“She hasn’t let blindness limit her.” This statement was recently written about me in an article that appeared in the local newspaper. A few days later, someone spoke the same words to me while discussing a potential speaking engagement: “You haven’t let blindness limit you.” I have been mulling over the statement since then, trying to understand why I feel that it doesn’t characterize me properly. Some of my friends and colleagues who have disabilities would not be so uncomfortable with these words. In fact, they would agree wholeheartedly that the statement portrays a chosen approach toward life with disability: facing it head on instead of letting it determine the course of one’s life.
My experience of disability does not generally revolve around these choices. I occasionally experience frustrations associated with disability and the barriers it erects in my life; but to say that I don’t let it limit me implies that I might entertain such an option. Generally this kind of statement has more to do with the speaker’s thoughts about himself than it does about whatever expectations he has of me; but the implication that is not stated is that I am, to his surprise, better because I have not done what he would expect himself to do. The remaining assumption is that I always did it with a positive attitude. A further assumption is that blindness is the most significant challenge in my life. This is an important aspect of my life that I feel must be communicated accurately; and it is one that I rarely have the opportunity to communicate. I live with several additional medical conditions which are often much more frustrating and even limiting in my life than blindness usually is, though I make every effort not to let them “limit” what I do any more than is practically necessary. Because these conditions do not cause physical changes in my body, they are not things that draw people’s attention or make people afraid when they look at me; thus, people do not perceive correctly the impact that they have on my life.
When I attended training with my third dog guide, I learned that students who were getting successor dogs would not have to walk through a particular route. I was very happy. I had begun to suffer the effects of arthritis, and the route had a steep hill. Unfortunately, I was paired with a new student for some of the training; and my instructor decided that I should walk the route with her. I protested; but he asked me to do it once and said that he was sure I could take it.
On one of the long blocks, the other student began to experience difficulties in her work with her dog and fell behind. The trainer stopped working with me and dropped back to work with her, telling me to continue on ahead. I trudged up the hill, my ankle throbbing mercilessly. I wished with everything in me that I could make it stop.
If I had been anywhere else, I would have gone home. But on this route, there was no use thinking about returning–it would have been as far to go back as it was to finish the route. I felt angry. At home, I would never walk a route like this. I would call a taxi to pick me up and take me home if I was in so much pain. But here, I was obligated to finish–not on my own behalf but on behalf of the team. So I walked–and I cried. Normally, I hold my tears back in public. But on this day, I cried unashamedly. I wanted, and perhaps needed, for my pain to be observed.
Life with disability is not always upbeat and inspirational. When I get up in the morning, I have a big to-do list of things that need my attention that day. When I applied to seminary, I didn’t think, “I won’t let blindness (or arthritis, or migraines, or anything else) limit me in doing this. I thought, “I am called to do this. I must commit myself to the task and see it through.” And I walked … and sometimes cried–not only because of blindness but because of many other life circumstances as well. Sometimes I knew much better how to live with blindness than I knew how to live with other things that were much more challenging for me than blindness had ever been or ever would be. But when God calls, it is He who gives the strength, not I who chooses how limiting I allow something to be.
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