I have finally made
an appointment for an eye exam. Vision has been on my mind a lot lately as I am
experiencing some vision changes and challenges with tasks and balance.
An account at “The Elder Story Telling Place" of another elder’s childhood experience started me down
memory lane and a reexamination of my own experience with myopia.
I was
oblivious to my extreme nearsightedness until I was in the fifth grade, about
1958. By that time the vision problems had done a number on my perception of my
abilities.
The fall of 1958 was
the first time my elementary school tested for vision. Our class was summoned
to the auditorium. We filed in and sat in the first few rows of folding chairs.
Mr. Dennis, the
physical education teacher who usually came to our school once every week or
two, sat to our left, between students and the stage. Another adult ushered my
classmates one by one to the right and positioned them directly across the
auditorium from Mr. Dennis.
The adult assistant made sure each one followed
directions correctly, positioning a card over one and then the other eye as Mr.
Dennis pointed to a line of letters on an eye chart.
I remember the
intensity that filled the room as we waited for the “test.” I don’t remember
exactly what happened when it was my turn. I just remember my turn ended when
Mr. Dennis boomed out in his resounding PE-teacher voice, “My goodness, this
child is blind.”
I cringed with
embarrassment and shame. I worked hard to keep from crying. By the time a few
days passed, however, my parents had taken me to a local eye doctor, and I was
in possession of new glasses with blue frames. I was no longer embarrassed.
In fact I was in a
state of ecstasy about all I could now see: crisp details of an amazing world
instead of a soft smear of colors; individual leaves on trees instead of a
green blur; the features of my Daddy’s face across the breakfast table instead
of an oval with dark smudges that I knew were eyes, hair and mouth.
From that day to this
I have taken my glasses off only to bathe, sleep, read fine print and sometimes
to accommodate a hair stylist’s ministrations. Two years of wearing contacts
was the only time I didn’t wear glasses, but that is another story.
As an adult,
childhood memories have bubbled up and helped me recognize the marks left by my
nearsightedness in those pre-glasses days of childhood. Away from familiar
surroundings and routines, my experiences evidently hammered home negative
childhood assumptions. I am thankful for the early vision and hearing tests
that are available for children these days.
Some of those
childhood assumptions:
Assumption #1“I am stupid.”
Assumption #2 “New places are scary.”
Assumption #3 “Crowds are scary.”
I was delivered to
the huge (to me) classroom for four-year-olds at our church for the first time.
I was skinny, shy and anxious about pottying.
The space was a
confusing crowd of bodies, movement, color and sound. A couple of wooden blocks
flew by my face. Then I realized I needed to go to the bathroom. I finally saw
a big person, got her attention and shared my dilemma.
“The bathroom is
right over there,” she said and pointed. I went in the direction she pointed
but I couldn’t find the door. I must have survived without accident. My only
memory was feeling scared and stupid for not being able to find the bathroom
door.
As I became familiar
with that classroom, it was a source of order and joy, not fear. I learned
there were different activity areas in the room and where they were located.
I knew that we always
had a group time where we sat on our little wooden chairs in a semi-circle
around the piano and sang, sang, sang. We had a thrilling Bible story told by a
kind, loving and animated teacher. The dedicated adults helped us with fun arts
and crafts that reinforced our Bible lesson and that we could take home.
I treasured the
little leaflets with bright pictures and the Bible story that we took with us
when our parents came to take us with them to the church service. If progress
had continued that way, the negative recordings in my head would probably not
have gained such an enduring niche in my mind. I may have realized earlier that
every individual faces challenges, fears or disappointments of one kind or
another.
But patterns
reinforcing those mental recordings continued--from my ineptitude at sports (I
could rarely catch, hit, kick, or dodge a ball) to my inability to master how
to tie a fishhook on a line.
Elementary school
reinforced my earlier assumption that everyone was smarter than me. I can
remember sitting in the second row from the front in Miss Johnson’s second
grade classroom, panic-stricken.
She would explain
something, writing on the blackboard, and it would make no sense to me. I was
too shy and too panicked to say anything. I assumed I was the only one who had
no clue.
Later, when she
handed out workbooks or a worksheet, I would see what she had been talking
about. I would understand the lesson. Panic would subside.
I imagine that
scenario replayed throughout the second grade. I have no idea why I never
questioned what I was experiencing. I guess I was just relieved that I grasped
the concept, and successfully completing the assignment probably became the
immediate priority.
My third and fourth
grade teachers seldom used the blackboard, and early in the fifth grade, I had
those new glasses. Memories of those earlier terror-stricken moments must have
receded until something bubbled them up in my adult mind.
Assumption #4 “I am really, really weird.”
My second-grade year
also included a visit to the city fire station with my Brownie troop. The
outing evidently created another mental recording that at some point became one more thing I believed about myself. The gentleman guiding our tour evidently decided
to set one of the visiting Brownies up on the firetruck.
Since I was unable to
see the details he was pointing out on the truck, I had drifted off into a
world of my own, oblivious to everything and everybody around me. Zoning out
via imagination was a frequent occurrence for me.
Unfortunately the
city public relations guy chose me for the firetruck-sitting honors, probably
because I was a featherweight. As soon as he started lifting me up, I went
berserk. Under the impression someone was “getting me,” I turned into a myopic
tiger, scratching, clawing and writhing to escape capture. He retreated with
his hand leaking blood from sizeable scratches.
When I recall the
incident as an adult, I don’t remember being scolded or punished. I do remember
how I felt that day. When I learned about the damage I had inflicted on him, I
felt mortified that I had reacted like an insane person and inflicted bodily
harm on a well-meaning city employee.
As these childhood
memories continued to surface in adulthood I became successful at replacing the
negative recordings in my thoughts with accurate, positive truths. But those
childhood assumptions must still lurk deep inside. Sometimes, in stressful
situations they play again, until I consciously call a halt and embrace truth.
Assumption #5 “Unhappy beginnings can have happy endings.”
My experiences with
childhood nearsightedness have left me with a better understanding that
children cannot always identify or articulate what is distressing them.
Their distress and
even terror is real and may manifest in ways that can appall and embarrass
parents and other adults. Neither do a child’s actions always provide adults
with a hint as to the real reason for inappropriate behavior.
My mother was
finishing up her teaching degree the year I got glasses. My experience also made
a difference in her teaching. She alerted more than one set of parents that
their child may have vision issues not identified by the school’s yearly vision
check.
She found tremendous satisfaction when a student received help that
bolstered the young scholar’s ability to function in the classroom and in daily
life.
Assumption #6 “Vision,
whether natural or corrected, is a miraculous gift. I will be thankful for it
every day.”