This is an article published in the June 2024 Edition of the New Jersey Council of the Blind’s publication, the Chronicle
Hello, dear hearts! Miss Ruth here.?
I know this is a strange way to open an article, but, as I was scooping my cat’s litter box this morning, I thought, Oh joy, another job for Mom! Then I realized that I wasn’t complaining, but smiling. Okay, odd, I know. Smiling while scooping a litter box? Who does that?
Someone who knows it’s a sacred task to tend to those we love. Sure, it’s a grind sometimes, but we get so much in return.
Change one letter and it’s not my job. It’s a joy.
As I scooped, I remembered how Squeaky had approached me today as he does every morning around 7 AM, and emitted his meow-version of “Hellllloooooooo?”
And I said, “Squeaks, I need to sleep longer today. Please come back later.”
And he did! Have you a never known a cat to listen like that?
Normally, he’d hang out, stupefied that I hadn’t sprung up to attend to his needs instantly! He’d stalk around the room and shake his head so that the bell on his collar would ring. Repeatedly. Till I got up and fed him.
Not so today. It was as if he knew I was wrung out (sort of a bell pun there) and weary to my bones.
Did he know I’d been crying in jags throughout the last few days because a dear friend had lost her son? I can’t say. But I know that he knew enough to give me space when I needed it and comfort when I sat on the couch. He was Johnny-on-the-spot, right in my lap every time I slumped onto the sofa like a sack of potatoes. I felt spent.
I’d never had the privilege of meeting her son, but my friend, Elsa Zavoda, has been a blessing and a champion for me and so many others in the vision loss community.
She and the co-leader of our support group, the wonderful Larissa Steinberg, had been among the first to welcome me into the community of people who are living with vision loss.
The first meeting I attended of the Low Vision Support Group (LVSG) of Somerset was in 2019 and I knew right away: This was my village.
Each meeting opened with an uplifting affirmation, and someone would volunteer to read it. It was printed out in large font for those who still had some usable vision.
At the second meeting I attended, we had guest speakers – representatives from the National Federation of the Blind and the American Council of the Blind. Our own Joyce and Steve Sowa were the representatives of ACB at this meeting!
I don’t know what came over me – a shy, introverted, mostly house-bound, disabled lady – but I actually volunteered to read the affirmation. I was still somewhat nervous about it, because of the quirky particulars of my vision.
I’m blind in my right eye and have low vision with a roaming blind patch in my left eye. This meant I would have to move the sheet of paper with the affirmation up and down, left and right, to see past the blind patch as it moved in my eye, in what would appear to be some goofy, arms-only choreography. I felt a little bit self-conscious, but I read through the whole thing.
When I was done, I was offered a chorus of “Atta-girl!” and “Way to go!” by the members. They cheered for me because they could see it wasn’t something I was used to doing. It was a moment where it was okay to have limitations. I would go so far as to say I was celebrated for doing this difficult thing. You can do it! You’re still you, my mind was saying.
So this is the moment I thought of when I first heard that Elsa had unexpectedly lost her teenage son, Collin.
In a beautiful/painful circle-of-life moment, I’m going to minister to Elsa every chance I get, using the words of wisdom she shared with me when I was grieving yet another transition in my vision.
The LVSG is populated by a plethora of wise souls who share their compassion and care: besides co-leaders, Elsa and Larissa, we’ve also got Tracey Simon, our group’s Chief Inspiration Officer (a term I gave her – nobody really stands on ceremony in our informal group) and Sam Hendrickson (paradoxically, both a comedian and a sage philosopher) who are both peer counselors at Eye2Eye, a peer-to-peer support program for those with vision loss administered by Rutgers. These are some of the stalwarts who offer support and a listening ear.
Here are some of the things these beautiful people have taught me through the years:
You’re still whole and welcome and valued, even if you are missing something. You may lack vision, or a limb, or some other element that society says you must possess to be Instagram-ready, but we’ve got you. We’ve got your back.
So listen to your Kindly Auntie, dear hearts. You may be missing many things, even someone you love. And you’ll be missing them for the rest of your life. But what won’t be missing is all they have meant to you, and you to them. It’s a trite cliché to say they live on in your hearts, but they do.
They also leave behind some portion of their energy in the actions others take because they were touched by this beloved individual.
- It will make them hug their own kids, even if their 25-year-old son is 6″4 and you, the mom, are 5″4, so you’ll be hugging them with your face in their armpit. Not ideal, but the love is real!
- It will remind them to pursue that cherished dream they had put on a shelf until that nebulous “Someday, I’ll get to it” arrives. Spoiler alert: Someday has arrived. Get to it, dear heart!
- It will inspire them to write openly emotional articles for the New Jersey Council of the Blind’s Chronicle publication so Elsa knows for sure how much she is loved, and by extension, how much her son is loved.
Nobody comes into the world on their own, and no one leaves it alone. We can love them even after they are gone from this plane.
We can talk to them even now and share how we feel. We’re mad at them for leaving us. That’s honest. We’re confused as to why they are gone. We’re wondering if it could have turned out differently in some way.
Those questions are in Higher Hands; the answers we have in the here and now are found in each other.
You have a village. Just look around. Even if you can’t see it with your eyes, you can feel it with your heart.
And if you believe, as I do, we’ll be with our loved ones again, in some way, on some frequency, in some better place, then that alone is reason for hope. It can help you find the strength to go on in the face of such a great loss.
If I may, dear readers, I’d like to ask a favor. If you’ve loved and lost anyone (or anything for that matter, including your sight) and you have the means, please consider making a donation to the family’s GoFundMe.
The small comforts we can share with each other in our limited time on this planet can add up and make a big difference.
Bless your hearts, beloved! This is your Kindly Auntie, Miss Ruth (servant to Squeaky, who is sitting on the couch as I type this, slow-blinking in my direction. Anyone with a cat will know, that’s a lovely thing) sending you a hug and reminding you: You are not alone.
