Living in the Dark

Gabriel is almost seven years old now. In most ways he’s a perfectly typical little boy.  

 

He’s inquisitive, talkative and at times astonishingly loud for such a small person.  He loves trains and cars and trucks – pretty much anything that has wheels, an engine and the ability to go, ‘VROOOM!’  He has a slew of friends, makes good grades in school and is learning Braille so fast, it makes me dizzy.  

He teaches himself the piano, builds Lego structures Frank Lloyd Wright would envy and has a memory that ANYONE would envy.

If you were hanging out with us at home right now, the first thing that would strike you is how ordinary he is.  You’d be impressed with his ability to maneuver around the house, and might even have the dubious honor of being pick-pocketed by his tiny, nimble fingers.  You’d have to watch out for your ankles as he zooms around inside on his Plasma Car (the Blind guy gets right of way).

Outside of the house, however, it’s a different story.

You have never really seen the world until you’ve seen it with the eyes of a Mother whose child can’t see.  Oh, man… it is terrifying out there, people.  Terrifying!

That pothole you automatically step over is a face-plant waiting to happen for the Little Dude.  That counter you lean your elbows on in the Grocery store is the exact same height at his forehead.  That shelf of glass jars is inconveniently low for you, but right at the level that he’ll use to steady himself if he stumbles. That little puppy with the puffy tail you think is adorable, is a furry, ticking time bomb if my kid accidentally steps on it’s tail.  And that’s just a 5 minute trip to the supermarket.  

Being the primary care giver of a blind child takes constant vigilance, catlike reflexes and excellent verbal skills.  It is not for the faint of heart.  

Yet, it is a task made much easier when you compare it to actually being blind.

Since Gabriel never had any amount of useful vision, he has no freaking clue. Seriously.  None whatsoever.  

Oh, now.  Don’t get your knickers in a twist because I called my kid clueless.  Have an example instead:

My son has no idea what a tree looks like. He has felt the bark of trees, hugged them (we’re environmentalists) checked out leaves and twigs and branches of different kinds; fallen, low hung, Evergreen  and Spring kissed. He has smelled them and heard the wind rustling leaves high above his head while holding some in his hands but think about it for a minute: put all of that together, and what have you got?  

Damn if I know.

I have no idea what it’s like not to see.  Not even when I shut my eyes.  I can’t relate.  I can’t really relate to my own son.  I have no idea how he thinks, because in a way, most of the world is conceptual for him.

Things that are fixtures in your life; your Mother’s smile, the whirls in your fingerprints, the way the Sun looks the moment it slips below the horizon line and all the types of trees you’ve ever seen….those are all abstracts to my son.  He is both literally and figuratively living in the dark.

Don’t grab your tiny violin just yet.

One of Gabriel’s best friends at school is a little girl who has some serious health problems.  She missed almost a whole year of school, had to repeat the first grade and is significantly overweight due to her illness.  This poor little thing broke my heart the first week of school because she cried and clung to her Mother every morning, the other children were not nice to her and she hated school.

You see it coming right?

My little dude cannot hear someone in distress without trying to comfort them. Cough? He’ll ask if you’re ok. Sneeze? He’ll bless you and suggest a vitamin. Sound tired? He’ll notice and comment on it. Sound sad? He’ll give you a hug.  He hears nuances in the voices of people he knows well, he’s by far the most empathic child of his age I’ve ever known.

The first week of school, the crying of his yet to be friend freaked him out.  He was already overwhelmed starting a new school, but he told me every day about the ‘loud girl’.  Then on Monday of his second week we had the following conversation:

Me: How was school today?

G:  Good

Me: How was that Loud Girl?

G:  Well she was crying again but I told her she didn’t have to be sad, that school was ok and that she has beautiful hair.  Then she laughed. I never heard her laugh before. She has the nicest laugh and I told her she should laugh more. So she did. Now we’re friends. I might marry her, not sure yet.

Me: What a good friend you are, what’s her name?

G; I have no clue. Can I have a drink?

That Monday was the last day that Jadianne (formerly known as Loud Girl) cried in the morning when her Mother dropped her off.  The moderate pride I felt in my child’s act of kindness doubled when I heard the story from his teacher:

My son took this little girl, who had been ostracized by the other kids, by the hand and told her it was going to be ok.  He, alone, in a class of 28 understood her pain, and offered her the things she needed more than anything else in the world: comfort, acceptance and kindness.  

 It is not in the nature of children so young to be so sympathetic, but when I asked him what made him reach out to her, he simply replied, ‘She was sad.'  How many of us would have done the same?  How many would have reached out to the Loud, crying girl who's beauty is far from conventional? Who is really living in the dark?

Gabriel touched Jadianne's life and they remain close friends. He still considers marrying her from time to time.  She looks out for him now, every day, the way he once looked out for her and he tells he she's beautiful. They walk together and she guides him over the potholes that his cane misses.  She helps him avoid bumping into other kids and if she were to walk with him to the store I’m sure she’d warn him away from stepping on the puppy’s puffy tail.  Because that’s what friends do.

And when you have really good friends, how terrifying can the world really be?