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Archive for the ‘Blindness’ Category

In a recent TV show in which he appeared, Dutch cabaret perfomrer Vincent Bijlo apparently showed a dislike for use of the white cane. On Twitter, people are debating whether this has to do with him accepting or not accepting his blindness. At first, I commented that I, too, have an issue with the white cane which is somewhat related to trouble accepting blindness, but that I didn’t want to judge Bijlo’s reasons for not using a cane.

Someone pointed out that Bijlo is making himself rather vulnerable by talking about his blindness in his performances, so it is hard to find evidence that he doesn’t accept his blindness. This is true: you may like his shows or not – I for one have gotten used to them by now -, but he is rather open about his blindness.

Also, there may be other reasons for not using the white cane as often or as properly as should. I for one find it very hard to use the cane properly, and, while I do use it off institution grounds and don’t have a problem with this, I do prefer to walk sighted guide. This has nothing to do with my not wanting to look blind. In fact, I’m well aware that, as I walk sighted guide, I look more stereotypically blind than if I learned to use the white cane properly. But so what? I don’t need to look like the superblind person I am not.

And it is quite common knowledge that Bijlo is not superblind. Why should he be? Because he is a performer and sets an example for other blind people more than others do? Well, I have never felt that it is blind people’s responsibility to make sure sighted people don’t have stereotypes. And even if it were, it wouldn’t be our responsibility to defeat all stereotypes at once. In fact, it is known that this doesn’t work. And Bijlo, of course, does belong to the 25% of blind people who have a job. I don’t think he needs to bear the burden of defeating other stereotypes just because he is well-known. I do see that the sighted are seeing Bijlo as the poster puppet for blind people in the Netherlands, but as a blind community, we shouldn’t be reinforcing this.

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I am not a Canadian, but this astonishes me. The Canadian governmnet is fighting a court case in order to not have to make its websites accessible for screen reader users. Anna over at FWD?Forward has extensive coverage. I am as surprised as she is that the government is willing to pour taxpayer money into this case rather than putting that same money into making their websites accessible. Speak of cost-effectiveness, for once. Three million Canadians are blind or partially sighted, so this court battle is not just about the person who started it. Three million Canadians will benefit if the government stops its efforts to fight a court battle and pours the money saved into accessibility projects.

Anna is calling onto Canadians to E-mail their MPs. I am not a Canadian, so I cannot do that. However, I can echo her request to all contact your MPs and let them know what you think. Anna has a sample E-mail you can use.

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Last Thursday, there were of course general elections in the UK. The outcome is already known, and I liked none of the major parties anyway, so I won’t be blogging about that. What I do want to call your attention to, is this post from Jady_Lady, which highlights the difficulty blind voters can have in the UK. Without the help of a staff member, a blind person cannot cast their vote, and a mistake can therefore render a vote useless. Now that is exactly what may have happened in this case. Of course, mistakes happen, but when it’s about an important election, that is rather unacceptable.

As a side note, we don’t even have tactile templates in the Netherlands. When we could still vote using a computer, there were talking voting machines, but now that we have to vote using a paper ballot, there is no way a blind person can do this independently. I always get someone else with me to tell me where to color the box, but of course that does mean trusting someone else actually not to use it as a chance to have a second vote.

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People with intellectual disabilities are at a very high risk of visual impairment, often due to undiagnosed refractive errors and cataracts. Oftentimes, however, these people are being cared for in facilities that do not have knowledge about low vision, and do not know how to detect it. Low vision centers in the Netherlands take a pretty proactive role in screening for visual impairments in people with intellectual disabilities. However, it doesn’t help much if the advice these centers give, for example for glasses or lighting, is not followed up on by the intellectual disability facilities the people live in.

A recent study by Sjoukes et al. investigated factors influencing the implementation of low vision rehabilitation advice by facilities for people with intellectual disabilities. It was found that many staff at intellectual disability facilities are not sufficiently familiar with the advice given by low vison centers, because it is usually technical: “Beware that acoustic input is important,” just isn’t going to make sense to someone unfamiliar with vision loss, especially if they’re staff with generally only vocational training rather than care specialists. On the other hand, it sounds merely logical to say you should attempt to let the client hear rather than see things.

Implementation of advice given by low vision centers was reasonable to complete in only twenty out of sixty cases studied. Besides the fact that people may not be familiar with the advice, this is also due to the bureaucracy involved in implementing adaptations. If a client, for example, needs specific lighting accommodations, the staff are going to need permission from the management to change the home lighting. I can tell you that in the Dutch system, changing anything about the setting is going to create a lot of hassles.

Besides this, it usually takes at least four months between the initial screening for visual impairment and the advice report. This seems like forever to me, but then again indeed when I was at rehab, there were four months between my admission interview and the day I got my advice report, too.

The authors make the following recommendations to low vision centers to increase the implementation of advice they give:

  • Only screen [for visual impairment] when the board of the service provider agrees to support the implementation of advice;
  • Reduce the time between screening and advice;
  • Write the advice concisely and in an easy to read style;
  • Start the advice with a summary of the most important points;
  • Offer follow-up by telephone 3-6 months after the advice;
  • Make sure that carers are (and stay) familiar with the advice by mentioning it in the updated care plan;
  • Make agreements that in case of (re-)building facilities for people with ID the low vision centre will advise on illumination and design to adjust buildings to the needs of people with ID and low vision.

Now let’s hope the intellectual disability facilities will cooperate, too.

Reference

Sjoukes L, Kooijman A, Koot H, Evenhuis H (2010), Rehabilitation of Low Vision in Adults with Intellectual Disabilities: The Influence of Staff. Journal of Applied Research in Intellectual Disabilities, 23(2):186-191. DOI: 10.1111/j.1468-3148.2009.00516.x.

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I came across an ATM machine today. The machine, like most ATM machines in my city, had braille on its buttons. Each button was marked with a number from 1 to I don’t know how many; in fact, for some reason whoever put the braille on the ATM had been very careful to include the wholly unecessary number sign (does it matter after all whether the buttons are called 1, 2, 3 or a, b, c?). You may think I was thrilled, but to tell you the truth, I was not. The people who put up these braille marks on the machine, obviously didn’t speak to a representative of the blind, since if they did, they’d have known that these numbers don’t make sense even to some persons who read braille, and that 90% of blind people don’t read braille anyway. That figure is a problem of course, and I am all for braille literacy, but those people will not suddenly learn braille just because the banks don’t care to accommodate them.

I still can’t use an ATM machine fully independently. It’s not that I was never taught, but just after I memorized the sequence of buttons I had to press to get a certain amount of money on my own bank’s ATM, the configuration was changed. I think it has been the same for a few years now, so I could make an effort to memorize the new sequence (except that I now use the preset amount of money buttons and I was taught to always click the “Other amount” button and then type the amount of money I wanted); of course, the configutation will be changed again as soon as I do, but oh well. In fact, I think I have it pretty much memorized now. Still, I keep asking someone (usually my boyfriend, since I can’t locate the ATM machine independently anyway) to read the screen in case there is a (minor) bug, such as them not being able to print a note (which I don’t want anyway), which will mess up the sequence of buttons I’ll have to push. Besides, what if I accidentally request the wrong amount of money and don’t notice; if it is too little, that is not a big deal cause I could operate the machine again (provided it’s my own bank’s ATM), but what if it’s too much? If I try to access more money than is in my bank account, the ATM will give an error I can’t read, and if I request a large amount that happens to be in my bank account, the ATM machine will prompty provide it.

Then, of course, all banks are free to operate whatever configuration they want on their ATM machines, so if I memorized my own bank’s configuration, I could only take money out of my own bank’s ATM machines. Of course, forget about getting moeny out of a German ATM in case I’m in my boyfriend’s city.

The problrem is easy to solve: provide talking ATMs. That way, the problem of the 90% illiterate blind people who are absolutely not helped by braille on ATMs, will be solved. So will the problem of having to memorize which sequence of buttons to push, since I may have the memory capacity to do so, but many blind people do not. There will still be accessibility issues, of course, for example, for people who are deafblind. I cannot think at this point how these people could be accommodated, but I think it best that one get in touch with a representative of the deafblind for guidance on that. In any case, I am pretty sure that if whoever is in charge of ATM machines (my bank, I guess) had talked to a representative of the Dutch Association of the Blidn and Partially Sighted (NVBS), they’d have informed them about the need for talking ATMs; and maybe they’d have told them that, of course, braille marking doesn’t hurt, but it isn’t the fabulous way to accommodate the blind. Maybe if I really wanted to use an ATM machine independently, I could work myself around the accessibility issues, but as I said many blind people cannot. Are we supposed to rely on someone else (presuming we have a relative we trust) to help us access our own money for the sake of whatever keeps my bank from installing talking ATMs? Cause it isn’t that they don’t exist, or not in the Netherlands, or that it is difficult to install them. I was really inclined to believe that my bank was aiming to show that they were “doing something for the poor, blind people” to the majority of people, who don’t know that they are only helping at most 10% of those blind people.

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So, I’m sort of in the mood for privilege lists, and since the generic Able-Bodied Privilege lists are not really suitable, I guess I’d do a Sighted Privilege list. I have generally taken privilege lists with a good bit of humor, so I recommend you do the same for this one. If anyone has any other points, let me know.

Sighted Privilege Checklist

  • People rarely ask me how much I can see. The occasional times they do, they are usually visually impaired people reciprocating a question I ask.
  • My visual acuity is not used in a metaphorical way to describe some form of fundamental misconception about the way the world works.
  • I am not assumed to be free from any prejudice or other vice merely because of my visual acuity.
  • People don’t attribute spiritual gifts to people based on the fact that they’re sighted.
  • All forms of printed information and most forms of multimedia are created with people of my visual acuity in mind.
  • If I need or want to read a particular book, it is usually no problem for me to access it through the library system or bookstore in a format I can readily use, even if it may take a while to retrieve a book not available at every library or store.
  • I can be assured that I can read my mail without inconvenience or an infringement to my privacy.
  • I never missed classes or failed a grade because of unavailability of accessible instruction or testing materials.
  • People don’t peer at my computer or books when I’m using them or watch me as I do daily activities without my permission. If they do, I am allowed to object, and people won’t expect to be excused for “just wanting to know how sighted people do that”.
  • If I don’t play a particular musical instriument, or any musical instrument at all, I am not asked why, “because [well-known musician] is sighted like you and he/she/xe plays [instrument].”
  • I don’t overhear random strangers discussing the superior cognitive and sensory abilities I assumably use to “compensate” for my visual acuity. In fact, I am not assumed to “compensate” in any way at all.
  • It is not assumed that my visual acuity will repeal to people I’m attracted to. If I am in a relationship, it is not assumed that my partner is somehow heroic for wanting a partner with my visual acuity.
  • The genetic basis of my eye condition is not assumed to play a role in my decision whether or not to have children.
  • If I don’t have a college degree, it is not automatically assumed that my visual acuity is the reason. Other peopel of my visual acuity also won’t accuse me of having internalized low expectations or having a bad attitude about being sighted.
  • If I apply for a job, whether I get hired will not usually be related on my visual acuity.
  • I am not pressured to pursue a career that values visual skills “to make use of my typically sighted strengths”. If I do decide to pursue such a career, it is not assumed that I think I need to pursue that career because of my visual acuity.
  • Each time I go to the hospital, people will not automatically direct me to ophthalmology whehter I need to go there or not.
  • Doctors will not deviate from the standard protocol of a medical procedure merely because of assumptions aobut the implications of my visual acuity.
  • If I have minor or major mental health problems, they are not automatically assumed to be due to my visual acuity.
  • When I make a mistake, embarrass myself in public, or need help, I don’t have to worry that I am giving people a bad image of people with my visual acuity.
  • If I am an adult, chances are fairly high that I will have a driver’s license. If I don’t, it is not because of my visual acuity.
  • I am usually able to travel in unfamiliar areas with relative ease, because visual guides, maps and signs are widely available.
  • If I get lost and am trying to reorient, people won’t steer me towards wherever they believe I need to go.
  • I am not expected to be grateful for whatever other people think they need to do to “help” me, whether I want it or not.
  • People will usually not touch me without permission. If they do, it is considered offensive by other people.

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Until now, I always thought there were only five categories of care packaging within the Dutch system of long-term, residential care: developmental disabilities, mental health, physical disabilities, nursing home care, and some kind of weird system for youth with mild intellectual disabilities. I criticized the system for dividing people, especially those with multiple disabilities or disabilities that were left out, into broad yet rigid categories depending on their presumed needs. Because neither blindness, nor autism are explicitly covered under any of the packages, I always read up and down the care packaging user guides to find out how I could be fitted into the care molds.

Yesterday, I found out there is actually a care packaging user guide for the blind and partially sighted (and one for the deaf and hard of hearing), probably created sometime in late 2009. This means that we no longer have to fit ourselves into the physical disabilities mold, at least not if we have additional disabilities, because of course those who are “just blind”, are not eligible for support. However, it doesn’t seem like the disabilities have to be totally clear; if you have, say, behavioral problems, you can be eligible for care even if you don’t have an obvious mental illness.

Unfortunately, the description of the needs blind and visually impaired care users are supposed to have, makes little sense. At first, I thought: “What the heck am I reading? Is this supposed to be about my disability?” The care guide, even for people in class 1, says a lot about how people who are blind are supposed to may have “difficulties with tasks that require you to think, such as when you get information or when you have to remember something”. As far as I’m concerned, blind people on average have better memory than people without visual impairments. Of course, if you have an intellectual disability, this may be compromised, and as I said people whose only disability is blindness, are not eligible for care, but this assumption is not made about users in the subsystem for developmental disabilities. When will the care guide actually acknowledge that blind and low vision people often have difficulty accessing information? Even people with no known additional disabilities, may have difficulties carrying out certain organizational tasks due to their difficulty accessing information, for example, if they can’t read print letters. Yet nowhere in the care guide is this very common difficulty acknowledged.

The care guide does acknowledge the fact that most blind people have some difficulties with orientation and mobility, or at least need training in this area when they want to go to unfamiliar areas. For example, the guide says about users in care class 1:

If you go somewhere familiar to you, you usually don’t need help with this. This can be inside or outside. But it may be necessary that a support worker keeps an eye on you or says what you should do when you go somewhere outside. For example, if you go somewhere you don’t know the way around.

And, when referring to training blind users are supposed to get:

The staff teach you to memorize routes, so that you’re more independent when going places.

In addition to this, people in care class 2 are supposed to need help or assistance “sometimes”, rather than just being watched and instructed. By care class 3, the guide takes a pretty large leap, when it presumes:

When you want to go somwhere, you can do this reasonably independently. When you want to go somewhere outside, a staff member usually helps you. You may also need help if you’re in a space you don’t know well, or if you don’t know where everything is located.

Of course, most blind people have difficulty finding misplaced things or orienting in an unfamiliar room sometimes, so it isn’t like this is reserved for those who need someone to accompany them when going outside at most times. People in the highest two care classes, are pretty much presumed not to be able to go anywhere on their own. Some of these people may have mobility impairments (all care guides strangely presume that someone in a wheelchair can’t go places on their own), but I am not sure whether people who can’t go places independently for safety reasons, due to a developmental or psychiatric disability, are also included.

With regard to housekeeping assistance, the guide is rather strange. I alway assumed that if the care bureaucrats just acknowledged the reality that blind people exist and may need care, they’d make sure to provide domestic care. This may’ve been moved to the Community Assistance Act, but I think that goes only for people who don’t live in residential care. The care guide for people who are blind, further reinforces this belief, but not in the way I’d have liked to see it. Now here I may be insulting the stereotypical Competent Blind Adult, but most blind people I know, even if they don’t have additional disabilities and can live in their own homes with very little or no support, need domestic care. Well, the care guide creators don’t think so. People in care classes 1 and 2 are supposed to be able to do their own housekeeping and cooking, but the guide reassures them that they will get help with that:

So you do as much as possible yourself. That includes domestic tasks. You clean your own living space, if you can do that. Of course, you will get some help with that. You also help cook your meals.

I assume, given how little care time is allocated for people in these classes, that this “help” is restricted to a staff member telling them that they need to clean their room or apartment and checking if they’ve done it correctly. This goes especially for people in class 1 (to whom the quote above applies), who are supposed to get only between 5.5 and 7.5 hours of living care a week (people approved for day activities get more, but it isn’t like that time can be allocated to cleaning or cooking, is it?). I was at one point approved for 1.9 hours of domestic care a week, and that was only for cleaning my home once a week. I still had to do dishwashing, laundry and the like on my own, and, if my support worker hadn’t found time to help me cook twice a week (and I ate microwaved leftovers the rest of the week), I would’ve had to rely on meal services – and I have no clue whether those deliver to care facilities. I think people in care class 1 are better off living in their own homes and applying for a few hours of home support and domestic care at their local Community Assistance Act office. I am not sure how this goes for people in care classes 2 and 3, who are also supposed to do their own housekeeping and cooking with some help, but who clearly need more care than they would be approved for in their own homes. Only with care classes 4 and 5 is it made clear that you are only supposed to help with domestic tasks if you can. As a side note, of course people in these classes, are also supposed to need a lot of personal care. When do the Powers That Bureaucratize finally get it that people who can wash themselves, may not necessarily be able to clean and cook for themselves? Many people who are blind (and may have additional disabilities), don’t have the organizational abilities to carry out housekeeping tasks independently. It may be that we’re all supposed to work extremely systematically, so that we can memorize (if our memory is not compromised) what parts of the room or house we have already taken care of, but I actually don’t know a single blind person who does.

When we get to the highest care classes, I get confused as to which people they are applicable to. Care class 5, the highest care class within this subsystem, is called “Living with very intensive support and very intensive care”. This wording suggests that people are supposed to need both constant supervision and total care, as a result of a combination of severe physical and developmental disabilities. This is not what the introduction to this care class says:

You may have either of these two care needs: either you need very intensive support and very intensive personal care, or you need very intensive support, mostly due to your behavioral problems. If one of these two descriptions refers to you, then the package “Living with very intensive support and very intensive care” suits you. In the description of this package, we explain this separately.

What follows, is remarkably mild to the person with apparently such severe disabilities. In all other care guides, the “heaviest” classes are described in terms of “total care”, “doing nothing for yourself”, “extreme behavioral problems” and “danger”. In this care guide, people in the “intensive care” subsection of class 5 are not described in overly severe terms. In fact, it isn’t even required that you use a wheelchair in order to fall within this care class. It looks like at least the people who created this guide, acknwoledge that mobility impairments for the blind, can also result from other disabilities. Now let’s hope they’ll recognize this in the other subsystems, too, cause people who have, say, severe traumatic brain injury but who are not blind, may also need help with moving about even in their own environment. Anyway, when the guide describes these people’s need for personal care, it is not done in a demeaning way, as in the other care guides, which are full of crap about how oh so dependent you are. That is a good thing.

On the other subsection of care class 5, unfortunately, they compensate for all the relatively good terminolgoy in the first part, by calling upon pretty much every stereotype about someone with significant behavior problems. To my surprise, the description of what behavior problems would qualify someone for “very intensive support”, isn’t actually as negative as I’d expected:

You have many behavioral problems. Some also have addictive behaviors. Behavioral problems are for example: screaming or yelling, forcing people to do what you want, or compulsive behavior. Therefore you often need help, supervision or guidance. The behavioral problems can also appear in other ways. You may also have psychiatric problems. These are then usually clearly noticeable.

This language is derogatory, but it could be worse. What appears to be my own new care class in the mental health guide, which isn’t the most severe class that exists at all, uses more negative terminolgoy, and it is not because I am somehow deemed more severe. In fact, people in class 5 of the blindness guide are approved for significantly more care than people in the mental health subsystem who have similar behavior problems. This would’ve been logical, since most people in the mental health subsystem, are not blind. But not so: there is absolutely no acknowledgement whatsoever that blindness could be complicating a person’s care. Really, this care package is supposed to be suited to people whose so-called “primary disability” (ugh, I hate that word!) is blindness, but the prejudice about people with behavioral problems, is exactly the same as everywhere else, but the terminology is even worse:

You need little help with your daily tasks, such as the care of your own body. This also goes for eating and other daily things. It is mostly important that your staff stimulate you to do many things independently. And that they check whether this goes well. [...] Due to your behavioral problems, it is necessary that you get a lot of support. You can do many things for yourself, but due to your behaivoral problems, things can go wrong.

Excuse the very bad English; the creators of the original Dutch, are eligible for writing classes, since their attempt to make the guide readable, failed miserably. Anyway, all this “stimulating” stuff gives me the creeps. It suggests more than I’d ever seen in any other care guide, that “behavior problems” equal laziness. Really, with the increased prevalence of developmental disabilities and neuropsychiatric disabilities from conditions like traumatic brain injury among the blind, both of which can lead to behavior problems, it is quite likely that people with so-called “behavioral problems” are actually overstimulated easily. A good kick in the arse won’t help these people, and the simple fact that they may not have physical disabilities to explain away their difficulties, doesn’t change that. Really, I am disappointed. As a side note, I just found out that people in this subsection of care class 5, are actually expected to do their own housekeeping and cooking, with the same provision of “help” claimed for people in class 1. Only this time the care hours allocated may actually make it possible that domestic care or guidance will be provided.

I am really disappointed in this care guide. I had hoped that, if a guide for the blind and partially sighted were ever developed, the problems that a sensory impairment creates, especially if there are also other disabilities, would finally actually be acknowledged. Not so: if you don’t have physical impairments, you are almost always presumed to be able to do daily activities for yourself, except for maybe some orientation and mobility. Even though even mildly disabled people with visual impairments, may have difficulties with domestic care and organizational tasks that require access to information, if you can carry out your own personal care, all you are supposed to need is some “help” (which the hours you’re approved for are not enough for), “stimulation” and “guidance”. Have the people who created this guide, ever met a single blind care user, who could explain to them their real care needs? Now the one thing that makes me happy about care packaging, is that it isn’t up to the indication board, but up to you and your care provider, to decide what types of support you get within the limits of your care package.

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I went to the oral surgeon today to have a wisdom tooth removed. Well, in all honesty, Dr. D. and his resident (or that is, I am assuming she’s a resident) are eligible for some much-needed lessons in disability awareness and much more general communication skills. It was bad.

As I went in, I was feeling presumably normal preoperative anxiety plus a little sensory overload. Despite this, it seemed that the procedure started out as it should go: the medical assistant took me into the operating room, guided me to the chair, and told me I’d be getting some anesthetic injections into the mouth first. The first disability stupid thing that happened, was her asking me: “Can you talk?” Her tone of voice indicated a mixture of annoyance and condescension. Well, I am verbal, but I’d been so overwhelmed that my speech was less than optimal. She couldn’t have known this, of course, since I haven’t actually told these people that I’m on the autism spectrum. However, what would have been done if I’d not been able to talk, for whatever reason? What happened during the remainder of the operation, where I don’t think you’re supposed to be quite chatty due to doctors having their instruments in your mouth all the time, indicated that quite likely they’d pretty much just have guessed me not to have anything to say anyway. During a particularly uncomfortable part of the procedure, someone asked: “Are you okay?” and, after I didn’t respond – how was I supposed to respond? -, immediately filled in that I was. I fill in that this means she wasn’t interested in an answer.

The operating room was, unfortunately, quite overloading with background music and surgeons talking at the other end of the room. They eventually turned the music off, and maybe they would’ve done so earlier if I’d asked, but I wasn’t able to communicate all that effectively at that point. As I laid in the chair awaiting the local anesthetic, I got increasingly anxious and overloaded. Add to this the discomfort from the anesthetic itself – to my surprise, it wasn’t even too painful -, and you can imagine that I was quite unquiet. As a side note, I don’t normally have dental phobia, but the entire overwhelmement of the environment, oh my.

Dr. D. was going to decide all over again which side he was going to operate on. I thought Dr. V., whom I’d seen on Monday for the preoperative consultation, had decided the left side would go first. (For your information: if you are uncomfortable with a new doctor at every new visit, I don’t recommend you ever get anything done at St. Radboud University Medical Center’s orofacial surgery.) Apparently, not so: Dr. D. took a look at the X-rays already looked at extensively by Dr. V., took another look into my mouth, and decided the right side would go first. I got worried, since Dr. V. had been ambivalent about that side. Specifically, she’d not been sure whether the upper wisdom tooth would have to be removed, and this had seemingly been the reason she’d wanted me to get the left side (where both teeth need to be removed anyway) to be done first. What would be happening to my right upper wisdom tooth?

As I said before, there was some kind of resident in the room as well. She didn’t introduce herself, so at first I assumed she was the medical assitant who had already introduced herself – I don’t recognize voices immediately, but people seem to assume that I do. However, medical assistants aren’t supposed to be operating, are they? I’m pretty sure I found her performing pretty much all of the procedure. If she was a resident, I think Dr. D. ought at least have told me that he was going to have her take part in the procedure. Now I got even more confused: was this woman going to operate on me, or was Dr. D.? During the operation, I was hearing many things that would be good candidates for the “Things You Don’t Want to Hear During an Operation” list. Dr. D. and the woman-who-didn’t-introduce-herself were hardly talking to me, despite the fact that they knew I would hear them (the humor list presumes doctors think you’re under total anesthesia), but they were talking to each other all the time. Now I must say, I didn’t understand any more from what they seemed to direct at me than I understood from their communication amongst themselves. I seem to have made out that they were debating amongst themselves which kind of stitch to give me, but I’m not so sure about that, and I seem to have made out that I was instructed to keep some kind of weird-feeling thing in my mouth for half an hour, but I couldn’t make out what it was or how I was supposed to keep it in its place.

Their entire communication sounded like I was not supposed to have anything to say anyway. Before the instruments were stuck into my mouth, I overheard either Dr. D. or the woman saying that I wouldn’t need an operating sheet over my head and eyes, since I woudln’t be bothered by the operating lamp anyway. How do they know? Maybe now I realize what relevance Dr. V.’s question last Monday whether I am totally blind might’ve had – I usually take this to be unwarranted curiosity. I’d been unable to talk at that time and the nurse who was with me might’ve said yes. Now I do have light perception, and a lamp that might already hurt a sighted person’s eyes so badly that they’d be sleepshaded for comfort (that’w what the flyer says), would certainly hurt my eyes. This became quite obvious when the light was shone seemingly almost directly into my eyes, without sheet, of course, since the people had decided I wouldn’t need one. I tried to protest, but couldn’t get the words out. I hid my face under the large operating sheet that covers your entire body for hygiene reasons, and was told that of course they wouldn’t be able to reach my mouth that way. I knew, but how else was I going to protect my eyes? They finally asked if the light bothered me, and I was eventually able to say it hurt. They then gave me the face sheet anyway. Honestly, why won’t you just ask a person before deviating from regular practice? The flyer said clearly that you’d be given a face sheet to prevent being blinded by the operating light. If I’d not had light perception, and had felt that the sheet, if used for no other reason than eye comfort, had better be left out, I’d have made this request. There is no reason to think for me like this.

As I was relatively comfortably covered under the face sheet and the anasthetic had started to kick in, the operation itself went relatively comfortably. I didn’t really mind the fact that I was not told what they were doing, but I got confused by what they were saying to each other and the occasional word directed at me. When the lower wisdom tooth was removed, the upper wisdom tooth debate started. I was somewhat able to follow it, but I tried not to listen and just let them make the decision, although all the back-and-forth chitter did make me quite confused. I was eventually told that they’d be removing the tooth to prevent it from hurting something (I seem to make out it was the lower gum it might start damaging, but I’m not sure). Oh, fine with me. But then Dr. D. turned to the X-rays once more and changed his mind: since the tooth beside the upper wisdom tooth is quite badly damaged from caries, he feared it might break off or need to be removed someday, and the wisdom tooth, that looks alright, would then be able to replace the other tooth. Also fine with me; by this point, I was entirely unable to follow anything that was going on and would have it either way. There is still a small chance that it’ll have to be extracted anyway, but if I understand Dr. V. correctly, the dentist would be able to do this.

When I went back into the waitign area, my nurse was given a script for mouthwash. I am not sure when I’m supposed to start using that, since the woman also said I wasn’t supposed to rinse my mouth for a while (maybe today?). I was also told that I could be taking paracetamol (Tylenol) as a pain reliever, even though Dr. V. had prescribed ibuprofen and I’d actually already taken one of them before going in, as recommended by Dr. V. (As a side note, for some reason I got ibuprofen in water-solluble powder form, and the manufacturer made a horribly failed attempt at making it taste like orange – yuck!) That was fine with the woman too, although it’s stronger than paracetamol. At this point, it’s six hours post-operation, anesthetic has worn off, but I’m not having any pain and haven’t needed any more ibuprofen. However, lack of physical pain is clearly not the only determiner of a procedure gone well.

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Joel of NTs Are Weird wrote about a federal court decision that mandates the Social Security Administration to send letters in accessible formats to people who are blind. I honestly wonder what the different associations of the blind think of this. After all, I think it is reasonable that a government agency, that sends out privacy-sensitive information, would send its letters in a format that the recipient can read independently. Is it reasonable to expect blind people to have readers read their SSA paperwork to them? I have my social worker do this, but this already sometimes leads to problems, for example when she quickly scans the letter and then tells me what she thinks it says I should do, rather than reading the letter aloud and only then, if I can’t interpret it independently, helping me make sense of it. Now my social worker knows about the benefit system, but what if someone unfamiliar with the system went on to “interpret” the letter for me rather than reading it? And that’s only when I assume that whoever I were to choose to read my mail, were trustworthy. Besides, even if a reader is trustworthy, they still could be using the information against you, for example, if they wanted to use it to “prove” that you can’t handle your own finances – and you don’t have to be a financial disaster to get that thrown at you.

Of course, people can read their letters independently, if they scan them using OCR software. This can be a lot of work if you’re not good with technology, but it can be done. However, it will likely lead to unnecessary delays, since blind people will have to scan and read all their mail before they can tell what is important: they can’t see that this is an urgent SSA letter and that is a letter addressed to the person who lived in the home before they moved here three years ago, but who never changed their address (a considerable portion of “my” mail!). I think it is really more efficient even for the SSA to convert letters into accessible formats with simple text-to-speech software and a braille printer, than to deal with the problems resulting from blind people either not noticing that they got an SSA letter, not reading it, reading it with a delay, or misinterpreting it because their reader made a mistake.

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Today is August 22, the day that I “celebrate” my entry into the world of disability services each year, because on this day in 2005, I started blindness rehab. A recurrent issue in my experiences with the disability system is, of course, the question of whether disability services made me better or worse. This year, contrary to in 2006, the question is not whether I came out better or worse, but whether the disability service system is at fault.

“At fault” is a black-or-white term, meaning that I might’ve come out better if I hadn’t gone through all these disability services, or I might’ve come out even worse than I’m now. My worst case scenario of what 2005 would’ve been like if I had gone to Nijmegen right away, involves psychiatric hospitalization, and from that point on, it would’ve been speculative what the staff would be doing with me. I might’ve come out better – the “if we’d known then” type of thinking from training home staff -, or I might’ve come out worse and become one of those autistic adults never getting properly diagnosed or supported because the entire mental health system is clueless unless you specifically ask about it (which the psychologist the training home staff consulted, did).

The other scenario, the one my parents like to believe, involves me doing all great and never needing any support at all beyond that deemed “normal” for the blind (and then we have to debate whether housekeeping assistance or adaptive transportation are “normal” – most of my blind friends think they are, but I’d never thought of getting them in 2005). English is an easier subject to major in than linguistics, so I’m pretty sure there would’ve been fewer barriers to my accessing the curriculum. However, that is not something anyone pushed me into: I was the first to say that I didn’t like English as a major anymore, and the majors staff have pushed me into, mostly are more accessible than linguistics turned out to be. Furthermore, this would not have changed my situation with regard to my inability to cook, travel safely or manage my paperwork – in fact, my skills were a lot worse.

However, actually, I have no way to compare my current situation to the one I might’ve ended up in if I’d not started becoming involved with disability supports. After all, this is the way it is and I can’t turn back time. With the actual claim my parents make about the problems with my having been surrounded by disability service people, this is however not too relevant: they say the disability service people ruined my self-esteem, thereby causing me to feel incapable of making it in college or in independent living.

Besides the question of what self-esteem really is – the belief that you can do many practical things for yourself, the belief in your ability to make your own decisions, a positive feeling of self-worth, etc. -, that would all lead to different answers of whether my self-esteem has been ruined – and, was it all that good to begin with anyway? -, there is the question of how much part the disability service system, or the broader care system, has had in this. After all, no-one actually said that I can’t go to university. The most skeptical person at training home, who once sent me a Sonneheerdt (vocational college for the blind) newsletter, pretty soon knew that she was alone in believing I could not go to college, especially after I started at Saxion. The plan had all been laid out quite clearly by the summer of 2006 and no-one was openly questioning it or even making doubtful comments like “How are you going to do ___?” after the end of 2006. In fact, all people were relatively optimistic and confident that I’d meet up to the standards of the follow-up living place – except for me.

Then maybe the rehab center did all the wrong to me, because apparently my self-esteem had already been destroyed. Well, no, they did not. In fact, everyone knew from the start that I was going to transfer to college and independent living by 2006, and no-one ever questioned those plans. They did realize that I’d need some more real-life training, but I’d get that at training home – and for clarity’s sake, I was the one who decided to delay college a year, without any staff member proposing I do.

So, is it that I’m just a lazy, insecure, little baby who got all the good kicks in the ass until she eventually got her way by making some suicidal threat, and is the only person at fault the psychiatrist who took it seriously? Should I be pushed and pulled through life like I’m a wheelbarrow forever, because otherwise I’ll become one of those poor, disabled people who believe that the world owes them a living? Well, goal-setting is not a bad thing, if it is a goal that the person (ie. me) agrees to. The current aim for me is to go to a supported living place called Glasnost, and in a way I’m glad that the people here haven’t given up on it despite my continuous nagging about my not meeting the criteria. Okay, there are more alternatives in which I will have an equal level of independence and that are less strict on admission criteria, so I do have a problem with them sticking to one place only, but it is not that I despise them wanting me to go into supported living at all. What I do have a problem with, and what ruins my self-esteem actually, is something not just care people do, but my parents all the same: setting long-term goals without short-term objectives to get to that goal. I eventually did realize that one short-term objective could be to at least get something to do during the day – even though it’s not something that Glasnost will accept -, if the long-term goal is 32 hours a week of outside day activity, so I applied to Open University. With regard to the other goals that going to Glasnost implies, however, I have no clue how to set short-term objectives, let alone how to reach them – and I estimate that without help it’ll take me years to find out.

This attitude is pretty common among care professionals, and it’s probably all the more common among care professionals who know they will be dealing with you temporarily. I encoutered this quite openly at the rehab center, where, whenever I raised a concern about not reaching my rehabilitation goals, my counselor came up with: “But aren’t you going to go to ‘De Boomgaard’?” I solved this problem by not making my definite decision to go to training home till a week before finishing my rehab program, and by insisting that I wasn’t there but at the rehab center now so we should stick to the goals and objectives I had for rehab. I cannot do this at this point, not just because I already applied at Glasnost, but also because my current placement is an admission ward and really doesn’t care all that much about resocialization goals. That’s what the resocialization ward is for, but then if only I heard the social worker and nurses say: “But you’ll go to reso!” Then it would make sense, except for the goal that I manage my behavior enough to do without a time-out policy – which I think I do, but the staff are skeptical -, because if I fail on that one, reso cannot put me into time-out. Unfortunately, it’s not what the people say. “But you’ll go to Glasnost!” is what they exclaim. That is exactly the same as if someone had told me in 2005, when I asked about learning to cook: “But you’ll go to Nijmegen, right?”

It is pretty appealing for a service agency to pass an issue on to the next one. After all, it means that there is no need for creative solution-finding when “standardized” strategies fail, no need for periodic evaluations that determine intervention strategies – I didn’t get a periodic evaluation at rehab even though I should’ve gotten one -, no need to take a real, hard look at the goals and determine their realism, and, ultimately, for the disabled person, no need to progress. Long-term goals, with neither short-term objectives nor intervention strategies, aren’t going to drag me out of my comfort zone – in fact, they push me further into it. Of course I will be homeless if Glasnost isn’t going to accept me, but I’d much rather spend the time that I’m still waiting for Glasnost’s waiting list to end by reading Oliver Sacks or playing cards than by worrying about the future, if I have no clue how to change that future anyway. Because I know that I’d much rather not become homeless at all, I used to keep pushing for short-term objectives and strategies, but at one point I’d heard the classic “We don’t specialize in autism, wait till you’re at Glasnost,” so often that I gave up and retreated into Oliver Sacks’ books. I’m now most often arguing about what will happen if Glasnost turns me down, but the answer’s still the same. It’s not that I want to be homeless, but just putting up a bar of expectations somewhere on a far-away star and telling me to reach for it, isn’t going to give me a space shuttle, either.

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