[PHOTO/CAPTION: Patricia Hubschman]

[PHOTO/CAPTION: Patricia Hubschman]

Braille Monitor

November

2004

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It's All in Your Point

of View

by

Patricia Hubschman

Patricia

Hubschman

From the Editor: The

human spirit has a great deal of elasticity. Sighted people often express the

fear that, if blindness befell them, they would not be able to make the adjustment.

My usual response to such a comment is that people mostly sell themselves short.

We do not know until the moment comes how much we can cope with and even master.

Patricia Hubschman has

been a member of the Long Island Chapter of the NFB of New York since 1998.

She is also an active member of the Writers Division. In addition to coping

with the difficulties of decreasing vision, she uses a support cane and hopes

soon to receive a cochlear implant to improve her hearing. Yet she holds a job

and enjoys a supportive family. In the following story she recounts a difficult

day and the way she was able to deal with it, thanks to her involvement in the

National Federation of the Blind. This is what she says:

It was a Saturday in May

when I went to see the low vision specialist. It had been a few years since

I'd last gone to see him. As a close friend pointed out, I'd been so concerned

about my hearing that I was neglecting my sight. For the past few years I'd

been preoccupied with my efforts to get a cochlear implant. I underwent unsuccessful

surgery a year and a half ago for the implant. Now I am working with a new doctor

at a different hospital and have started all over again. I actually intended

to put the ophthalmologist off for a little while longer, but since I broke

the glasses I had been wearing (purchased as temporary replacements for the

last pair I had broken), I figured it was time to get my eyes checked.

In

testing, instead of asking if I could see the letter E projected on the screen

across the room (which I never could do anyway) the doctor held up a place card

with the number seven on it, told me to cover one eye, then approached me slowly,

instructing me to tell him when I could read the card. With my right eye the

card and its huge number had to be very close in order for me to see it. With

my left eye it could be further away. Right away I knew my vision had significantly

changed. My right eye had always been stronger. Next he handed me a plastic

card and asked me what I could see on it. I had to hold it very close, and all

I could clearly make out was the very large number ninety-five on the top line.

It

wasn't difficult to figure out that I wasn't doing very well. I made a crack

about not being able to see crystal clear anymore. My eyes were tearing constantly

because of the light. He put drops in my eyes and did some more tests, shining

bright lights in them and causing them to tear up even more. When he was finished

with the testing, he looked directly at me with a grim expression. Then he broke

the news to me that my vision had gotten a lot worse. I took a deep breath and

turned my head to the side. When I looked back again, there were tears in my

eyes. Before I had even sat down in the chair, I had already known what he was

going to tell me. While I had been walking from the door of the room to the

patient's chair, I had moved very slowly using my white, aluminum support cane

with the red tip. Despite what I had already guessed, I was still taken aback

by hearing the words. Somehow that made it more definite.

I

blurted out the first question that popped into my head: since my prescription

was old, could he fit me with new glasses that would help? He shook his head

and said that nothing would help. He suggested that I look into adaptive technologies

like a closed-circuit TV and a large-print computer program. I already had two

CCTVs--one at work, the other at home--and other aids. Suddenly I remembered

an upcoming adaptive technology fair I was already planning to attend. I mentioned

it to the doctor. Then, without missing a beat, I proudly announced that I was

now a member of the National Federation of the Blind. Until that moment I hadn't

realized just how much the NFB had helped me. As we got up to leave the room

so that I could pick out new frames for sunglasses and eyeglasses, I realized

that I was actually not deeply upset about what the doctor had just told me

about my vision. I was able to talk in a bright and friendly manner, even joking

around while my husband and the doctor's secretary were trying different frames

on me. My husband asked me what I thought of a particular pair, and I replied,

"Hey, I'm the blind one here; you two pick them out."

As

my husband and I were walking back to the car, I told him what had happened

in the doctor's examining room. Using one finger, he spelled on my back the

word "mess," but he wasn't upset either. With my eyes dilated and

teary, we went to the mall. I continued to joke: "Hey, my vision isn't

really getting worse; I'm just getting older--though my hearing is definitely

getting worse." We both laughed.

When

I got home, I emailed my mother to give her the scoop. I told her not to worry,

that I was okay with the news. I figured that with my new yellow-tinted indoor

glasses I'd be able to see the TV without its flickering. And I could plug my

cochlear implant attachments into the set and be able to understand what was

being said. Wow, it would be a whole new me. Mom shot back that it sounded like

I had everything figured out. "Way to go!" she said.

Where did I get such a

sense of humor and positive attitude, this belief in myself and my ability as

a disabled person, and enriched self-esteem? Believe me, I didn't always have

it. This positive outlook has derived from being a part of the National Federation

of the Blind family. It wasn't an overnight change, but it has definitely been

worth the struggle.

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