Mobility At Home

I’m sure it’s very easy for folks to come home from a mobility immersion like mine and, albeit unintentionally, slip right back into old patterns. Sadly for them, they don’t live with Doc Martha, who is all about “consolidating learning” and treating each new day as an opportunity to create positive change, both in your own life and, you know, The Big World!

As soon as she picked me up from the airport, Martha was all, “So this is the new arc! Looks different!” and, when we came upon our first staircase, “Show me that anchor thing.”

Martha and I still walk Maite together most summer mornings, but because this generally involves lots of about-faces and off-roading, I continue to use my cane in my right hand and hold Martha’s hand in my left to be guided.

After my return from Michigan, though, we’ve also started taking short walks, sans Maite, after dinner, with the idea that I’ll walk some useful, short routes, write them out, and eventually walk them independently.

So far, we’ve gone to the post office to drop off a piece of mail (functional mobility!) and to a little joint near us called All Night Pizza, which wounded me by not having chocolate ice cream on the night we went (I could have gotten their fried chicken, if I’d wanted, because I like theirs a lot!).

On both night walks, I walked entirely solo: unattached, no physical guidance, while Martha walked behind me and didn’t assist or run block, other than to give me initial directions, reminders, or help with street crossings (more about that in a sec). We typically walk around the neighborhood linked up, so this is definitely a new habit for us. Also, during walks, if things are calm, Martha will often stand behind me at a street corner with Maite so I can practice just crossing without an attached route.

On our first walk (to the post office box), I immediately became frustrated. I followed the directions fine and wanted to show off my new skills … but, unlike in Michigan, SF has tons of hills! Even in its streets! I kept veering wildly, probably because I was so focused on walking quickly that I didn’t notice I was following a downhill slope instead of keeping my straight line. (In other words, the hill lured me into a false sense of straightness—no pun intended—and caused me to veer.)

One time, I ended up on the wrong up-curb altogether, which horrified me. I … didn’t even know that was possible? Was it possible to have done that in Michigan and I just … never did, magically? Did I miss something?

Anyway, I hope the hills are the problem, and that I can practice those streets enough to learn how a proper crossing feels beneath my feet, even if I am going against the grain of the street. Still, all this quickly put me into an angry tailspin re: can I seriously not go anywhere without there being unforeseen (haha) obstacles? There were some high notes, though. I definitely got significantly less hung up on sidewalk junk, thanks to my narrower arc. Often, I made perfect or near-perfect crossings, although, of course, even without the added hilly complications, these streets are just … different, so different things happen. I always just seemed to hit the domes in Michigan and be lined up right, but our streets are not nearly as straight and nice. So sometimes, even when I tried to line up with the inner curb, it wasn’t quite right, and was only helped when I also compared with the outer curb, which Jeffrey and Hannah told me I didn’t really need to bother with in Michigan.

So I kind of just … realized that the skills I gained are absolutely fantastic, and I learned a lot, and I was and am super stoked and happy and proud that I went and that I learned so much. AND, because two things can be true at once, I hate that the job of being a competent traveler will never be done. They did warn us about this, and I always knew it intellectually, but I still hate it. Especially in terms of blindie things, I like to go after a skill hard, get my proverbial Girl Scout badge (or rainbow stones from Finch) proving mastery, and then move on to the next thing. But mobility isn’t like that.

I know Leader Dog can even send an instructor out here to work with me at home, but, at this stage, I don’t want that. It feels unfair to have to do that when I already feel like I did so much work.

I wish there were, like, short courses for my sighties, so they could become impromptu mobility support ambassador people and immediately know tips that could help me in any given situation. I resent feeling like I need “legit” mobility instruction to puzzle out and plan for the intricacies of every new route.

I do know that, between the two of us, Martha and I can probably figure out a lot of things, and I just need to be patient, and stay willing to practice. It just felt hard when things didn’t immediately go right. I remember feeling this way after coming home from guide dog school, too, interestingly. It’s quite a leap going to an environment where there isn’t an immediate fix or suggestion to an accessibility or blindie skills-based problem.

Someone in Michigan (I think it was Jeffrey, but maybe somebody else we heard from) said that mobility is often hardest in our own neighborhoods, just because people we know might be around and have their own reactions, comments, or feelings to us moving through the environment. Martha and I had a cute situation like this. I was crossing a street and our next-door neighbor, whom we affectionately call “Uncle Wayne,” because he has dubbed me his niece, saw me from the other side. He helpfully yelled, “Come toward me!”

Martha shushed him, and I playfully yelled back without thinking, “No! I’m doing it myself—watch!”

I hit the curb a little off-center, planted my feet (per the technique), swept to one side, found my domes, and sailed up the curb into a good old Uncle Wayne hug and fist-bump. And that was it … because Uncle Wayne is chill and did not freak out about me walking across a street untethered to Martha. I love that guy. I may or may not have jumped up and down and bragged a little.

Martha has also definitely had to wave people on when they try to yield to me as I wait for an all-quiet, all-clear. There was a hilarious moment this morning, on our Maite-walk. Martha and I had detached so I could cross a street solo, with Martha and Maite behind me. A car idled; Martha waved her on and told her to go ahead; and, as she drove through the intersection, the driver audibly grumbled at Martha, “I don’t know what you think you’re doing … you’re supposed to be holding her hand.”

Looool! I know I’m supposed to be ashamed that, because of my example, this woman possibly thinks that hand-holding equates real human guide, AND that Martha and I presumably hold hands on Maite’s walks so often that this woman thinks I’m incapable of walking by myself. I still found it funny and knew her heart was in the right place. I mean, if I can’t hold hands with my wife, what even is the point of my life? I don’t care what the “proper sighted guide” haterz say. This is a hill I would die on. Also, I still maintain that I get much more information and cues from Martha’s hand than I do from anyone’s elbow, even Martha’s. I’ll die on that hill, too. Come for me!

Poor Martha was just like, to me, “I don’t know why that woman just yelled at me.” Heh. I told her that, next time, we can explain that I’m “practicing,” or “learning.” In my experience, those quick buzz words seem to calm people down when they panic about seeing a blindie caning around in the wild while their sightie, seemingly cavalierly and irresponsibly, looks on without assisting.

Interruptions like these, however, don’t bother me. I feel better, in fact, that our people are watching out for me. Seriously, though, I need a resource on which to share these incoming mobility woes and struggles. We have forums and sites and email lists and What’s App groups for blindie notetakers, computers, phones, braille, cooking, shopping, guide dogging, dating, even traveling with the help of Meta glasses. Why don’t we have one for trading good old-fashioned cane hacks? There’s so much lived experience we could all share. We could even have mobility professionals join, once a blindie or two has approved each one and determined that they aren’t paternalistic, saviory, or blind police-like. If I didn’t despise mobility so much, not to mention the way social media has become so janked up re: accessibility, I’d seriously start something. How has this gap not been addressed?

Oh, and for anyone who cares, Martha found me a great, stretchy new fannypack to replace my Braille Sense’s side-bag. So now my cane hand and arm can move freely, but I still have my stuff on my person. And she found tennis tape in cool new colors! AND, my wrist and arm are no longer sore as I use my new, narrow arc and grip closer to the top of the handle, so I’m back to my glittery rainbow canes. Hooray! My aesthetic still lives, mostly.

Stay tuned to this space, if you so desire. Probably, if I can stay in good habits, I’ll start blogging about other things, not just mobility (let’s hope, since I don’t even LIKE mobility, geez!).

I attached my micropet’s egg to my Writing goal on Finch, so I’m motivated to write every night, heh. (That will make no sense unless you have the Finch app. Which, if you do, send me your friend code, please and thank you. I will send you presents and vibes on there for suresies.)

As I used to say on good old LiveJournal back in the day, “Tootles!”