2 Feet, 4 Paws & 1 God

Back in the late eighties when I was first told of my sight loss, it felt like the end of the world. I was forced to surrender my driving licence which also meant the end of my career. I could not keep up my mortgage payments and had to sell my home. 

So within a year I'd lost my job, my home, my confidence and for the next ten years I raged at the injustice of it. I was too angry to take any of the help and advice that was on offer and was on a downward spiral of anger and self pity. 

Here is the story of the day someone first suggested I needed a guide dog.

At first I think it must be a bad dream, a nightmare. I need to check. I tug at the hairs on the back of my hand. It bloody hurts. That doesn’t happen in a dream. I must be awake then. Great. That’s just bloody great.

I’m trudging down a corridor in an old Victorian building, dragging my feet, trying to hang back, thinking to myself that these Victorians really knew how to build. They were the people that built all those imposing buildings, buildings that were designed to intimidate little people and keep the plebs in their place.
Everything about this building makes me feel small and insignificant. The glazed tiled walls are closing in on me.
   
The corridors echo to memories of the footsteps of the lost and bewildered.

What am I doing in this horrible building? The atmosphere hangs in the air like the smell of damp leaves on an autumn day. The pain of all who have suffered here permeates the very fabric of the building. It oozes from the wood and stone and drifts through the halls, like mist on a November morning.
This is a cold place. A sad place. A place where too many dreams have been broken, too many hopes dashed. It’s like walking into a fog... Before you know it, you’re cut off. There’s no way out. I’m filled with feelings of panic and dread.

As I push open the huge oak door and step forward into that unknown territory, the world of the blind, I see my reflection in the brass doorplate. It’s a look I know all too well: the look of a person who is desperate, frightened, angry. As I enter, I see the waiting room is full. It’s packed with people like me, people who have spent years in denial, afraid that their sight loss will be used as a weapon against them, so that they can be held back. These people are all wearing the same haunted expression of people who’ve spent too long on the run. They’re desperate, like me. I know that look because I see it every morning as I peer into the shaving mirror.
After reporting to the receptionist, I sit down, comforting myself with the fact that I’ve managed to postpone this moment for years and years. I’ve had a good run but it’s time to face the music. Sight loss is now such a big issue for me, I can no longer hide it from other people or – even more importantly – from myself. Damn, I think, I’ve got the wrong shoes on. I’m wearing dirty great boots. Today is a day for trainers. The impulse to run from the truth is still there, goading me. This has been the pattern in my life so far. In my younger days whenever anything happened to upset me, I used to lace up my trainers and take to my heels. I would run just as far and as fast as I could until I felt utterly exhausted. As I got older and I realised my eyesight was failing me, I would jump on a train and head off to another town, a couple of hours away, often without a by-your-leave from employers, family or friends, and drink myself silly in the vain hope that drink would blot out the pain I was feeling, but there’s always the morning after the night. I’d be gone for days. Sometimes I wouldn’t come back until someone came and found me. Even though I knew it was a horrible thing to do to people around me, including my wife Denise, I just couldn’t face the alternative. Today, feels like one of those days. I know I’m not going to be able to face this...

Brendan Foster and Steve Cram are not the only runners to hail from Jarrow. Oh no’ I could give those guys a run for their money any day.

The seconds tick past. Needless to say, I haven’t come here willingly. I feel as if I’ve been dragged here, kicking and screaming, even though I’m actually alone. It’s just that I have no options left... I’ve simply run out of ideas. Years of refusing to recognise what’s happening with my sight loss have been driving a wedge between me and all those who love me. Their lack of understanding begins to wind me up and eventually sends me spinning in to a rage. You wouldn’t believe the anger I’ve felt and somehow I haven’t been able to stop myself from lashing out at people. On a rational level I know it’s not their fault (well, a lot of the time) but this is not a rational thing. This is an affair of the gut which has been burning me up for years.

Now, even though I’ve decided I’m going to face the music I don’t feel remotely happy about it. Boy, am I unhappy! I feel like I’m giving in. I’m dammed if I’m going to do this thing graciously. Here I am, about to hand over control of my life to the doctors, social workers and various other do gooders, who are going to lead me to places I don’t want to go. These do-gooders are going to make decisions that aren’t theirs to make. How are they going to affect my life? Will I still be able to earn a good living? Will I still be able to hold my own in the world? Will I be in control? I begin to curse myself for getting into this situation.

I feel totally hopeless. I watch the other poor lost souls in the waiting room, who are just like me. We’re all people who no longer have control over our own destiny. Poor sods. I hope you don’t imagine I’ve been caught, though... On the contrary, I was the one to turn myself in. I was a master of disguise and something of an expert in the art of evasion techniques. They would never have caught me. Oh and don’t go thinking I’m a criminal either! No, I’m just a man who has always believed that sight impairment is socially unacceptable, on a par with robbing old ladies. I‘ve been made to see myself as a kind of public nuisance. Suddenly, the receptionist speaks.

 “You can go through now, Mr Lucas.”

I obediently walk into the tiny little office and am instantly transported back to my childhood. It’s like falling through a gap in reality. In my mind’s eye I can picture my mother spitting on her handkerchief and rubbing the chocolate stains from my chin. (She would go on rubbing until the skin was red raw.) As I remember this I feel her hand on my back pushing me forward over the threshold and I can feel my feet slipping and sliding as I try in vain to resist.

I do a reality check in an attempt to pull myself together. My wife, Denise, used to be a sister at this hospital. For her it was simply a place of work, a building that held no terror. For me, though, it’s always been a place of fear. Just stepping across the threshold instantly transports me back to the most painful parts of my childhood. Here I am, a 40- year-old man with the mindset of a six-year-old. Damn this place! And damn the circumstances that have brought me here.

Really, this building should feel like a second home. As well as my sight impairment, I was also born with a heart defect. So between the Eye Department and the Children’s Cardiac Unit, I often spent long periods of my childhood in various parts of this hospital.
How is it that one building can rob me of all my adult faculties and return me instantly to my childhood? How come I suddenly feel I’m no longer in control? How come other people get to make all the decisions here? Why is it that my opinions are of no importance to anyone here? Whyis it that every time I walk through that huge oak door I feel like a midget in a world of giants? It’s like Lilliput in reverse. I’m dammed if they’re going to tie me down.


A phrase from my childhood echoes in my mind: ‘Shut up and do as you’re told.’ My neck begins to stiffen and I feel my shoulders hunch. Again I return to being a child with short trousers and little National Health glasses that leave deep grooves behind my ears. Here I am, a 15-stone six- year-old, about to face up to something I’ve spent more than 40 years trying to avoid.

I’m still in childhood mode when I sit down in this woman’s office. I look at her and know at once she’s more than just a mere megalomaniac, she’s a witch. She reminds me of Morticia from The Addams Family, that satirical televised inversion of the ideal American family. I can picture this woman sitting in that big wicker chair from the TV programme. Of course, I know I’m being unreasonable but at this point in time, no one could change my mind.

The woman smiles sweetly. The six-year-old me clenches his teeth and waits for her to ruffle my hair. I promise myself that when her hand comes towards me, I’ll bite her fingers. Nevertheless, I try really hard to force the six-year-old me back into the deep recesses of my mind. Making another big effort, I smile right back. Anything she can do, I can do better.

Morticia rolls her eyes at me. I roll them right back. I concentrate really hard and force my features into what I hope is my most withering look. I don’t know why really, because I’ve often used that look and to date no one has taken any notice of it. Why it should be any different today, I don’t know. Time seems to stand still, the silence is numbing. It seems to last an eternity. I’m waiting for her to speak but when she finally does, I’m totally unprepared for what she has to say.

“I think it’s time you thought about a guide dog.”
My world explodes. The ceiling seems to be falling in. She’s still speaking but nothing is getting through. All I can hear are the words ‘guide dog’ echoing in my head. Guide dog? A fucking guide dog?! They’re for blind people. What the hell is she trying to say? Is she crazy? Do I look like a blind man? A High Court judge inside my head suddenly booms out:
‘DAVID LUCAS! You shall be taken from here to a place not of your choosing and be given a guide dog. Henceforth you shall be known as ‘Blindy Lucas’. Children will laugh at you in the street. Middle-aged women in twin sets and pearls will coo over you. They will take you to the seaside and buy you candyfloss. You will be given a short-back-and-sides and a set of hand-me-down clothes.’

No bloody way is this going to happen. Every fibre of my being is screaming at me to run. Run, Dave! Just bloody run! But something is making me stay, although I have no idea what... Somewhere deep in my subconscious I know that this is right. Why, then in the days leading up to this meeting when I was imagining every possible scenario did I not hear the words ‘I think it’s time you thought about a guide dog’?

Someone’s made a mistake, that’s why. This bit is totally unscripted... and now is not a good time for ad-libbing. I feel so angry! I’ve never known anger like this. How dare she? This woman who’s never met me before, who knows nothing about me or my life. She’s trying to pin a label on me, a label that says ‘BLINDY’. Well, I know exactly where she can stick it and she’s damn lucky I don’t tell her. This will mark me out as disabled, the very term that started me running all those years ago.

I’m on the verge of telling her all this, when I realise how futile it is. Tonight, as usual, this woman will mount her broomstick and fly off over the rooftops of Newcastle, back to her home and family. She’s just doing her job. This is simply routine to her. But that one simple statement has blown my whole world apart. How can anything ever be the same again? Witch, I thought. You bloody witch.
I really need to get out of this office. I’ve successfully avoided this moment for over 40 years and now everything has turned to dust in a split second.


I stuff my hands in my pockets so that I can be sure not to punch anyone or anything and I stomp off down the corridor, right out of the hospital, half out of my mind. My philosophy has worked for me so far and it’ll just have to work for me again: when things get too uncomfortable, just run! But running is a young man’s game and I’m starting to feel my age. 

Even as I jog along in my “Kicker” boots, I have to admit there is one very big fly in the ointment: I’ve promised my wife, Denise, that I’m going to face up to whatever’s going on with my sight, stop running and stand and face it.