Table 72

“The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision” – Helen Keller

Rachel was 20 when I first met her. She was going to be my co-teacher in the afternoons at the classical academy where we both worked. I invited her to coffee before the school year began so that we could get to know one another. All I knew about her was that she was considered legally blind. She has a white cane that she sometimes uses when she is in unfamiliar territory. She can see colors, vague shapes, light. In essence, what I knew about her had everything to do with her eyes, how she saw things….or didn’t.

Rachel, I told her, I am old enough to be your mother and your grandmother. What I would like us to be is on equal ground. Let’s build on, not superior or subordinate, but two women teaching children together. And that’s how our story began. We had a certain synergy right from the start; yin to yang, peanut butter to jelly, tap that went right into ballet and ended with jazz hands. Our dynamic in the classroom was a vaudeville act, perfectly timed. We knew what we were doing even if nobody else did. The kids enjoyed us and we enjoyed them.

It was the times, though, when we had moments, just the two of us, when the real learning began. You wouldn’t know it just to be around her casually but her eye health carries weight that has layers of heaviness. She’s adept at navigating, will quietly take your arm when she needs to be sure of uneven pavement or the way out of the restaurant. She has to be aware of how bright the light is, how strong the breeze is and make adjustments as to where she sits in the room to minimize discomfort. There are drops to put in, doctor visits, different meds to try, different meds that don’t work. She depends on others to give her a ride and every outing requires extra planning to get there and back. It’s a whole thing and it’s been a whole thing for her whole life. This isn’t something that goes away; no magic bullet. She is aware of that every waking moment. The thing that’s interesting is, those around her wouldn’t be aware of all of that unless she told you. When I first began to get to know Rachel, I would forget that she couldn’t see the same. “Look at those clouds in the sky!” I’d exclaim as I drove along. Oh.

The beauty of Rachel is her sense of humor. Our rapport, our trust allows us to make completely insensitive jokes at her expense. I love looking at you when you teach and just know what you’re thinking by seeing your face, she texted me one day. That’s pretty funny coming from Helen Keller, I zinged back. It made her laugh out loud and it’s one of our favorite exchanges each time we remember it. You can laugh when you can cry with someone. We’ve done both with each other. Rachel listens deeply and asks good questions. She works with people in grief counseling and helps run programs in the Joni and Friends organization each summer, a group born out of unbelievable adversity when 19 year old Joni Erickson Tada broke her neck and became a quadriplegic. Over the years, Joni began a camp to provide families, and kids who are living with disabilities, a fully accessible and deeply meaningful week of respite, fun and encouragement.

Over the past 3 years, Rachel and I have confided in one another a wide range of topics. We can ask direct questions, say hard truths, take joy in finding just the right word. Sometimes we text that we are having a hard time but we don’t want to talk about it; we just want the other one to know and to “be” there silently. Rachel taught me that you can “talk” silently over the phone. We sat in Panera one day, two years ago, tears streaming down my face unable to hold them back even in a public place. I was scared of losing my daughter to the world and no sunshiney day made it better. She listened quietly and then asked….”Are you safe?” I knew what she meant and it took me off guard. She wanted to know if I cared about living. She took the pain spilling out of my eyes seriously. She paid attention. Rachel taught me that you can be in pain yourself and still care about someone else. One evening my phone dinged. Her days, recent weeks, had been full of disappointing medical news. She went on to tell me all the things that. were. just. hard. I sat looking at my phone screen. There was no solution, no “inspirational saying” that didn’t feel like a kick in the gut. What I said back was “I never knew how hard it was.” That’s the perfect thing to say, she answered. Rachel taught me to not have answers for everything.

Yesterday we sat across from each other at lunch. We laughed giddy over stupid stuff, took note that our receipt said we were sitting at table 72 and we didn’t think there could possibly be 72 tables in the restaurant and we told our server that we had to know before we left. We talked about being disappointed in people and how we deal with that, about church and what we thought it looked like and what we thought it should look like. We remembered the day at school when neither of us had it in us to “deal” and we had a classroom full of wiggly kids and we had to come up with a way to get to 3:15 without laying on the floor and giving up. I sat listening to her describe working with a young boy who was non verbal and watched her smile spread across her face as she told me the day he finally responded to her.

“This is a hypothetical question and no way to really know but….do you think you would be the same person without your disability?”

No. She answered quickly, confidently, definitely sure.

“Does that make it worth it?”

No, to be honest. I’ve learned how to have compassion and I promise I would still have it if I could have my eyes suddenly work.

That’s what I love about Rachel. Honest. Raw. Present. I appreciated her answer, undecorated with lofty and brave ideas. Rachel is brave, though and we got up from table 72 and made our way to the door, her hand laying on my arm as we navigated the space between us and outside. When I look at Rachel, her white cane at her side, I see a young woman still standing when she feels like laying down. I see a beacon, even when her light is dim.

Rachel has taught me to see.