Jeepers, creepers

The State sent someone to visit me today. No, it was not a law enforcement official; it was a social worker trying to see what aid I might need for my disability.

We discussed workplace accommodations, around-the-house adjustments, and, perhaps most significantly, cane training.

Over a year ago, when a doctor first suggested that I use a cane to get around, I objected. I’m not fully blind, I argued, so that seems a bit extreme.

Yet the passage of time has opened me to the necessity of a cane. I have fallen off curbs, tripped down unseen stairs, and run into both poles and people. As you might imagine, the people are the most embarrassing part of the equation. They grumble and curse, because they have no idea that I’m vision-impaired. The inanimate objects are more dangerous, with each fall a potential ER visit. My luck has been good, leaving my teeth intact as of this writing, but how far should I push that?

I was explaining all of this to the State Agent and describing other difficulties, like going to the store when another cane benefit emerged.

“When I’m at Target, I don’t want Kristy to leave my side.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“I can’t see her from a distance, and I have to stare down every aisle and at every woman who vaguely fits my wife’s description. These poor women–they probably think I’m a creeper.”

He smiled, reassuringly. “That’s the nice thing about the cane. It gives you permission to be a creeper.”

Wow. Who knew? Blind men are peeping toms.