Blindaversary

It seems like a lifetime ago.  At twenty-two years, I suppose it is a lifetime.  The anniversary almost slipped up on me this year.  But, this uncanny and often irritating ability I have to remember dates and even days of the week they happened—always pops up sooner or later.  This year, September 25^th falls on a Wednesday, just as it did in 1991.

The week before, I’d had a dye test where they photographed the blood vessels in back of my eye after a yellow dye was injected into a vein in one of my arms.  Then I nervously waited for them to call with the results.

They called me at work that Wednesday morning.  “You have diabetic retinopathy.  If you don’t have laser treatments right away you could lose all your vision.” 

Outside my office, my co-workers went about their business.  If someone’s world comes crashing down around them and nobody else hears it, did it really happen?  Apparently so. 

I needed air.  I needed space.  My office was closer to the back of the building.  The next thing I knew, I was standing in the alley, trying to catch my breath.  The intense Austin sun felt like it would cook me alive.

Home.  Just get home.  Now.

I found my way to the front parking lot, got in my truck, and drove to my apartment.

What am I going to do now? 

I had only been there a few months.  My health insurance wasn’t due to start until October 1^st.  Just a couple of months earlier, I discovered my kidneys were failing.  This news was like a hammer driving a nail all the way in.  Any pretense I had that maybe, just maybe I could stay in Austin and make it all work was gone.  After Tampa, Kansas City, and Dallas, I’d finally a place—the place—I wanted to stay.  It was so much like the quirky college town where I grew up but with big city amenities.  My paychecks were increasing.  After laying the groundwork, the accounts I’d opened were really starting to produce sales.  Life was on a steady upswing.  Well, except for failing kidneys.

My parents were anxiously waiting to find out the results of the test.  I called them and we made plans for them to drive to Austin the first weekend in October to help me pack up and move back in with them.  Life as I knew was coming to an end, but at least I wouldn't have to face it alone.  Still, as the oldest kid, I felt guilt at being a burden on them.

Since then, some of my worst nightmares came true.  Some amazing blessings rescued me.  I’ve had to pick myself up and go forward countless times.

When I want to torture myself, I try to imagine what life would have been like if my health hadn’t failed and I’d been able to stay in Austin.  I’ve been back twice—in 1996 and 2001.  Each time, it was so much bigger than before.  From what I hear, it’s much more expensive and resembles Dallas and Houston more than the place I remember.

There are two things I was good at then and, thanks to professional guidance and practice, am even better at now.  Writing and visual art.  There are some gifts that vision loss can dull, but never take completely away as long as there’s some vision left. 

In the months that followed me leaving my job, selling most of my things, and returning to Arkansas, I had plenty of time to sit around my parents’ house and ponder the future.  There was one thing I vowed to do over and over again: surpass the expectations of people who thought I wasn’t capable of much anymore.  I approached my new reality with the same tenacity I’d used to support myself in college and graduate in four years, even after changing majors and watching some of my friends give up. 

I run into trouble when I expect things to be as easy as they are for people who can see fine.  Sometimes it turns to resentment, which is as unproductive and unhealthy as guilt—another emotion that invades my mind when I remember the mistakes I made as a young diabetic in my teens and twenties.

On this day in 1991, the sense of fear and loss had me wondering if I would ever accomplish anything.  I assumed that my skills and abilities would be frozen where they were then, as a 27 year-old who had no idea what he really wanted to do with his life.

Back in 1991, it would have helped me to know that before I was halfway through my forties, it would be the most productive decade of my life (so far).

In 1991 it would have given me such relief to know that by the end of that decade, I would no longer be diabetic.

In 1991 I would have been overjoyed to know that ten years later, after eye hemorrhages, invasive procedures and procedures, I would create a large piece of art like this.  

 Visit Jim's web site JimFairbanks.net

Putting Myself Out There

It’s done now.  My memoir has been a work in progress for almost 7 years.  To put it into perspective, that’s more than 3 times the gestation period of an elephant.  Since starting it in early 2006 I’ve moved twice, endured the worst ice storm in state history, had a severe eye injury, survived cancer, had gall bladder surgery, and have adjusted to being diabetic again.  I was working full-time back in 2006 but left that in late 2009 because it was just too stressful.  I know, excuses, excuses.  Part of that time I was just unfocused and unsure of what to do next.

“You have to blog.”

“You have to Twitter.”

“You have to Facebook.”

Those were only a few of the bits of advice I got along the way—the ones I did. 

I also joined Toastmasters International so I could fine-tune my public speaking skills.  Earlier this year I did well in the International Speech competition with a speech about my experience as an organ transplant recipient.  It was a glimpse at the future, when I’ll be talking to large groups of people about my life and the memoir.

There were other writing projects along the way.  A humor book about Northwest Arkansas, magazine articles, short stories, and an almost-completed novel to name a few.

Sometimes I lost sight of the project that started me on the path as a serious writer.  I was like Murphy Brown’s house painter who never quite finished the job until the end of the series.

And now here we are.  It’s out of my hands and in the formatting process.  As any writer (or any creative person for that matter) can tell you, it takes a thick skin to put your work out there, to open yourself up to scrutiny, criticism, judgment.  I already knew that from approaching shop owners about selling my humor book.

But this is different.  This is my life on paper, along with a few photos of me during good health and bad. 

This is me.

I’ve been told countless times I have a lot of courage.  I guess so.  I just did what I had to do to survive.  But that’s nothing compared to the courage it takes to put all my experiences into a package, slap a current photo of myself on the cover, and say, “Here it is.  Buy it.  Read it.  Form your own opinions and judgments about my life.”

The day I submitted the manuscript, my hand hovered over the mouse, reluctant to click the “upload” button.  I had given my first insulin shot and faced surgery with less angst than I had about letting go of the story.

Next month it will be out there.  I’ll be out there.  Submitted for your approval.

 

Jim's book, What Didn't Kill Me Made Me Stronger, will be available on Amazon in print and Kindle.

Life of the Party

Last Friday I attended a party at a local bar for people who went to high school here.  My family moved away midway through my junior year, but someone I knew from the local high school is a friend on Facebook.  She invited me and I decided to force myself to get out of the house and go, heat wave or no heat wave.

The bar is on Dickson Street, only a few blocks from where I live.  It was somewhat easier to see where I was going with my new glasses, but I took my folded up cane just in case.  I was anxious to find out how much better I could navigate a crowded bar—and to see a few people I haven’t seen in 25-30 years.

But they would have to see me first.

The ones I’ve reconnected with on Facebook would probably be able to recognize me from my photo on there.  There’s no trace left of the skinny, wide-eyed boy with shaggy, wavy blond hair in the helmet-head style of the late 70s and early 80s.  Of course, there would be people from several different eras there, not just my class.  It occurred to me that I might be one of the oldest ones there, which might make me feel even older than being there visually impaired with a cane would.

So, I was prepared for the possibility of not knowing most of the others.  But, we’d have a bond—we’re “natives” in a booming city where transplants easily outnumber hometown folk.  Just having a few dozen of us in one place is noteworthy in itself.

After buying a bottle of Michelob, I made my way to the back patio, where we were supposed to gather.  Instantly, my self-confidence vanished.  Poof!  Just like that.  It was gone faster than an ice cube on the hot pavement in front of the bar.

Groups of people laughed and talked in small groups all around me.  Now and then, women squealed upon recognizing old classmates.  I overheard a cluster of women near me and it turned out they were from the Class of ’75.  This bolstered my confidence a bit, knowing I was probably somewhere in the middle, age-wise.

I stood there, looking around and listening intently to more than one conversation at once and hoping someone would recognize me and speak to me.  It wasn’t as if they all knew each other.  People who graduated in 2008 are old enough to drink now.  There could have been at least a forty year span of former FHSers there.

Standing there in the middle of all that social flow, like a rock in a stream, made me self-conscious.  I moved to the edge of the crowd and discovered some plastic patio chairs.  Perfect.  I could sit there, relax, be out of the way, and observe without being too conspicuous.  I reminded myself I wasn’t as invisible as I felt and that everyone else could see me better than I could see them—something I’ve grown accustomed to, but may never be entirely comfortable with.

One thing I had to keep in mind was that I only went to school a year and a half with the kids who were from the other junior high across town, which decreased the odds of being recognized.  I had four and a half years with kids from my junior high from different elementary schools.  That wasn’t a very big window of opportunity.

“You have the right idea,” a female voice said.  I followed the direction it came from, not sure if she was talking to me.  She must have seen the confused look on my face.  “The chair,” she continued. 

“Oh, yeah,” I said.  “Pull up a chair.”

Her name was Patty, from the Class of ’77.

“Class of ’82,” I said, not bothering to explain the last part of my high school experience was a few counties away.

“You’re just a baby.”

Sure, I knew better than that, but I liked hearing it.  It was nice having someone to chat with.  I dropped a few names of older kids from my old neighborhood she might have known.  None were familiar to her.  It was a fairly large school even back in the 70s.

Now and then, she commented on people around us and I explained I don’t see well.  The cane was folded up in my lap, but I leaned over it like it might try to fly away.

“The men just get more handsome with age,” she said.  OK, she could keep talking like that and it would suit me just fine.  No doubt she was referring mostly to the men she’d known in high school.  Or maybe she was referring to men in general.

At one point, she indicated everyone else wore name tags with the school colors of the junior high they’d attended prior to high school. 

“Where are they handing them out?” I asked.

She described a woman in the distance, but I couldn’t see her.  Maybe a name tag would have helped people recognize me.  There just had to be someone else there from “my” era.  My beer was almost gone and I wasn’t sure how much longer I was going to stay.  The heat had made me sweat it out as fast as I’d been drinking it, so I didn’t get help in the self-assurance department I would have gotten on a cooler day.  Because I have a transplanted pancreas, I’m limited to one drink a week.

Patty excused herself and went on her way.  Either she was leaving, saw someone she knew, or was totally bored by me.  Stop it, Jim!  I wish I didn’t beat myself up like that.

I finished my beer and made my way back to the front door.  Even though I was headed east, away from the sun, it was harder for me to see than when I’d arrived.  Everything was bathed in yellow-orange glare, which made it all look flat and two-dimensional, like a photograph.  It’s ironic that the worst time of day for my vision is just before the best time.  At dusk, when the sun slips behind the hills, I see with amazing clarity.  This time of year, it stays light quite a while after the sun makes an exit.  It’s why I gladly endure the heat.

After bumping into a pole just outside the bar, I unfolded the cane and used it to help me get home.  People offered help when I crossed a street with a traffic light, thinking I had no vision at all.  As much as this town has grown since I went to high school here, it still has the polite feel of a smaller place.

On the way home, I thought of how little credit I’d given the other people at the patio.  This was at George’s Majestic Lounge, the oldest—and maybe the friendliest—bar in Arkansas.  They would have spoken to me if I’d spoken first, especially if I had remembered to smile.

Then I remembered how much more self-confident I was when I moved back from Florida twenty-four years ago.  After being around so many Northeasterners who’d landed there, I had a tougher skin.  If I tried to talk to someone at a party or a bar and encountered “attitude,” I almost always let it roll off my back, not letting it affect my evening or how I felt about myself the least bit.

Of course, I could see fine then.

Still, I need to get back to that level of confidence.  People can’t just glance at me and have any idea of what I’ve been through.  There are few who aren’t fascinated and in awe of it.  This isn’t a place where people are callous and rude to strangers, especially the disabled ones.

There may not be a trace of that skinny, wide-eyed high school boy left, but the more athletic, sophisticated one from 1987 is there just beneath the surface—but with more maturity and a story to tell.