Seeing is believing
Published 12:00 am Monday, March 19, 2001
"I have serious vision problems.
Monday, March 19, 2001
"I have serious vision problems. I have lost one eye to retina detachment and the other eye has been saved so far. It, too, has had surgery for retina detachment and cataract. Twenty months ago I had to have a corneal transplant. Every day is scary for me, but so far so good even though my vision is kind of held together with twine and baling wire so to speak. It gets to the point where any vision is better than no vision."
– Les Cooling, recalling how he dealt with a serious vision problem of his own.
That’s how I felt this winter.
If I could just see something, anything at all, it would be better than nothing.
Eventually I did, but not before surgery and soul searching – self-doubt, too.
Before I could see again, there would be an agonizingly long hiatus from work, play and the other normalcy of a sighted person.
That’s funny. I thought I was invincible.
Like a good wine, I would grow better with age. Marriage, fatherhood, divorce, single-parenting, middle age, grand-parenting, it all came in stride. That’s life.
Not even the discovery of diabetes in 1983 could slow me down. Daily shots of insulin, avoid sweets, exercise, watch my diet and monitor blood-sugar levels … no problem.
Both parents had it and three of their four sons, too. I was prepared.
Then problems developed that changed everything.
Chasing 4-H kids and cows last August at the Mower County Fair for my employer is always a pleasure. When the pictures looked out of focus, it was the first sign something was wrong, but nothing that a change in lenses wouldn’t correct.
Or so I thought.
When reading for pleasure became arduous, I checked out large-print books from the Austin Public Library. My ego was bruised, but at least I could read.
At work, I increased the text size on my computer screen to minimize errors. It helped.
Playing catch in the back yard with the grandchildren earned me a fast ball in the nose and several near misses, when I didn’t see the sphere coming.
Then, things got worse until one day in early December 2000, I awoke to "dead eyes." I could see nothing with my left eye and only a little with the right.
Talk about scary experiences, this was it.
A trip to an ophthalmologist informed me of the awful truth: blood vessel had hemorrhaged in my eyes.
It’s called diabetic retinopathy. If you have diabetes mellitus, the body does not use and store sugar properly. High blood-sugar levels can damage blood vessels in the retina, the nerve layer at the back of the eye that senses light and helps to send images to the brain.
The doctors informed me mine was proliferative diabetic retinopathy and fragile new vessels bled into the vitreous, a clear, jelly-like substance that fills the center of the eye. That’s why in the beginning I saw "floaters" resembling red or black spiders flitting across my line of sight.
Then the very large hemorrhage blocked out all vision in one eye and most in the other.
For all practical purposes, I was sightless.
The doctors said I would need a vitrectomy, a micro surgical process to remove the blood-filled vitreous and replace it with a clear solution.
Afterwards, laser treatments would follow to shrink new vessels and decreased the chances that vitreous bleeding or retinal distortion would occur.
Like my vision, the medical terms blurred in my mind as Christmas 2000 approached.
I wanted to see again, so I said, "Yes. Go ahead. Let’s do it."
The surgery was performed at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester and multiple laser treatments followed in the months afterwards until I see again. Not perfectly, but good enough.
If you can imagine a middle-age man whose favorite leisure time hobby is reading and who also needs his eyes to work as a newspaper reporter you have some idea of how frightening an experience this was.
Lose eyesight? Even temporarily? Close your eyes and imagine what it would be like and when you’re done, keep them closed. The sightless don’t have the luxury to see again.
Everybody has problems. Illness, disease and even tragedy strike many.
On a recent Lenten Wednesday evening, I sat in a pew at Grace Lutheran Church in Austin listening to a message from a member, Bob Rosel.
He told how the "chill of death" swept over his family, not once but twice, taking his son, Dustin, and his mother, as well, a year ago.
How can anybody’s woes compare to the cruel awfulness of the death of a child?
His words humbled me as they should have. My own problem paled in comparison.
Because I am a newspaper reporter, who writes for a living and – truth be told – lives to write, there is insight to be shared from my experience, however minor it becomes on the scale of life’s surprises.
I learned some lessons.
For instance, the doctors and nurses all performed magnificently just as they were educated and trained to do.
Another lesson: Health insurance is a wonderful thing to have and still one other lesson that too many take for granted: people help other people daily simply for the satisfaction of rendering aid.
These random acts of kindness from strangers opened my heart to the little events that go on daily in people’s lives, the programs and services that exist to help people, and always the infinite capacity for caring that exists in society.
Here are some examples:
Early January 2001
On Wednesday, I got daffodils.
On Thursday, an older woman gave me a ride in her pickup truck.
On Friday, an anonymous stranger gave me $50 and ordered me back to work at the Austin Daily Herald.
That was also the day Maj. Doug Yeck and Capt. Kathy Baugh took me to lunch with Betsy and Angel.
When I got home, a neighbor, Maydene McDonald, called to see how I was doing.
Another neighbor, Phil Johnson, cleared my sidewalks of the latest snowfall.
There was no school today, so the grandchildren telephoned several times, leaving messages when I wasn’t home.
My son, Ryan, telephoned from Minneapolis. He’s coming home this weekend despite my protestations that I am all right.
Katie Grev, friend and unofficial "personal care attendant" will stop by my house after work. She always does.
In the mail today was another get well card. This one came from Jerry and Suzanne McCarthy.
To tell the truth, it is impossible to feel sorry for myself even if I wanted to.
As the day draws nearer when the last laser treatment on my eyes will be done and I will be fitted for glasses, I feel like a fraud.
I will see again. I will do all the things or at least some of them I did before.
Life will go on, but, I wonder, "Why are all these people making such a fuss over me?"
It feels strange.
Later in January
The sun is so bright today that I wear my sunglasses inside the house.
This reminds me of boot camp in the U.S. Navy, where routine was the order of the day.
I get up, exercise, eat breakfast, check my blood sugar, shave and clean up, do the dishes, listen to an audio tape, talk on the telephone, write with Magic Markers in my journal, watch the History Channel on television and so on and so forth.
Pace the floor, doze off and wake to start all over again. Even another trip to the doctor would be a welcome break from the routine.
Little by little, my eyesight is coming back. I still can’t read. All those dead spots from countless laser treatments in the eye prevent me from doing that.
The day, like all others in this Minnesota winter, will pass into oblivion when night comes.
I find myself anticipating the arrival tonight of my friend, Katie Grev, when she finishes work tonight. She will read the mail to me, the day’s newspaper, too.
So, it has become with me. I count on others to do the things I once did for myself.
Wayne Madson was the first of these "strangers," who stepped over the line as good Samaritan and offered help.
I remember when he visited my house and helped me obtain veterans benefits. He and his wife even delivered groceries from the Austin Area Veterans Council. "It’s my job. It’s a case of veterans helping veterans," he told me.
I know I need this help, but how can I ever thank these people?
Mid-February 2001
It is my 57th birthday: Wednesday, February 14.
My father was 57 when he died. I was 8-years old at the time, and as I grew older, I thought I would die when I was 57.
This winter, when my diabetes resulted in the discovery of diabetic retinophothy and the temporary loss of my eyesight, nearing senior citizen status caused me to rethink a lot of things.
I drew up a will, made out an advanced directive for physicians and had a clumsy, but heart-felt talk with my next of kin about funeral plans.
Then, I went on living.
The next day
What a birthday it was yesterday. Maybe, the best ever for me.
Rita Kester called from work to wish me a "happy birthday." Then Judy McDermott called, wanting to know if I needed a ride someplace today or wanted to go for a walk.
I had to decline, because Julie Guckeen, Linda Wehner and Dee Quam took me out to lunch at Jerry’s Other Place. There were birthday cards and gifts, plus hugs and laughter.
It felt good and I only dropped my silverware on the floor once. Nobody seemed to notice I was nervous behind the dark glasses to protect my eyes.
That night, I went to Zion Lutheran Church at rural Dexter. Katie Grev drove us there. It was the congregation’s annual St. Valentine’s Day banquet. Bravely, I took off the protective dark glasses and tried to look and act normal.
The Rev. Lyle Aadahl made us feel welcome.
I haven’t been out in public much. Still unable to see well, I struggled to recognize the faces that come before me.
Soon my nervousness disappeared and I was chatting amiably with those seated at the table along side of me.
The evening only confirmed what I have long suspected: more of the indomitable human spirit flows from the happy hearts of a country church than anywhere else.
Zion and its neighbor, St. John’s Lutheran Church, were both destroyed by fire a few years ago. Their members rebuilt both churches and they are carrying on today.
If they can do it so can I.
A week later
Today, Julie – I don’t know here last name – made another appointment for me to have a Heartland Express volunteer driver take me to the Mayo Clinic at Rochester.
May. Doug Yeck of the Salvation Army insisted I join him for dinner at the First United Methodist Church, where the annual Austin Lions pancake fund-raiser is being held.
Going out in public has become a bit of an ordeal for me.
It is the fear of doing something stupid.
It was worse when I wore that eye patch that looked like a colander, so grotesque was it. Now, it is wrap-around sunglasses worn for the protection of my light-sensitive eyes.
I’ve been out before, but only infrequently. My friend, Katie, took me to the Adams American Legion Post for a Saturday night chicken fry.
One of the growing temptations of being semi-confined at home in the middle of a Minnesota winter, waiting for my eyesight to return, is that it becomes comfortable and I become shy about going out.
Church is a given on Sunday morning and doctor’s appointments, too, but all other trips in public need some coaxing.
So, going to the Lions pancake feed with Maj. Yeck was a personal milestone for me and at the time an informal coming-out party.
Yeck, my ebullient escort, made it easy. I told him to walk ahead of me and I would follow the gold shield on the back of his Salvation Army jacket.
In the fog that still obscures my eyesight I had to concentrate on voices and use my memory. Mark Marreel? Yes, I recognize his voice. Jerry Reinartz, Mary Kittelson and Nancy Donahue, too. Of course, Neal Ronquist, my boss, is easy to identify and Dan Bissen, Chuck Enger and Tom Koeck, too.
A man holding a pitcher of milk waved at me, I think, and I waved back. Don’t know who he was.
When we left, I heaved a sigh of relief that I had gotten through the event satisfactorily.
Maj. Yeck drove me home and once again he invited a word of prayer before we parted ways.
This time, I did the praying, fumbling for the right words but hoping God had an interpreter in case I rambled.
When I got in the house, I could still smell the pancakes on my clothes and I felt better than I did when I got up that day.
Good days can sometimes sneak up on you.
Late-February 2001
I was pumped for this trip to the Mayo Clinic at Rochester. It was the third such trip after my eye surgery in December.
Only yesterday, I felt I could see better and today it seems like I can see even more.
So when Bill Myers, my trusty Heartland Express volunteer driver for the day arrives, I am a little cocky. "I wouldn’t be surprised if they say I can go back to work," I tell Mr. Myers.
Once again, Heartland Express has matched me with a great guy and conversation comes easy.
I fumble my way to the opthamology department on the seventh floor at the Mayo Clinic and when my name is called – they always mispronounce it – I am led to an examining room.
I have the same doctors who first saw me and who did the eye surgery and by now the mood is more relaxed and we kid each other.
Today, I am excited because I can actually see more than I have in months and, maybe, with the right eyeglasses I can see enough to return to work.
They do not have good news for me.
I will need more examinations and more laser treatments. While one of my eyes is performing better, the other isn’t.
It’s not the news I expected to hear.
The ride back to Austin with Mr. Myers holds less conversation and when I am back home again, I try reading the Austin Daily Herald, but I can’t. I can read the headlines and nothing else.
I am not a happy guy.
Suppertime on a memorable winter’s day
Gretchen Ramlo delivered two baskets of groceries tonight at suppertime. They were from Spruce Up Austin Inc.
Wayne Madson, the Mower County Veterans Services Officer, did this for the Austin Area Veterans Council, too.
Each time, I was embarrassed and grateful.
Linda Wehner, delivered my paycheck earlier today and another gift from newsroom friends.
There have been more strangers in my house than ever before. Judy McDemott is another.
Twice, Bobb Cummins gave me rides home after misadventures and one-way-rides downtown.
A single man by divorce, my choices of transportation are limited. The daughter has none and the son lives in Minneapolis. My friend, the personal care attendant, works during the day, so I depend on others, the Heartland Express vans or neighbors like Truman Moen and Maydene McDonald.
When I am in trouble with the girlfriend, Maydene lets me snip flowers in her backyard. She also brings over apples and tomatoes from her garden. Whenever my grandchildren are selling something, Maydene buys.
Today, Maydene drives me downtown to the laundromat.
It’s been going on like this for weeks now.
Julie Guckeen was my driver the other day. She took me out to lunch at the Sterling Cafe, too.
I’ve also ridden with the one and only Deacon J, too.
The Rev. Mary Frances Jones drives a Dodge Ram pickup truck with a V-10 engine. I have to struggle to pull myself up into the passenger seat.
A retired Social Security administration district manager, Deacon J, as her personalized license plate identifies her, is an engaging personality.
Every time I ride with somebody, I get in the vehicle apologizing for the nuisance and promising not to do it again. Then, I do it again and find that I enjoy it.
A Saturday in late February
Everywhere I go, people ask me how am I doing.
My son, Ryan, took me grocery shopping at the Paul Boisjolie’s Hy-Vee Food Store in Austin today. I was stopped 10 different times by people. Ryan said he counted them. I remember seeing him leaning on the grocery cart, while I visited with Bill and Meri Jo Lonergan. Thank God he’s a patient young man.
I appreciate their thoughtfulness and hope I’m not boring them or blocking grocery store aisles with another account of diabetic retinophothy.
Neil Fedson drove me to the Mayo Clinic at Rochester the other day. He’s another Heartland Express driver. He’s a living sports legend at Lyle Public Schools and a former Austin City Council Member. Naturally, we have a lot to talk about.
The opthamologist at the Mayo Clinic and I had a serious talk. Much of what Dr. Colin A. McCannell has told me about diabetic retinophy and diabetes circles over my head without registering between my ears.
"I want answers," I tell him. "Are my eyes going to improve? Will I be able to see better? When can I go back to work? Keep it simple, Doc, and tell me the truth."
"Your eyes will not improve substantially," he tells me after a long pause. "Your new prescription will make a little difference, but I don’t know if you will notice it or not.
"What we must do is maintain the level of eyesight you have now. You can’t afford to lose any more of it. You can’t get it back. Your diabetes has done too much damage to your eyes. You can go back to work, you can drive, but how much you can do and how long you can do that, I don’t know."
After another pause, Dr. McCannell says, "It may not be what you wanted to hear, but it is the truth as much as I know it.
"You should make peace with yourself about that," he said.
After still another laser treatment, I am dismissed and Mr. Fedson is waiting in the lobby to help me to his car.
"How’d it go?" he asked me. "I won’t be able to see more, the doctor told me. This is as good as it gets," I tell him, hoping I don’t sound too depressed.
"I see," he says and silently I tell myself, "I wish I did."
I remind myself not to tell the children that things aren’t going perfectly.
Friday night, Feb. 23
Saturday night (Feb. 24), they’re planning a benefit for me at Adams.
I wish I could stay home.
The doctor has released me to return to work next week and I’m looking forward to it.
This benefit has me nervous.
There’s a big winter storm coming, according to the weathermen. Is that a good enough excuse to stay home?
My daughter, Sara, will have to stay home tomorrow night with the two youngest grandchildren. The other three will come with us. My son, Ryan, is going to drive and Katie Grev has agreed to come along.
All this attention is making me rethink my dilemma again.
Why me, Lord?
A Saturday morning in March 2001
Harlan Boe called today. He told me about the biggest Amish moving sale ever and that I just had to be there. "A lot of your friends over this way are going to be there," he said. How could I resist?
That first week back to work after a three-month layoff went well. I was nervous that first day, but it quickly evaporated.
The work felt good. Covering meetings, interviewing people, making and taking telephone calls. One of them was a distraught mother upset over the coverage of her son’s brush with the law. "Can you do something? Can you check into things?" she implored me.
Ellen – I don’t know her last name – was in the break room at the Mower County government center, when I stopped by for a cup of coffee on the way to the county commissioners’ meeting. The conversation turned to my return to work and how diabetes was the villain and caused my vision loss.
Ellen stopped me in my tracks with the story of how her son has had diabetes since he was a toddler and now a teenager, he’s dealing with it day-by-day.
I reminded myself not to talk about myself so much or it might give people the impression I’m a whiner. Other people have problems, too.
When I got home, there was a card in the mail from Dave and Jan Andree. I still have trouble reading and hand-writing, no matter how good it is, gives me fits, so I called the Andrees to thank them personally for their thoughtfulness. Jan answered the phone.
We talked about this and that. She claims her new grandchild is the most beautiful baby in the world and I said I could show her pictures of my grandchildren that would impress her, too.
Then, Mrs. Andree stopped me in my tracks for the second time that day, when she told me how her husband, Dave, is dealing with diabetes.
After hanging up, I could only shake my head in wonder. Just how many people out there are dealing with a life-changing circumstance every day of their lives and completely unnoticed by others?
It dawned on me: random acts of kindness make the world go ’round and this fortunate soul can attest to that.
Seeing is believing in the human spirit. With the eyes or with the heart.
Lee Bonorden has written for the Austin Daily Herald for 16 years. This first-person account of dealing with the temporary loss of vision is meant to show glimpses of the vulnerability of any individual facing a life-changing experience and to underline how random acts of kindness, neighbors helping neighbors, occur daily without anyone’s notice. Call Bonorden at 434-2223 or e-mail him at newsroom@austindailyherald.com