Oliver's Twist (41 page)

I have written this book in a race against inevitable blindness. Over the past fifteen years, my regularly scheduled eye examinations showed a slight but greater loss of visual acuity with every visit. Afterwards, I would return to the computer to enlarge the screen's type size once again.

My eyes had always been weak, but the progressive damage was less obvious to me as a younger man. One of the first hints of a serious condition came on a canoe trip down the Pelly River in 1975. In an early morning mist that hung about three feet above the slow-flowing river, I spied a moose grazing along the bank. I asked Tim Kotcheff to grab his camera. He did so with a curious smile. We approached as quietly as possible, barely paddling. Despite that, I was surprised the animal did not start as we drew near. When we were almost alongside, I saw that my moose was a Hereford cow. Some Yukon entrepreneur was trying to make a go of what was certainly the most northerly cattle ranch on the continent. “Have you thought about getting your eyes checked?” Tim asked. Would that it had been so simple.

Back in Ottawa, I visited an ophthalmologist who surprised me with the news that I was suffering from glaucoma. The disease is painless, which is why so many people, especially children, do not discover it until it is far advanced. I was stunned by the diagnosis and by this first evidence of decrepitude. I had assumed glaucoma was an old person's affliction, but I was thirty-seven at the time.

The doctor prescribed eye drops to reduce the buildup of pressure in the eyeball, pressure that would gradually cut off the blood supply to the optic nerve. I thought of it in television terms: Something was pinching the video cable that sends pictures to the brain. The ailment was unstoppable and would worsen as I grew older, although with careful management its progress could be slowed. I had a brief period of self-pity, which my friend Peter Stollery quickly dismissed. “You can't do anything to avoid it, so you'd better learn to deal with it,” was his blunt advice.

The house lights dimmed in stages and the incremental nature of the changes allowed me time to adjust. In my mid-forties, night vision and peripheral sight declined to the point that, though I still had a valid driver's licence, I allowed it to lapse. Blind spots were starting to develop in my central field of vision, and occasionally I missed a stop sign or failed to recognize traffic lights in time to react. Without wheels, I changed my priorities when it came to dating. No longer was physical attractiveness paramount. On meeting a potential girlfriend, I quickly determined whether or not she owned a car. Imagine my delight when I found out that Anne-Marie was uncomfortable with the loss of control when others drove and was glad to take over as my Seeing Eye driver.

In my fifties, I began to experience what can only be described as fog rolling in. Early on the mist seemed distant across a thin horizon, but with time it grew closer and denser. Then the fog gave way to tiny spots of emptiness here and there, spots that eventually connected and grew larger. The progress of the disease would plateau for a time, then speed up with sudden strength. Once I woke with a start from a nap and, before I was fully awake, thought the house must be on fire. The room seemed full of smoke, but with none of the acrid odour that a burning building produces. The glaucoma was making a comeback after a few months of relative dormancy. How curious and odd to know that a finger on a hand held in front of my face must be there but was invisible. I could measure my worsening condition by counting the disappearing fingers until the entire hand was obscure.

The science of ophthalmology has made enormous progress in combatting glaucoma and other eye diseases. At every stage, I found that new and improved eye drops were coming on the market just as I seemed to need them. I had laser surgery twice, which helped to maintain adequate vision for a time, and I was impressed with the talent and dedication of most of the eye doctors I came to know. I learned too the importance of being one's own advocate as much as possible. While under the care of one specialist, I lost the central vision in my left eye. I felt the eye was worsening, but the specialist would not treat it aggressively, a course of action that might have delayed its deterioration.

The moment I hit my sixties, there was another precipitous drop: The right eye went into a rapid decline, as if competing with the left to be the first to shut down completely. Cold-steel surgery, performed by surgeons at the Eye Institute in Ottawa,
helped slow the process. This delicate procedure involved cutting a kind of trap door in the eyeball and allowing fluid to escape, thus relieving the pressure on the optic nerve. Unfortunately, it left me with much lower visual acuity. Even the big
E
on the eye chart became hard to distinguish.

That had been a risk I fully understood and was prepared to take, but the results pitched me full-blown into the world of the visually handicapped. I was promoted to the status of so-called “legal blindness” and joined the ranks of those in similar circumstances at the Canadian National Institute for the Blind. (The designation “legally blind” sounds like a permit one might apply for at city hall, but it simply indicates a specific level of reduced vision, as attested by a physician. It allows one certain tax breaks and discounts on any special equipment that may be required.) As I sat at home recovering from the surgery, one eye patched and the other not much use, I decided to accept what fate had handed me with whatever equanimity could be mustered and, following Stollery's recommendation, to deal with it as best I could.

In the past I had never experienced more than fleeting moments of depression, the expected short-term downers at the deaths of friends or relatives. The loss of such an important sense as sight might have brought on some serious black dogs, but that did not happen. When anything akin to depression started to close in, my brain seemed to release some chemical as an antidote, and the cloud lifted almost as quickly as it came. Occasionally, I wondered if I was denying reality or suppressing painful emotions, but I chose instead to focus on the positives that shone through. Thousands of visually impaired people are much worse off, many of them young people or adults who have
been blind from childhood. I could not spend a moment feeling sorry for myself.

As with any change in life, embracing blindness was far preferable to resisting it. For me the biggest adjustment was accepting the loss of independence. To ask others for help has not been easy, but it has been liberating. There is a certain freedom in finally admitting that I can't do it all myself. In fact I never could, and I am content to put false pride and vanity in my pocket at last.

Like all sightless people, I owe a great debt to my family for their endless patience. Most people who misplace their keys or glasses will usually find them for themselves; I rarely can. At least half the time, my underwear, T-shirts, or pullover sweaters are put on backwards or inside out. Sometimes I cannot apply toothpaste to the right side of the brush. I once made tea with two teabag-sized hand warmers. Living with these realities is a daily confirmation that those close to us must love us. They otherwise could not stand the frustration.

Obviously, there are things I will never be able to do or enjoy to the same degree again, but they are really very few. I regret not being able to see the face of my daughter, Annie Claire, or that of my wife, who is by everyone's account a lovely woman. And I miss being able to see my own face in the mirror. I have lost the pleasure of viewing a well-shot television clip or a good film, nor is art appreciation what it used to be.

The inability to read print is a genuine nuisance. Nothing I bring back from the grocery store is the right item. After my experience in shops, I could identify with a man in a drugstore whom I overheard asking for assistance, explaining that he was wearing the wrong glasses. I know that old trick. Beyond that,
I am forced to reveal to my wife the secrets of stock market losses now that she reads my mail from banks and brokers. But technology has been my saviour in other realms. A computer program reads emails to me as well as any newspapers I may care to browse. Most books are available digitally and are therefore accessible to my audio reader.

Perhaps the loss I feel most acutely is the ability to recognize individuals. I can see the fuzzy big picture—doors and windows, sidewalks and buildings—but people are just shadows to me. For those of us in front of the television cameras, being easily recognized means that people we don't know are always saying hello and greeting us by name. A flattering and well-meant courtesy, it is a problem for me. Until I have nailed down the voice, I can't tell whether the person and I know each other or not. I am forever responding to strangers as if they were long-lost friends or initiating pointed conversations with the wrong individuals. However, I have picked up a few techniques: If I think I know the people in question but not overly well, I open with a question like, “What are you up to these days?” Of course, I am sunk if they remind me of something we did together the day before.

Equally embarrassing are the times when I respond to greetings not intended for me at all, for fear of offending someone who is a friendly viewer. This habit leaves people wondering if I am desperate to be recognized. On other occasions, I will sail by people I would be eager to talk to if I knew they were there. This is not an issue for acquaintances, who know me well enough to shout out as I pass; they understand I appreciate their making themselves known. But sometimes I hear second-hand that I missed seeing a friend who was in clear view and dismayed that I appeared to ignore him or her.

At the 1995 funeral for slain CTV sportscaster Brian Smith, I introduced myself to the man sitting next to me in the dimly lit church. To this day I am sure that Peter Mansbridge, whom I have known since we were young reporters in Winnipeg, thinks I was putting on airs. Another time I ran into the late CBC broadcaster Barbara Frum on a street in Toronto. I responded to her warm greeting with the formality normally accorded a stranger. Then, realizing my mistake, I apologized, offering the excuse of poor vision from glaucoma, which she could not have known. That magnificent and sharp-minded woman was skeptical. “Show me your eye drops,” she demanded. I whipped the bottles out of my pocket and that satisfied her.

Serious risks are more numerous than social missteps. Traffic is tricky, and bicycles more dangerous than cars. Automobiles and other powered vehicles give themselves away with sound. Headlights are visible to many of the visually impaired and one can usually judge where motorized vehicles are going, their pathways being predictable. Bikes on the other hand come from all directions and often out of the blue.

In Washington one sunny day, I crossed a street on a yellow light after a cursory glance to be sure the intersection was free of automobiles. I was startled by a sickening screech of brakes. A female biker hit the pedals so hard she swerved, crashing sideways and skidding across the pavement to avoid me. “You must be blind,” she shouted angrily. I hurried away from the scene in embarrassment, but I am thankful to that anonymous cyclist. I realized for the first time that my weakening eyesight could be a fatal flaw. Unlike that cyclist, too many think nothing of running red lights and stop signs, unaware that when moving at speed, bikes are too narrow to be easily seen or avoided.
Consequently, I have become like one of those timid Ottawa bureaucrats Allan Fotheringham always poked fun at: I never cross the street against the light. Even then, I usually wait for someone else to come along and then fall into step with these individuals who will be unaware they are performing a helpful service by running interference for me.

A sturdy sense of humour makes this particular handicap easier to endure. Let's face it—Mr. Magoo is funny. An incident from the eighties comes to mind: A girlfriend and I were driving through the Eastern Townships of Quebec, trying to find the road to a ski hill. Light snow was falling, and I suggested to my girlfriend that she pull over so I could ask directions of a kid in a red parka standing by the road up ahead. When the lad greeted my question in English with dead silence, I turned to my companion and said, “That's what's wrong with this country. He won't answer me because I am speaking to him in English.” She explained that the real problem was the inability of the fire hydrant to speak either official language.

As well, when I address a question to an empty chair at the office, I join in the laughter of others, feeling not at all demeaned. Hanging a lantern on the problem spares others discomfort and the worry of giving offence. It also allows everyone to deal frankly with the issues and cope with the special needs that arise. I have been blessed with an understanding employer in Bell Media and wonderfully helpful producers and reporters who have created a supportive working environment for me. Colleagues read aloud any especially important news wire stories, and at public events they point me in the direction of the people I need to speak with.

It has been many years since I have been able to read a teleprompter. Fortunately, I never aspired to be a news anchor.
Whenever a broadcast requires words read to the camera with exact timing, I memorize the script. Working on-camera as a reporter or commentator, I ad lib, developing ideas that I have mentally sketched out beforehand. Thanks to a sympathetic technical crew, a strong portable light affixed to the camera tells me where to look when I am addressing the viewer. When I have to present a voice report over visuals, I dictate it first and the producer records and edits it if necessary. Then it is played back to me in the sound booth over my earphones and I deliver it in turn onto the tape.

To keep track of countless documents, letters, and invitations in my professional and private lives, I have devised a filing system that relies on my own drawings of symbolic images. Two or three together serve as the building blocks of a whole thought. A stick drawing of a girl represents my daughter; when combined with a rudimentary schoolhouse, that image serves as a label for anything that has to do with my daughter's education. I understand now how written language originated among the ancients.