Have you ever wished you could be better at doing ‘days off’ right? If you’re anything like me, even during the briefest time off from your relentless march of production, you’re still very much mentally “on”.
For some people, a day off means lie-ins, pyjamas and possibly rearranging their mugs by emotional tone.
But for me, (a blind woman with a guide dog, a wobbly kettle and an overflowing flat), a day off is more like a gentle assault course. With snacks.
It’s Saturday and it’s boiling. I feel my polite, but ever so persistent, golden Labrador guide dog, Nancy, lick one of my legs as it hangs ungracefully out of the duvet. After having ignored both my alarm and Nancy three times now as they seemed to be in some secret competition to see which could drag me out of bed soonest, I finally resign myself to my fate.
Nancy, sensing breakfast, clambers onto my legs like a furry boulder and sneezes directly into my soul.
I auto-pilot my way to the kitchen to make tea. The tea bags are, as always, hiding. The milk has gone rogue and now lives on the opposite end of the fridge door for reasons that may never be known (though I’m sure they make perfect sense to my other half). I pour, I sip, I wince. It’s Earl Grey. I didn’t even get the right box!
As I slop it into the sink and start again (Nancy having finished her bowl of biscuits in World Record speed and already snuffling around for more under my feet), I hear my phone buzz twice from my bedside table.
It’s crazy how such a seemingly inconsequential sound in our modern world of constant and almost orchestral pings, dings and ring rings could flood me with so much apprehension – but it does.
This is because my particular brand of sight loss is one where my vision is always minimal, but forever fluctuating within a very small window of potential. This means that looking at my phone screen is very similar to Forrest Gump dipping his hand into his proverbial box of chocolates – except with more squinting and zooming and less Tom Hanks! I never know what I’m going to get, from day to day or from one minute to the next.
Sometimes, (for no apparent reason), my sight seems that tiny bit better and I am just about able to make out blurry words, (with the text whacked up to 200%}. Other times? It’s like trying to read a licence plate through a snow globe. Of course, I can always turn to Trevor at these times, (my trusty screen reader, check out my VoiceBox podcast if you don’t know), but I never quite get used to how disorienting the difference can be and the steady pulse of panic it leaves in its wake.
This is the calling card – and the chaos – of varying vision. Waking up each morning not knowing whether you’re starring in “Mission: Text Message” or “Strictly Come Guessing”!
Like a detective on a recurring case, I expertly deduce that my friend has messaged me. She’s suggested meeting up.
I try to write:
“Yes, sounds lovely, see you then!”
I actually send:
“Y3x snails lover, seal yeh den?”
Then I have to follow up with a second message explaining the first.
Then a third message apologising for the second.
By the end I’ve written what feels like the entire plot of Watership Down just to say, “Sure, 3 o’clock’s good.”
Anyway, the time comes and I make my way there. Just before we meet, I decide to nip to the loo. Public toilets are definitely not my preference, but it’s been a long and complicated walk, (narrowly avoiding a promotional balloon arch), and I am DYING for a wee. I enter the lavatorial labyrinth and hold my breath – both smell and anxiety overwhelming me!
Now, sighted folk wander into these tiled arenas with casual confidence. They do their business, wash their hands, maybe tut at their reflection in the murky mirror, and leave, never once questioning their spatial awareness or the terrifying roulette of sensor-operated plumbing. But for me, armed only with an encyclopaedic knowledge of bathroom-based humiliation – entering a public loo is like stepping into an escape room run by a wizard!
I shuffle in. It’s echoey. A child’s voice bounces off the tiles like a haunted xylophone. I sweep my hand around, hoping to find a door that doesn’t lead to a cleaning cupboard or a particularly assertive hand dryer!
After finding a cubicle and closing the door, (with some resistance from the door itself), I do some subtle limb origami in order to locate the toilet without the need to touch anything unpleasant! Then, (as I feel my way along the wall) I wonder WHY the loo roll is always placed diagonally behind your left shoulder, bolted in a holder designed for someone who’s six foot three and extremely flexible!
However, unperturbed, I emerge victorious from the cubicle and now comes the sink zone – a veritable jungle of motion sensors, rogue splashes, and mysterious beeps.
I wave at the soap. Nothing. I flap like a man signalling a helicopter. A single mournful blob appears. Then disappears down the drain like a depressed ghost.
I feel for the tap. Now is it:
- A twisty tap?
- A pushy tap?
- One of those passive-aggressive sensor taps that only activates if you ask politely in Italian?
Then, the dryer. It roars to life unexpectedly and nearly blows Nancy halfway across the room. I smile shyly at another lady nearby, trying to act as if this was all part of the plan. I don’t know what Nancy’s face is doing, but in my mind, she doesn’t look impressed – at all!
Next, comes the delicate choreography of finding my friend.
We do the “are you here?” loop three or four times, circling each other like confused flamingos, until finally – FINALLY – someone touches my elbow and says my name like they’ve just found their missing beloved garden gnome!
We embrace like war veterans. We collapse into chairs. We order cake. We discuss the weather, our dreams and the man on the next table, who my friend gives me a hilarious whispered description of, adding that he appears to be arguing with his sandwich.
And in that moment, I feel it: one hundred percent worth it.
The chaos, the effort, the dance of misdirection – all worth it for the joy of deep human connection that feels like home. For a friend who will meet me halfway and laugh with me when I accidentally stroke a stranger’s sleeve, convinced it was her.
As she never fails to remind me, you don’t have to be blind for a day off to feel like hard work!
Free time might not be all the easy, breezy calm it’s cracked up to be. But at least mine is always guaranteed to be full of adventure, insanity and stories I wouldn’t swap for the world.