be moved… though my eyesight fails me and the visions around me fade away… I shall not be moved.”

I finished my hat and mitten set from the lumpy homespun wool that I have had around for a few years. I kept trying different projects with it and finally decided to do a mosaic set. I am quite happy with the paring of acrylic yarn and wool also with the color pair. And it does fit and feel ever so warm. I really ought to stick to this idea.

Welders burn is not something I have ever had. And though I know nothing about welded the description of it’s effect suits me perfectly. Light sensitivity on some days requires me to wear sunglasses. The blurry vision hampers my hopes for a good day. The feeling that my eyes are dry or there is something in there making them itchy is both annoying and distracting.

I have been trying to make my good girl do more for me. But getting her to sit with me when I am cold is not one of her “loves.” Honey is much of what I wanted in a dog. She does well on the guide harness and will lead me in the dark even with just a collar grab. Honey also knows my asthma cues and will nudge me to the inhaler or rouse me when sleeping to get the oxygen flow back to normal with a puff on the rescue tube. Honey also is easily exercised with frisbee or a good game of “hide and seek.” She is content to eat in her own space and sleep on her own bed. The one thing she will not do is CUDDLE.

Day after day we head to the sofa for my morning coffee and devotional time. She almost always puts her back to me. Rarely she will put her head im my lap. And even the day care says that Honey will not take a good picture so she has never been the day care star!. We say that the phone, or the box is something she thinks that will “steal her soul>”. Now yes, I know an animal does not have a soul. But her spirit, maybe? Even when we go outside, she does not go out to be WITH us. Her first pick up is the frisbee. Out side to her means frisbee. Any thing else is just a disappointment.

In conclusion, I am not changing my call sign. the little three letter word is simply to easy to say for the grandees. I”ll try to keep a more steady actitvity rate and not run into things this week. And I also decided to switch up the shoes and get back to the healthier cross walk. I am simpy tired of winter, tired of snow, tired of cold, and am going to push the spring along a little bit by changing up the shoe choice. I’ll probably get cold. Oh, well.

Out of sight, out of … hands

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Version 2.0 on the “out of sight” installments. Last one was just onee year ago on January of 2021. Perhaps I am getting closer to a title for my book. Haha

Out of min…

Some people think that loosing one’s mind involves not being able to find the car keys. For me it was the carrot smoothie in the fridge…. I spent nearly 10 minutes trying to locate the drink. I had taken it to the library, right? No, then I went to the living room. Oh, yeah in between all that i had used the restroom. Okay, where are you little carrot smoothie? I found it in the fridge.

Some beautiful geraniums in the greenhouse. The red one in my hand has the largest blossom cluster. The pink one is so delicate in color. The two tone red heart beat geranium was nearly lost from root rot but these four remain!

Or maybe I had not lost my mind altogether. I was simply distracted. Until the book I was listening to brought up another entire area of loss that most people never think of. Gestures and facial expressions. Here’s my story and I am sticking to this one.

Out of memory…

A long time ago when I was just a teenager, I remember an incident that shook me up quite a bit. We were at one of those famouse birthday luncheons at the church where I grew up. This particualr evening, my dad was into his famous story telling moods. And whenver there was an audience to be had, he seemed to think that he was the center of everyone’s attention. So, when I ran about to fill up the coffee cups as my waitress heart deemed necessary, the next few moments were very much a tell tale of the RP digression of his eyesight.

The coffee was delivered, and the speaker was not attentive the the surroundings. I waited, and waited and waited to get his attention and let him know that the drink had been refilled. Suddenly, the story teller gave an unexpected hand gesture that upset the apple cart. But that was not even the pretty part. The surprise of the spilled beverage, the demeaning words and the angry expressions by my father in that particular setting (church) made for a memory tattooed on my hearts emotional being. Yes, the negative response is a memory somewhat repressed, but nevertheless not forgotten.

Out of words…

Years later, a friend of ours said that one’s emotional explosions and expressed words after an upset hot beverage are really what the person is really truly made of. When the coffee spills, how do we respond? Surprise and shock do not necessarily mean bad words. Sometimes, choosing words of blessing and apologetic behavior matter much. I always felt that my spilled milk was always followed by yelling and angry words. No reason to cry over spilt milk? Well, being blind and having the spills happen so frequently either makes one wise up and sue sippy cups, or find some other solution to the frequent spillages.

Out of mouths…

Dealing with an eyesight loss can mean a whole new change of character. My uncle lost an eye as a result of an unfortunate farming accident. I remember visiting with him about the changes in his life. One particular change was finding moved objects in his path with toes and shin bones rather than his eyes. Now he found himself frequently cussing and fuming. It was both exasperating to himself and to those around him. Apologizing for his surpised outbursts was becoming far to regular. Ahh, how eyesight loss changes the way we must move and the way we react to surpises. There is no more laughter at the jack-in-the-box events that happen. One soon learns to live in a constant state of tension while moving for the possibility of those awful little “weasels!”

This is the beginning of “Ellas Gems” a new pattern that I found on a social media crochet group that I belong to. BebaBlanket is the creator and I purchased as soon as I saw it released to buy! Oh, how I love something brand new!

Out of hands…

My gesture loss happened during my children’s high school years. I was done teaching club at church due to my hands constantly hitting an unsuspecting child. Pointing across the room only to poke a child in the eye was so distressing. The gesture loss was hard for me. I use to talk with my hands all the time. Who does not want to point a certain thing out while talking? This abilbity to throw my arms about during speech actually began to decrease the amount of speaking that I would do. It is really hard to stop acting out like a stage professional during a good story. But waving my hands about was not an option with the peripheral vision loss. How do I visit with others in group settings without being able to point or gesture in some common way?

The next obvious loss for me was the facial expressions and hand gestures of others in group settings. It is also hard to tell, who might want to jump into the topic next with a speech that they deem very important to give. While I may be able to view the person across the way, the others around the table disappear from my view. This might allow for greater focus, but moving my eyes around to catch the others reactions to a speaker is exhausting. This large group silence at times is really unbearable for me. Expecially when I still remember so much.

Except where my smoothie is…

It was during this loss of “circle movement” by the others in a group setting that I noticed some other things happening. More often then not, I was getting “shushed” by those around me. I had missed some conversation cue of eye, or gesture that indicated who was next in speaking. My thoughts that were so ready to blurt were getting stoppped up by those around me. This too was hard. I began to feel like certain people were treating me as if I were a misbehaving child. Becoming blind day by day, year by year does not mean that I am reverting in my behavior. Simply put, I was now out of the circle…

So now, I find myself listening more and more during group settings. When I am so desperate for interaction with people, I find that interaction being stolen by my loss of vision. The surpise of a cake plate upset on my lap or on the floor feels like a common occurrence while at family gatherings. Coupled by the deafness in my left ear, the abiltiy to even hear the oncoming delicasy, is hampered by the lack of sight. Plate on the floor. “Oh, no!” Learning to live life in a perpetual motion of “i’m sorry!” Is not very fun. Embarrassment and humility do not always gather closely. Sometimes the embarrassment is overwhelmingly sad. The feelings of loss and the inability to even help with the cleanup are so frustrating. Playing statue is not that easy!

I really don’t like surpises any more. Boo! Is not fun like the peekaboo of babies and little children. The last few times that we had Christmas present openings, I lived in a state of perpetual “what if the coffee spills?” And not knowing what was in the presents or trying to figure the item out in the semi-dark was exasperating. Having the person next to me tell me what each item was supposed to be and trying to find the right facial expression after my completely confused confoundedness was not enjoyable. I began to really dislike opening my gifts. Watching the others was somewhat more enjoyable. But oh, how I needed a little parrot on my shoulder telling me all the happenings about me. It makes one feel very alone in a crowd.

And that’s the last experience that I want to share on my way towards becoming invisible me. The last time that I went to a church event without a close family member was very painful for me. Extended family that has not grown up with a “blind father” does not really understand the needs that arise as the Retinitis Pigmentosa progresses. While I could walk a straight line down the sidewalk, I could no longer navigate a crowd of people carrying plates at a potluck. Attending the church without my husband had turned out to be a “fatal” choice for me and I had become invisible. No one in my current church was familiar with the challenges of RP and I was left sitting in a corner throughout much of the meal event. I finally left the crowd and sat in the sanctuary alone. Truly alone. My ability to “flow” through the plate bearers left me feeling very disabled. I cried without end over the potential of “spilled milk.” I called my husband, and he was able to come and pick me up. The rest of the day was spent in tears. The people that I had gone with did not understand my needs, were busy and had not ever checked on me. I felt unable to express myself and ask for help in a situation that left me feeling so invisible.

Recently I read “The Hobbit” by J.R.R. Tolkien and found it very full of forward motion. The adventures of the hobbit keep one listening just to see what happens next. In the book the discovery of a magic ring gives the little fellow the ability to become invisible and disappear from danger and tribulations. Honestly, being invisible and feeling invisble are two totally different phenomenon. Choosing to shrink from view within a public event and loosing the ability to see who all is there in the public setting are two opposing feelings. Being blind in a community setting makes everyone present invisible to the blind person. Not a very fun feeling when you walk into a group of people and all of the talking stops. This has happened to me so many times that I cannot count. I can begin to imagine however what it is like to walk into a room that feels full of people but seems empty until someone addresses my presence. My father’s ability to get the group to burst out in laughter helps to break the ice about his blindness and lets him know just how many people are really in the room. I don’t see myself ever being “on display” as that-blind-lady. I don’t see myself breading the ice with bad jokes just to count the voices of laughter within the space. i don’t see myself as others see me. I cannot.

My position in a group setting is usually at the piano with the whole commune behind me. Sometimes I wish I could turn the piano around so that the people were in front of me instead of behind me. Maybe that’s the next change in my life. For now I’ll let them see my hands while I play piano since I cannot. (P.S. My therapist said that I am not supposed to use “can’t” in my speaking or writing anymore. I asked her if she still could drive a car… I said, “I cannot.”)

Still trying to find myself

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This is an RP update. I did not know that when I first started writing this one. Sometimes the journal of going blind one day at a time gets an entry. I could call it the Chronicles of Yvonne Annette. Not sure anyone would even read such a book.

Seven years into blogging and I am still trying to find myself. Just the other day I decided to look up some of the history. It is really pretty embarrassing to discover that my writing has taken so many twist and turns. Perhaps that is normal.

For one thing, I find it hard to be completely frank and honest. Someone might actually read my blog that knows me and ask me a question that I do not want to answer. Here are a few potential nightmare questions… “How can you say that you are blind and still crochet?” “Why don’t you just get a job and have something to do that way?” “Where is your focus and purpose for this blog?” “When are you ever going to write something that earns money?” “What do you really want to do with your life?” “Who reads this stuff anyways?”

Here’s the thing, for the most part of my fifty years I did not know those answers and I am not even going to attempt to try! Writing for me is a release. Just an exercise, kind of like taking a walk that has no purpose. Every once in a while we take a walk that actually leaves us filling fulfilled and happy. Every day I send my dog out to do her business or on the days I actually go with, there seems no other purpose than just doing the routine.

Routinely writing for me is relaxing and a way to release often unintelligible thoughts. Once in a great while, the thoughts find a path and I find a gorgeous waterfall. Other times all I notice is the barren ground and large cracks in the winter earth that are screaming out for some snowfall moisture.

Today is one of those awful after-insomnia days. The ruminating thoughts that keep me awake at night are nothing worth repeating. Yet on they go. Sometimes, my mind is so hyper-alert it feels as though I did not get a wink of sleep. The sheep counting “God Bless You”-s did not work. The Bible mindful listening did not work. The warm milk and hot tea did not work. The pre-slumber routines did nothing to aid in the sleep process.

Last evening I went to church to do a recording with a friend. The song was quite repetitive and the count patterns got stuck on repeat for my mind. Also, when I used the facilities to release my full bladder, I walked right into the wall afterwards. How could my tunnel vision keep pulling so many tricks on me? I am constantly finding myself “lost” these days. Often right in the bedroom while turning in circles to put away my clothing. I ran right into the table the other day in the kitchen while doing the dishes. Had I forgotten the table was there? I was not paying attention to my other senses and did not even realize that the rug under my feet was actually NOT there. Ugh. This blind think sometimes catches me by surprise.

In just one half hour the brand new song was embedded in my memory and I had to play it by little signs like # * > 1 2 X and letters for chord names. My focus on how many times of certain chord patterns kept me from reading the words all together. Besides, unless they are size 50 type, I would not be able to read them anyway. Same girl?

On another note…. The ability to learn a new piece of music is getting to be shorter and shorter time expense. The song was mentioned to me one day. I listened to it a few times the next day. We ran through the piece with some “guitar chord lead” sheets that same evening. And by the third go round I actually did not loose my place in the sheets and words. This is the same girl that failed her first few recitals in early years of piano lessons. This is the same girl that could not memorize pages of classical piano for the jury sessions in college. This is the same girl that could not play a single note by ear training in the early years as church pianist. This is the same mother that made her little string playing children switch positions to play a song in the key that it was written so that mommy could accompany them at the nursing home church services. This is the same woman that bombed reading the music for her daughter’s senior recital and ruined the whole event (in my mind.). This is the same woman that one church rejected as pianist because she could not play the praise and worship “style” that they wanted. (Which by the way is the same “style” that she now plays completely by ear with just a guitar chord lead sheet!)

Not hardly. I feel like a completely different person than I was at twelve years old. I feel like a different person than I was even at 40! How do I make peace with this new me?

Without

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That would be “as opposed to with or not having”

The definition of without can be defined as a preposition, an adverb, or a conjunction. In this situation it is a preposition and used as “not having the benefit of…”. In my life today on my walk through the neighborhood near my daughter’s home, it was walking without the benefit of a real true helping canine. Ahhh, but the tears flow fast.

There are many different types of grief, many different kinds of losses. Mourning takes all kinds of shapes, sizes, and emotions. But this is not going to be one of those “this is what happened and now I’m going to shave my head” type of writings. Nor is it the “I will just go eat worms” of the century story.

Today at church our pastor shared the second sermon in his series on the life of Job. He also gave an excellent children’s message on bad-awful-terrible-days. I go to church mostly for the children’s sermon. It’s the most relatable. Sorry, pastor. We did not leave town immediately, as my husband’s folks needed a few little errands done. They experienced one of those everything-went-wrong-mornings that pastor talked about in the children’s sermon. After figuring out the keyless entry to a vehicle and completing those little “save the day” items, we headed home to pick up the dog and go for lunch with our daughter number two and her hubby, our son-in-law number two. That is no indication of our feelings for them. We love them both the same!

After our lunch together the father daughter duo went to work on their plumbing project and I made the awful decision to go for a walk with the ditzy doodle Honey. It might have been a good decision if there were not so many factors that play into our unhealthy relationship.

We made it back to the house in one piece. And my anxiety attack did not land me any worse off than previous panic experiences. But here is the gist of it all.

A few years ago, I had a rescue dog I named Seymour. For some reason, when I put the harness on him to do the guide dog work, He just GOT IT. As a person going blind, there were moments that we did a few minutes of training and Seymour amazed me. His ability to grasp what I needed was just there. Then gradually, he got lazy in the house and because of his 95 pound stature , he would take up half the floor space. I began tripping over him in the house. He worked for me outside the front door, but slept like a baby inside the house.

And rather than making the changes to accommodate him and his “allergy” inducing episodes with family or friends, we decided to re-home him. He is happy in his new family.

But today on my walk with Honey, I realized once again exactly how gifted Seymour was in guiding me. Recently, my husband saw some statistics that stated even if the bloodline of the dog has a propensity for guide dog characteristics only about a quarter to a third of the dogs actually turn out to possess the qualities of an excellent guide dog. I did not know these statistics when I decided to trade in one dog and get another.

Seymour was trained as hunting dog, and probably failed the test. He was either abandoned or a run away. In his rescue days, he spent time healing from a trap wound on his foreleg. When he entered our family, we enjoyed the fact that the puppy was all out of him. Then, the days came for him to “guide” me.

His knack for learning about trees, hitches, the names of places, people, objects and such was uncanny. But more than his ability, there was the feeling of security that he gave me. Now that I have Honey, I can really grasp what I lost by giving him away.

Going blind, and being blind are two totally different things. But going blind is being blind in a new way all along the road. Some days I am more aware of my losses than other days. Some times it hits me literally (like when I run into the doorframe or something). And some days, like today it hits me in the gut. Hard.

Honey just does not have it in her to serve my need for security or stability. When she sees things or observes changes, her first reaction is “there is someone that I want to go jump on and that should love me because I love them!” Seymour gave me signals that were completely different. Honey gives me anxiety with changes. I never know if she is going to jump, bolt, or love with doggy exuberance. Seymour would have pushed me towards the person rather than drag me. This relationship is so different. And so hard to explain.

There are things about having a “helping” canine that you can never really explain to other people. These feelings of security and anxiety reduction cannot be fully expressed in one writing. If you have ever had a relationship with a dog like this, once it is gone, feelings of grief and loss arrive at moments least expected.

Today, was one of those days.

Honey might be sweet. But she’s a little sticky once she gets all over your fingers. After awhile, I just want to wash my hands of the whole affair. I want to trade her back for Seymour. But that’s not an option.

Just like it seems our family could only have one really good family dog, and his name was Furbie. Well, that’s a whole different story of a little Shih Tzu crossed Border Terrier that even had a toy he named “the worst Christmas ever.” That dog was one of a kind. Seymour was one of a kind, too. And Honey is absolutely not any thing like Seymour.

The anxiety over my eyesight was not given any relief by having anxiety over my hyper doodle. If anyone wants a dog that loves frisbee and flying fast on all four paws, you can have her. While she has all the best qualities of a really good dog, she just has not picked up on the “service” thing yet. And if she does not “GET IT” soon, she might just get replaced.

(Here’s the deal: I can only afford to go through so many sets of underwear, before I’ll have to get some fancy ones to catch the results of all this adrenalin dump that she is creating in my life. And, I really do not want to just sit around all the time, when I once knew what it meant to have a dog named Seymour that could help me for REAL!)

So there.

I said it.

I’ll try not to cry myself to sleep tonight because I miss my dog.

Or maybe, I will anyway.

Get out the new tissue box. I might be using the whole stack up tonight.

From animation to art

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When disability changes personality

One night last week, my mind found a hundred different sunset silhouettes to keep me occupied through the sleep hours. Wonderment filled me as I woke, had I ever seen any of these pieces in real life? One in particular was a tree swing, only the rope’s obvious use and frayed strings were more evident. Another was a scene from the Disney movie Bambi that is actually a fire in the back ground. One was the two doves on the tree branch, but with more leafage than the one below. And there are the fishing scenes on the lake, and the moored boats next to docks. While three hours looking for any silouettes on the internet was an empty handed fishing trip. The only ones in my dreams that sort of matched were these two. Each one in my vision did not have an ovious sunlight, the sun being off to the side of the actual object of focus. Sunset is implied rather than targeted.

And why would such art images fill my mind so much? I am unable to dissolve their possibilities in my mind. Each one just keeps recurring at some point in the day. What does this thought process mean to me? And why a sunset? I am not a prophet, I don’t think. Are these prophetic in their nature or a symbol of the past?

More revelation has come to me over the days since these images first appeared to me. I see so much more than the setting sun or a tree swing resting from its flight. The waters of the lake have no ripples from the jet-skies, or the breeze. Each item seems quiet, tranquil, peaceful.

At rest.

Years ago, my brother and I would write little plays and act out various performances. Remembrances of woodbox stages, and piano bench theatre fill my memory. We dressed up as pirates, or Indians and cowboys, or maybe Cleopatra, it does not really matter. Imagination was lord and we were King and Queen of the drama world in our home. From those days I learned to mime, to pretend, and to fib my way through our play day.

Throughout my childhood, from my early temper tantrum fits into my teen years, I learned the power of dramatic and emotional hand gestures. These seemed quite effective in the whole of conversation, speech, and relating an incident to an audience.

Until…

One day as a teenager, during my “waitress” years, I learned a valuable less about the tragedy of lost peripheral vision and hand gesturing. My father (who is the carrier for my families genetic retinal degeneration) was telling some story as he often did. While dramatizing his tale to a table of men, he used his hand to gesture some scene. Unbeknownst to him, I was coming in with his refill of coffee. I had tried to get his attention, but everyone knows how difficult it is to get my dad to quit talking. Interruption is not much of an option. Needless to say… the coffee got spilled.

Those were the days of my growing up. Many instances like that very one happened frequently. The challenge was to wait long enough to get noticed. Or to have the patience to wait out the telling. Or to simply never serve. Some chose the later. Gradually my father leaned not to wave his arms about while fabricating his stories. Sadly, it took me a few years to lean this dismembering of my arms and hands from conversation.

And not too recently, a plate full of desert was easily sprung to the floor when because of my lack of sight, my hands reached out for the item only to flip it through the air. Videos of food flying, cakes tipping to the floor, or cups leaping through the air are not funny to me. They are a part of the surprise of visual impairment. Sitting perfectly statue is the best response to the possible “Boo!” Not really so fun anymore.

One example that still frustrates me is my children’s club teaching years. Much of what one does while teaching children is achieving compliance so that the teacher can do her job. One particular student of mine never learned to stay in his designated space. I was actually okay if he did not sit, but the wandering into my space caused acciden after accident. My frustration reached its boiling point each week at lesson. Every night, I would go home in tears because Nathan would get “HIT” every week either by my arm, hand, foot, or another appendage. Could he never learn that I could not see him coming towards my path? I cried every week, because this child made teaching club miserable for me. My eyesight made teaching kids impossible.

Finally we made it to the end of the year and I quit teaching kids club at church. I was heart broken to end on such a sour note. I loved teaching, but children have this nasty ability to move faster than my eyes. Peripheral vision is key to dealing with “needy” children who cannot comprehend another might have some disability that clashes with theirs. I was so sad.

Ending my teaching due to my eyesight.

Yep, It was just one more thing my eyes had taken away from me. Grief set in for some time. I still don’t want to attend a Vacation Bible School program or any child focused event. It hurts. I still want to teach. But it is not possible. These encounters with moving targets still continue. I can’t even read children’s books very well because the text is so unpredictable on the pages. It’s all over the place. Up, then down, then in the middle, and sometimes on the edges. Uff. It’s just too much to feel lost all the time.

So RP changes personalities. Where does the teacher in me go?

What happens to the dramatic, funny girl that once loved to tell a story and get laughs from the room?

One time someone told me, I acted like I did not want to be in a particular place all the time. Actually, that’s not it at all. When someone hands me a cellphone with an image to look at, I simply do not see the gesture. My focus has been on their face, and unless the words indicate their actions… It is not within my perpheral anymore. People in a room throw conversation around like a hot potato. It has become difficult to follow who is talking and where the ping pong ball is now. There are times it gets so tiring, I just don’t try to follow it.

So interjecting appropriate conversation has become difficult when there are more than two or three people in a group.

But just becuase I miss a lot of conversation cues, does not mean I miss every facial gesture. Sometimes I am completely passed up when a “picture” on said phone is shown. This does hurt. Not intentionally, but it does. Sometimes, I see someone roll eyes in my direction at another person because I missed something. Yes, that hurts too.

So I have changed.

From animation to still art form, I have become the unused swing hanging from the tree branch. While everyone else around me is playing baseball, or croquet in the lawn, I miss the whole thing. The ball wizzes right by my head and I haven’t seen a thing. I am lost. And no one has found me.

I am blind, but now I see. I see that I cannot be the same animated dramatic energetic self I once was. Moving too quicly through any space could be hazardous to my health. Having a friend that can’t even sit still for a conversation is not my cup of tea. I had a friend like that once. She was so busy bodied that I would get a head ache trying to figure out where she was all the time.

Now I see that being lost all the time might just be part of who I am. Getting my dog to figure out that she has to be my eyes is the task at hand. If she becomes a new tripping hazard….

Well, the blind fold might have to go up for a day to teach her that she is IT! When I am around people that do not see me as blind becuase there is no blindfold, well, life turns into a still life form in a piece of art. I become a silhouette sitting on the dock while others are gazing at a glorious sunset. The suns rays are not my friend, so I am looking at the silhouettes. The sky has a beautiful orange and pink glow. I hope I don’t forget it.

The Honey-moon is over

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Not so serviceable

So after all that training-ha! This highly alert jumping bean tries to turn everyone into fainting goats with her not so delicate response to most noises. We decided the best dogs grow u.p around little kids. Or come from the rescue shelter with a second chance lease on life.

Today, I just carried my good girl down three steps to go potty. They I promised to dispose of the bad stuff just to get her to go in an area that she finally-after two years of yelling- has learned is off limits potty area. Well, she felt bad enough. So I did it. Carried her back up the three steps and let her in the house. Today we have a couch bum.

I know country living is the quiet life, but if I don’t respond with exuberant energy, why does she? Should have named her Kangaroo or springboard or trampoline. Recently met someone else that named their dog Honey an they had the same bee in the bonnet attitude in their dog. That would have been nice to know two years earlier. .

So we are trying the underwhelming approach. Never be excised at much of any thing. Ignoring her when company comes over. That really has not works either. She still annoys to the point of exasperation. Fixation on attention makes me wonder how she developed ADHD. Then I remember that she has never chewed anything up-ever. Hmmm.

No matter what excitement there might be, we are all dull drum when it comes to handling this pickle. Taking her with should be easier. But I think we will have to get another no tug harness. The band at the park outing the other day was difficult. We just have to mny memories if our perfect “Lady” – forgetting age as ten years old at perfection.

So we left her home the other night while we went for a quick ride to gas up the goldwing. She has never followed us before, so what happened in the 45 minutes timelapse,who knows? But when we got home she was obviously distressed. So the yearly trip to the vet for vaccines go moved up a week or two. This morning her paw needed some attention as the pad’s one inch gape needed fixed.

No one has ever pickled honey but some people do add apple aodar vinegar to their tea with honey. I have yet to figure out if this thing is jut the boiling hot water There is no taste to th tea if you burn your tongue first. And there are times, when I feel at my age, my tongue is just burned too frequently with the antics of a young puppy. This morning we met another doodle at 5 years old and they told us ours would get better soon.

Sweet and sour barbecue sauce usually has both those ingredients (Honey and vinegar). Honey, vinegar, ketchup and a whole lot of turmeric makes some really great rib sauce. But this girl does not even tickle the ribs funny. Calm down pickles! Well, today she is definitely down. Just look at her giving up on life with her injuries. Two pads have obvious woulds, and another she licks at, but I cannot sense the would with my probing. We are not being lazy… just resting through the healing process.

Words sweeter than honeycomb cannot be peppered with garlic and jalapeño dills. Yet this mutt gives the same effect when she greets strangers. Should have named her Cookies, like the hot spicey barbecue sauce!

While whispering to a hyped up dog does not always work, adding a cookie or cheese stick to the senses surely does. Not long ago she actually pleased us all day and we rewarded her with a McD’s burger. That’s when we found our that she was smart enough to spit the onion and pickle out. So now we know she’ll never get poisoned. She would not even take a treat from the vet this morning. It’s like she said. “Yeah, right, I did not see those two needles, and the scissor, and the iodine. You’re a stranger, I’m not pleasing you.”

Having a not so serviceable dog makes me wonder if this energy can ever be harnessed. Her idea of anything is full bore ahead. So getting her to walk the steps WITH me has been challenging. The service harness that I put on her is something she “puts up with.” It’s not a love, like Seymour considered it. But then maybe loving her through this injury and carrying her up and down these exact stairs will get her to love being with me.

Whatever was I thinking?

And how did she ever begin to choose Pickles for a nickname? I have taken up it’s use for when she is naughty. That way I never use her name “in vain”– the trainer said only use a happy tone of vice with the dog’s real name. So Pickles is the discipline name. So far, she does not care. Either one is good for her.

I haven’t decided yet what kind of pollen our bee used for making our Honey. I am thinking hay or alfalfa because they are my wort allergy. Sweet clover honey often gets too biter. So I prefer garden flower Honey. Just the other day upon arrival home, I was playing tug of war with her upon arrival home, and a bee stung me. That’s what got me thinking about all of this.

One last story about the starts before I carry her out again for another potty break. One time when she was just a wee puppy, we went to visit our daughter at the retreat center. The stairways are long, and at that time dark. Gavin was leading the way, followed by Honey and then me, and then our daughter. Two steps into the dark and this sound greeted us, “thud, thud, thud, thump, UFF!” Honey fell down the dark stairwell. So much for her being a sight dog to help me in the dark and down stairs.

Well, these next two weeks are dedicated to healing pads. We took this opportunity to put all of the frisbees into the deck box. She will not be playing for a while. I will get some muscles carrying up and down the stairs. At least the back deck only has three steps for us to fall down or trip over cats on.

Look square in the eye

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Facing the facts of blindness

Square eyes?

Realistically speaking, the pupil of the eye is round, not square. So considering the whole concep of looking something square in the eye does not really add up with the bulls eye itself is round. Whoever thought up such a thing does not seem to remember that David hit Goliath in the square right between the eyes. Locking horns with the bull-elk just might get you square in the bulls’ eye. The fact of the whole matter is that going blind “one day at a time” does not make that hymn become my themesong.

My challenge to myself lately is removing clutter. Some of the things are easy to do. Going through a container full of boxes and old picture frames for example. Other tasks are not quite as easy. In particular, tackling the greenhouse clutter left me nearly in stitches and brokenness. The pathway was getting so bad from the items left there, that tripping over things was a daily event. So I am trying to do one corner at a time.

The geraniums were in desperate need of deadheading and some plant nutrition. An earlier decision to raise them up in the greenhouse left them high and dry, literally! So that job finally god done last week. After my reaction to bug repellent required me to use Benadryl, I decided it was a good time to expose myself to more plant pollens. Rough morning. But if I already had the allergy monster on my side, more exposure to plants seemed natural.

Cleaning the geraniums up is no easy task. With my tunnel vision, I left unseen dead blooms many times and had to turn the pots two and three times around to get them all clean. Then after all nine pots were done, I took a step back to survey and realized I had completely missed one of the nine planters. Thank goodness I did not have to climb the ladder today to get any more down from the high perch. It was so hot in there. Even with all the vents open, the outside temperature is mirrored under the glazing of the timber frame.

Decluttering the yarn scraps gave me some new projects. Just when I think I have a new pile of yarn cleaned up, I find one little scrap on the floor, or remaining in the basket. I don’t curse myself or the object, but it is frustrating. I feel like it takes me three times as long to do anything.

Trying to use up some of the freezer stores, I decided to make a zucchini cake one day. Only to realize there was no cocoa in the house. Then the next day, it is found by my husband. Everything use to have such a well defined home when I was up to putting things away better. Now, unless we get one of those fancy label guns, my husband has decided not to use his memory and put things back where they came from. I have to use my memory to find things. My eyesight did not find the cocoa or cacao powder.

Going outside and down the stair steps of the front deck causes more anxiety than usual lately. The blinding mid-day sun makes it hard to find the steps with my eyes. Even finding the rail in the bright sun is hard. I don’t want to resort to using the mobility cane in my own home and yard. Yet the feeling that I am lost hits me so many times each day. Thankfully, Honey sometimes helps with the stairs. And if I an conscience of what I plan to do, I just have her guide me.

Cleaning the house does not happen as frequently as it should. The clutter makes it treacherous, so that’s why I am trying to clean up some. If the surfaces have less things, then the cleaning is easier. But even while putting things away, I still come back and find something that was out of my range of sight that got left behind. So time consuming, all this clean up.

While recovering from my reaction to absorbing junior (to keep off the bugs) I found more things to clean up and throw away. There was a stash of jars on the counter from the canned goods. There was a collection of spices not put away yet. And there was a stack of towels not sorted to their various homes.

While I soaked in the epsom salt to help the hives, I finally found my sunglasses. I had left them on the dry sink sometime last week. Memory did not serve me very well on that one. Being routine, and scheduled has taken vacation for the past week as I do such un-ordinary organizing routes around the place. So that’s why the sunglasses were set down in the wrong location in the first place. This de-clutter thing is tough.

Making decisions about toss or keep is easy when moth and rust eat up an object to nothingness. Other keepsakes are more difficult. But now I even look at once valuable to me things, as dust collectors and hazards to my health. For instance, the glassware that decorates the tops of the kitchen cabinets. Why did I like things just to clean? Pretty to look at should be in something less dust collecting. So now collectables make me thing only of dust, accidentally knocking something off the edge of the table, and climbing up and down on a ladder. Funny, what is no longer valued.

So, I value my toes, my nose, my head, and my eyes, more than things. I would say that’s pretty normal, right? Just like I use to enjoy some things, now the labor of it is too tedious. It has become easier to sit and crochet than to dust all those silly glass objects. Creating something new is better than removing old dirt.

Every day something finds me square between the eyes. Lately, it is the low hanging branches. Another hazard of the acreage. We took care of those one evening last week. Hubby got out the ladder, the saw, and the skid-loader to haul away the mess. He can do things so much quicker than I can. And even find my lost objects, if I just ask. I spent all day yesterday looking for my yarn bobbin winder. He found it five minutes after being home. Never mind that I hit my head on a wall during my searches. Suffered from the headeache all the rest of the day.

We got the dry sink and the little bench fixed up this last weekend. I am not happy about where to put that writing desk that is now smooth. The next item to clean and refresh is the bench that his dad made nearly twenty years ago. It never had a coat of poly on it, just tongue oil. Me and the smell of tongue oil does not get along. And poly is less dust collecting.

So I have looked at myself squarely, sized up the situation and attempted to clean up some of the clutter. My tunnel vision is not a square tube any more and at times it becomes a pin hole. I do not look forward to my visit to the eye doctor this week. It just feels like a failed attempt at hope to go. Oh, well.

God Above

God above, oh, God of love, be merciful to me.

Be merciful to me, a sinner.

Be merciful, be patient, a sinner, Your servant.

Show me, Lord, show me Thy word.

Be patient Lord with me.

Be patient Lord with me, Your servant.

Be merciful, be patient, a sinner, Your servant

-written song and tune by Yvonne Annette, approximately 1998

Empty rabbit hole

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At too yellow

Where I am at is not where anyone else wants to be. I find myself in an empty rabbit hole, running around in circles and never finding my way out. The only way out is up. Reaching up for the ladder that is just out of touch. Being too short to touch the bottom rung, then I will need to jump. Jumping up to grasp what is just beyound reach. My attempts to be anything but the rabbit that I once was leaves me exhausted,. No one wants to pretend at life. The whole idea is that Halloween costume party might just exist everyday for some…

At this point in my existence, I am at covering up who I am now by who I once was. Learning to deal with the change in my abilities to navigate the normal life that everyone else still lives has left me faking the smile. Pretending to be okay in my rabbit hole. The world goes on. The people around me have left. The others have their daily interactions with others. I have a rabbit hole.

Pushed over a cliff. That’s me. Sitting on a ledge with a large rock wall just before me. Open the door for me and push me first. The anxiety and the fear that surfaces from the unknown because of my eyes inablity to adjust to the change form outside to inside or from inside to outside. Might as well push me over a cliff. Who pushes a blind person first? Lots of people don’t understand. This anxiety from new and the constant flow of people in a group setting, continues to set me face value with a rock wall in front of me. Finding the face level of an outstretched hand is like asking me to go first. This anxiety of meeing new people or new situations has left me sitting out on a ledge with a rock wall in front of me and a deep cavern heading off in all directions.

Chasing a bunny tail around in circles. That is me. The less one goes to experience new, the more life is just chasing the owner’s tail. Round and round the sun travels. Round and round the familiar circles go. Yet with the blindness that comes my way, the circle grow smaller. The never ending expansion of one’s life and experiences, has now reversed direction. Until all that remains is the beginning of the line. And now all the bunny does is chase his own tail. Not a very fun day actually.

Socially deprived dogs will develop anxiety or elements of acting surprised at every thing that happens. Whether it is the door bell, the phone ringing, or a neighborhood child that cries out, a dog that has not been exposed to lots of experiences will overreact. Never mind the dog, my days are now turning into the socially deprived mutt-hood. Without the proper training and constant repetition of social skills, they become lost. Empty days in the country turn the hermit into an angry mutt. This is not the me that I want to be. The country bumpkin I used to be longs for sitting on the busy corner of a street and do some good old people watching.

An empty planterbox sitting in front of the parked car reminds me once again where I am at. The days that coming home to the pretty plants adorning the parked vessels are so long ago in the past. Filling the boxes so that someone else can park there and enjoy the view as they arrive… Nope. My life is that empty planter box. I do not take that vessel to wherever I so chose. Filling the boxes just reminds me that I no longer have the choice to go away and return to an enjoyable view. It is not an enjoyable view when it is all that I ever see.

Open the door to a brick wall that stands in front of me. Outside my daily empty rabbit hole there is a brick wall. Seeing a future ahead is getting harder and harder. I do not see a future without the view of delapitating buildings around me. Living on an acreage where things are just left to fall apart, reminds me that my eyesight is failing. It is very depressing to imagine a future filled with the view of buildings crumbling. While others leave and do not see the crumbling status, who wants to imagine this view as the last days of their eyesight. I do not want to just watch buildings crumble, while my eyesight fails me. These images will be burned in my brain. I want to watch things being taken care of. I want to see neighbors fixing their roofs. I want to see people planting their gardens.

Lacking social skills is attributed to children who do not slpend time with peers. No one understands the value of an active life more than sn inactive life. Not having peers or people to go do things with has left me empty and lacking in social skills. I still know how to ask someone else all the right questions, but having no experience outside of my rabbit hole makes me an empty person to be with. Therefore, no one comes

Gas tank on empty usually gives a driver a little red flag or red signal on the dashboard. When I look in the mirror agter the same empty start to each day, I see a signal eep in my soul that the gas tank is on empty.

Not many days ago, I found myself tired of not having expressed anything about myself to for so long a period of time around a group of people, that when I finally did, there was an audible “shushing” that escaped someone next to me. The feelings that followed the experience were undeniably awful. Everyone has feelings, and when left to never express those feelings eventually they ooze outward. Being shushed in the midst of the expressing left me collaping into

Too yellow

Who would tell a dandelion she is too yellow? Lots of people do this very thing every day. Telling the dandelion not to shine so bright in the sea of green grass. Telling the expressive soul not to be soo loud, or the nonconformist to be more like everyone else around them. I begin to wonder what the world would be like without Picasso, Rembrandt, Mozart, or Debussy. What would the new world have looked like without Columbus, or Sacagawea, or Madison? Why do we shush the abortion debate, the political issues, or the holocaust? Will there even be any history in the history books? Maybe dandelions are just yellow. Not too yellow.

Just yellow. Not too expressive. Not too passionate. Not too wordy. Not too loud. Not too boisterous. Not to excitable. Not too Impressive. Not too intimidating. Not too dramatic. Not too bright. Not too dreamy. Not too hopeful. Not too flamboyant. Not too artistic. Not too creative. Not too inventive. Not too different. Just yellow.

Dense fog advisory

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De-valued subsistance

Maybe some questions have no answers.

The alarm does not call me to rise up. Neither does duty. Most days it is the dog that signals my rise time.

Having no go-to-meeting alarms makes my life seem empty some days. The work of my hands calls my name certain days. The challenge to keep my fingers occupied keeps me going. Until the days that it does not. Even the idea that keeping house in order needs being done sometimes does not get me out of my corner to tidy another one.

Human being means that unless I find something to do I am not content just being.

There is no convincing that my evolution from some critter that could care less what design his kennel or cage has…. Well, no matter how hard they try I am not buying that by chance the human spirit began thinking up something more complex than a beaver cavern. Nope, not buying it.

More and more it seems that my “doing” has less value than ever to others. A recent scheduled something by one person, was erased by another and then completely overlooked by a third person. My idea or scheduled ability was tossed into nothingness and now I find my mind in a battle for the value of me. Is there anything that I do that is not simply overlooked by others?

The thoughts that want to take root are ones like – no one believes you are worth listening too. This thought especially has plaqued me. I use to write music and sing songs. Songs that I felt had been given to me to share. As time passed it seemed no one wanted to listen. I felt my thoughts turned to songs were waste of time. The supposed gift fell silent. The instrument that once said sung now rots in the forest.

When there is no opportune to share, why bother with the writing. At last love of my own music has left me. In fact not long ago, we burned all but a hand full of the discs that held my failed attempt at the music industry.

Almost the same in it’s gradual death is the joy of my crocheted creations. One person says something negative about one shawl and the happiness I had while making it goes “poof” like a popped balloon. Amazing what the power of words have over us.

My whole being-ness seems to be a finite breath of air that someone has determined to deflate. Rather than being a beautiful flower or grass I have become a small breath. A little peep of a chickadee that has been drowned by a deluge of rain water.

Dense fog advisory

No, the subsistence of self preservation has not boiled over. Self awareness has not rendered me completely speechless. However, the reality of my de-valued life is beginning to rub raw. There are times when it seems people “tell” me what kind of day to have while at the same time stealing all joy in the moment at hand. And the negative comments of others roll through my daily empty hours like freight trains. When one has onle four to twelve hours weekly with outside of the walls world, any little look, comment or other connection cam seem like an overwhelming flood of damnation.

How do I traverse the dense fog?

How do I find value in basic existence? When my life really is nothing more than taking out the weekly garbage and shredding all this junk mail?

This past week it came to my attention that life has been de-valued in several state legislatures. The Old Testament mantra that “Life is in the blood” has not been considered in half a century in our country,. The unborn have no more value that the dollar amount of their tissues for scientific research. What is sickening to me, is that I never heard one ward about it on the radio or in my media feeds on my highly intellectual device. Life no longer has the value it once did. Who ever though that the world would return to the ancient practice of sacrificing human babies to selfishness.

The dense fog of this value system will not be overlooked by the One who designed this breath-filled being. The vapor of a life so snuffed out by such unbelievable cruelty surely will not be overlooked by the Make of such weather patterns. While man thinks that he can control so much by taking life, he still has no power to create life. Life. The heartbeat of a being that will one day choose his or her own doings on an hourly, minutely decision making process.

The oppression of this decision by so many to devalue the human life in it’s existence from the moment of conception to the moment of first breath. How can one person go to jail for the rest of their life for wanting to quiet a screaming infant at a day care and another person has the right to silence the infant before he or she has the chance to cry out?

I do not understand this thinking.

Once upon a time I too had a voice. Once upon a time I made the choice to listen to the voice telling me to do… shall I sit in silence for the rest of my subsistence and never mention my own need to breath clean air? Shall I give up all rights to being someone who loves to do certain things? Or do I let the dense fog fill in every space of my surroundings until I am no longer heard, and no longer seen?

And this is all at the work of someone’s hands. How can this be?

Psalm 139: 2 “oh, Lord, you know my thoughts even when I am far away” even when I siet in my own dark corner and dwell on things too difficult for me and I have traveled into the deep unknown You know what I am thinking about.