17
My Blindness Balance
Sheet: Debits
Assuming my blindness was a mistake set in motion by Dr. Mortson’s poor management and my own refusal to face facts, I cannot help but look back at the pros and cons of my life ever since. On this cosmic ledger, I’ll start with the cons, the torts, some of which I have already hinted at:
I have not seen the faces of my children.
I have not seen the faces of my grandchildren.
I have banged myself up—cut my forehead and all parts of my body—too many times to count. I need serious medical attention about four times a year.
I am no longer able to participate effectively in many of the activities I enjoyed while sighted, such as baseball and tennis, not to mention those I might have picked up subsequently. Sports were a big part of my life.
I do not know what contemporary styles look like.
I cannot read without the use of all sorts of complex technology, or my beloved human readers. (I never use braille—it’s too slow.) That means that I cannot quickly go to written reference material and search easily, although new text-to-speech technology has made some searches easier. At any rate, I must rely heavily on my memory, which, while good, is not perfect.
I have to move too slowly for my taste, although everyone tells me I need to slow down.
Visual artworks have to be described and explained to me.
I am unaware of the expressions on people’s faces when we speak, so I cannot read those nonverbal cues so useful in business and social situations. Nor do I always know whether people are paying attention to me.
Being in the company of a blind man often makes people uncomfortable.
Mornings before Sue is awake are often the hardest time for me. I know the topography of my home well because we have lived in the same place for more than four decades. Nevertheless, the most basic things can all too easily go wrong. The housekeeper lays out the soap and shampoo in the shower the day before, but if the soap slips out of my hand, I have to bend down, the pads of my fingers on the rough surface of the shower stall, probing for support while I grope for it. I do not have the luxury of a light grip on the bar of soap; I need to know that it will not fall again.
I am tall. That helps me get ready in the morning because I am able to lean well over the sink when I shave, and that’s important. If I cut myself, the blood will spill into the sink. When I do cut myself, I may or may not be aware of it, but regardless, every day after I have finished shaving, I wash my face with very cold water to seal up any nicks or cuts. I make minor prayers for tiny nicks, hoping to avoid the more serious cuts. My life is full of minor prayers.
I stand in my dressing room knowing that my suits are on one side, my wife’s things on the other. On my dresser lies everything I will need for the day—cash, wallet, keys, cell phones. My things are arranged in neat piles—for example, a stack of one-dollar bills, a stack of fives, and so on. I put each stack in a different pocket of my specially tailored Oxford suit, and then I use the bills for tipping doormen or stewards. My wallet is thin and neat, and I know, by touch, where each of my credit cards is.
The wallet still smells like leather because I will not allow the wallet or anything else of mine to appear old or worn. Even my underwear. I am as sharp as a newly minted coin and have been since I went blind. This has become the caliber of my life. I am able to pull everyday personal articles out of places unseen—a magician’s trick. Imported goods and all kinds of swank contraband complete my disguise—British shoes and belts, lustrous ties (done in executive-suite half-Windsor knots), custom-made shirts in sharp colors and bespoke suits, linen handkerchiefs. I must stay at the edge and not slip back to that uncertain past—which is what being sloppy signifies for me. The psychological jargon would have it that “Greenberg is compensating.” Yes, Greenberg is compensating, and it works fine.
If you were to see me in bright light, you would notice that on my forehead there are tiny lines—scars from my having run into walls, columns, corners. Similarly, there are scars on my elbows, shins, knees, and feet. These things are part of the cost of my decision to not “be blind.” Because I can afford it, I am able to have a plastic surgeon who will see me on short notice to stitch me up. (There is a different physician for weekend emergencies.) Small accidents require Band-Aids. In more serious accidents, I may split open a vein or artery. Blood will fall like a curtain, and I will need stitches. The doctor will talk casually with me in his office, and I, blood dried on my face and my lips and shirt, will chat, too, as if I were getting a haircut. These sessions are irritating—not because of the pain, to which I have become somewhat inured—but because I know that if I get stitches, I will have to wait at least a day to exercise, which I find annoying. It is also annoying that I will have to return to the doctor’s office to have the stitches removed.
Aside from people in my company, others assist me during my day: my wife, an assistant, a driver, my two sisters, who now live
