by Amy Casseaux
Some nights I lay in bed trying to remember what it was like to see.
It wasn’t so long ago that I could, but now that I can’t, it often occupies my mind. Seeing was important and the day I lost my sight was the most horrible day in my life, because the day I lost my vision was also the day I lost my courage.
From the time I was three years old, it’s been, “Deanna do!”. If there was something to be done, I’d do my best to do it on my own. This led to some adventures, and sometimes it would land me trouble because “Deanna” didn’t always “do” it right.
But I was never afraid. Oh, I experienced fear - everyone does. The thing is, I never let fear stop me. I never gave in to it. “Never fade”, “Never hesitate”, and “Deanna do” - those were my mottos. Those were the words that I lived by.
Not now.
In the year, two months and eight days since I lost my v... since I became blind... I have known few moments that were not filled with fear. Now it’s “I can’t do that. I’m blind”.
Within my own apartment, I’m okay. Within my own building and on its grounds, I can control my fear enough not to panic. It’s once I walk beyond the security gate when my chest begins to hurt and my breath comes fast. That’s when every sound, every movement around me seems like a threat. I’ve only tried doing it twice. I didn’t go far either time before turning around.
When I was a teenager, I took Karate and Aikido, earning black and brown belts respectively in those arts. When my Dad taught me gun safety, it wasn’t long before we discovered that I was both fast and accurate. I didn’t make the Olympic shooting team, but I got to national finals before being cut. I wasn’t invincible - I never thought that, but I knew I could hold my own until help came, or convince someone that attacking me came with a high price in pain.
It’s not that way when you’re blind. You can’t fend off the attack. You have to wait until someone has already hit you or grabbed you, then defend. It’s not so easy then. It’s even harder when you’re always scared.
I was always scared. Tears were never far away. Sometimes, I’d just stand in one place, paralyzed, unable to move until someone came and led me or told me I didn’t have to do it.
I remember the day that my Mom forced me to go shopping, then left me to my own devices to get home. That was a pretty bad day, especially when you consider what else happened that day.
Having paid the driver, I
got out of the cab, opened my cane, and grabbed three plastic sacks of
groceries. As the cab pulled away, I went up three steps, found the security
keypad and entered 332662, which is Deanna
spelled out on a key pad. If I spell Twenty-four steps straight
ahead... a half step... there’s the wall... turn right... four steps... the
elevator. It’s open, so I step
inside, transfer my cane to my already over loaded left hand and gently probe
the control panel until I find the “3” button and press it. I hear the doors
close and the elevator begins to ascend. A loud ding tells me I have passed the
second floor. Another loud ding followed by the car stopping and the doors
opening tells me I’m almost there.
I took the north elevator,
so I turn right, and begin to count. Eighty-seven steps later, I find my door.
After touching the number plate to confirm, I pull out my keys and open the
door. Once inside, I triple lock it and set the cross bar. Well, I tried to set
the cross bar, but the left side bracket was missing. I made a note to call
maintenance, wondering what had happened. My left hand was cramping from
carrying the groceries, so I transferred bags and cane. Four steps later,
instead of crossing from carpet to tile, which would tell me that I was in the
kitchen, my cane encountered something lying on the floor - something soft and
spongy.
I crouched down and felt.
It was a cushion from my couch and it had been ripped open. I felt stuffing all
around. Dropping my groceries, I stood, took one step and slapped the alarm
panel that triggered a response from the guard on duty. Next I found the phone,
picked it up, got a dial tone and dialed 911.
“Emergency dispatch, how
may I help you?”
“My apartment has been
broken into. Send the one-ten car. I don’t know if the intruder is still here.
I’m in the kitchen and I’m armed.”
Which was true, because my
left hand had found the knife block and had selected a butcher knife. I gave my
address and apartment number, then I said those words that I haven’t spoken in
a year, two months and nine days: “Officer needs help.”
It was only minutes before
Roger, the daytime guard, was at my door. He gave the code phrase that told me
it was him and I went to the door and opened it for him. Roger went past me, and
in seconds he determined that we were alone. He also confirmed that my apartment
had been trashed.
I am twenty seven years
old. For more than twenty five of those years, I was fearless. Today, I lost all
control and began hyperventilating until I lost consciousness.
She came and got me, took me to the salon for a cut, then instead of
taking me home or to her house, stopped for at a store for some groceries.
Walking up and down those
aisles, holding on to Mom’s cart (she won’t let me take her arm anymore) for
dear life was pure agoraphobic hell. I lost my orientation, never stopped to
reorganize, people brushed up against me, making me jump. People stared. I know
they stared. I could feel it.
I used to stare at blind
people, wondering what it must be like and never imagining for a second that I
might one find out, never imagining that one day I would know that what I had
imagined was nothing compared to the horrible reality.
Being in that supermarket
was horrible. No Halloween season haunted house terrified me like being in that
store. Then, to make matters worse, Mom didn’t put me in her car - she put me
in a cab that she had arranged for.
Can you say anxiety
attack?
Finding that my home had
been invaded hadn’t help matters any.
* * * * *
Oxygen, when breathed
through a plastic mask, smells odd. I have a hard time waking up - being sure
I’m not still dreaming. Sometimes I can still see in my dreams, sometimes I
dream of being in a vast place with no cane. A place where my footing is
uncertain and my hands never touch anything. There are animal and bird sounds in
this dream, so I call it my prairie dream.
I never smell plastic or
hear a hiss of oxygen in the dream. That means I was awake.
“D?”
“Bill?”
“Yeah, it’s me. I was
close, so I rolled on the call. So did everyone else near the one-ten beat.
There were about twenty of us at one point before the sergeant made everyone
else get back to their beats.”
He paused. “Do you know
what happened?”
I know my apartment was
burgled and trashed.” I told him about how I had been lured away by Mom.
Aside from a Good for her comment, all he did was tell me that I needed new seat
cushions for the couch and a new mirror in the bathroom. I knew from what he
wasn’t telling me that something was seriously wrong.
“It’s Lockhart,
isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Bill said
reluctantly. “He got his case overturned on appeal. He’s out on bond pending
his new trial.”
Near the end of my first
year as a cop, I had been “loaned” to vice, where I gathered evidence on a
man who purchased kids from extremely poor, desperate mothers with drug habits
and no money. Since I looked younger than I was, I was able to pose as a sleazy
videographer who needed money to support a drug habit. Once I had caught him in
the act of molesting a little girl (all he had to do was touch her and it was
over - I had the handcuffs on him before my backup entered the room), I
testified against him and he got put away.
He screamed that it was entrapment, lies, a conspiracy, then he made
threats against me as they took him away.
I’d have ignored those
threats, had I not been forced to shoot Bobby Lockhart’s brother, Gary, the
next day. He’d been lying in wait outside my apartment. Had it not been for a
wandering stray cat that caused me to turn and see him, he’d have made good on
his brother’s threats. I shot him and he died before the ambulance arrived.
Now Lockhart had two reasons to kill me.
“How sure are you it’s him?”
“Well, you tell me. Here.”
He gently took my hand and
placed paper in it. I felt bumps and ran my fingers over them. The note read:
someone beat
me to it, so i can’t take an eye for an eye. i’ll have to settle for your
life. did they take your eyes out? i hope not. i want to eat them before i kill
you. sweet dreams.
Now I was really scared.
Just because I was in
imminent danger of losing my life in a horrible way was no excuse to go stay
with my parents. At least that was how they saw it.
After I had calmed down
and reconsidered, I realized that I was better off staying away from them. My
presence at their house would only make them targets, too. I felt the same way
after Bill offered to let me stay with him and his family.
If Lockhart had gotten past the gate guard, the front door, the roving
guard, the cameras in the lobby and then broken into my apartment and bypassed
my alarm, he’d find me at someone else’s home and work his way through
whatever security arrangements were there.
Once my lock had been
changed, my alarm code changed and the police report made out, Bill needed to
get back to his beat. He wanted to stay, but he already had two calls stacked. I
told him I’d be fine, that I would lock the door, and stay inside my
apartment.
I was brave long enough to
get him gone, then I lost it. I began to shake all over and breathe too quickly.
A paper bag helped me calm down until the Xanax kicked in. No sooner had I taken
the pill than I realized that being tranquilized might not be in my best
interests. On second thought, I
decided that taking the edge off might help me get through the night.
Once I had calmed down a
little, I had a thought. I went to my pantry and found some string. I carefully
measured from my nose to the end of my extended arm and then cut off a yard of
the string. Next, I opened the refrigerator and felt around. Ketchup in a
plastic bottle – no. Soft drinks, also in plastic bottles – no. Dammit, I
had no glass. I went back to the pantry and found to cans of soup. That would
work.
I tied the two cans at
opposite ends of the string. Six steps from the counter to my front door. Where
was my cane? No time for that now. I laid the string over the door knob. With
the cross bar out of commission, at least I’d know if the door opened now.
I went to the living room
carefully, taking half steps and hands out stretched, trying to find my cane. It
hadn’t been in the kitchen. Maybe it was by the couch where they had carried
me. I searched everywhere. Why would someone take my cane?
I went to the bedroom and
opened my bedside table drawer. My spare cane was there. Once it was opened up,
I felt better. I stood there for a minute, thinking, before I moved over to the
dresser. I pulled out the top drawer and felt in the back. Silk and cotton met
my fingertips. Finally, a leather case in the far left corner was located and
removed. I carried it to the bed and sat, holding the case in my lap. Only one
person in the world knew I had this and it had taken a lot of arguing to get him
to help me acquire it.
I opened the zippered case
and there it was: my old .38 that I had carried for five years. Bill had cleaned
it, lubricated it and loaded it with snake charmers, which were like shot gun
shells for handguns, then packed it away in the case. If I fired, instead of a
bullet flying, tiny fragments of lead would spread out, increasing my odds of
hitting something. On the down side, I had to be within four to six feet to hit
my target and have enough punch to put him down.
Bill agreed to letting me
have it only after telling me that if I tried to commit suicide, he’d track me
down in the next life and kick my ass.
My fingers found the
latch, opened the cylinder and then confirmed that all six chambers were loaded.
The gun went in my hip pocket. I felt better, but not by much.
Several hours went by and
despite the Xanax, I was still very edgy. How
had Lockhart gotten inside my building, let alone inside my apartment?
Inquiring minds really,
really wanted to know.
It was almost one in the
morning before I went to bed. It took an extra effort to get undressed because
being naked, even for a few minutes, makes me feel even more vulnerable. I
decided to forego a shower until morning, so I just put on a nightshirt, and
crawled under the covers. The .38 was closer than my cane. I could reach either
very quickly.
I don’t know what sleep
is like to other blind people. I know for me it is a nether region of
uncertainty. Unless I am conscious of dreaming (i.e., I can see), I sometimes
lie in bed for hours, get up with the alarm and wonder why I’m sleepy all day.
Tonight I know I slept because the phone woke me up.
“Hello?”
“Miss Smith, it’s
Noel, the night guard. We have a man on the grounds trying to break into the
basement stairwell. The police are on the way and I wanted to let you know that
you need to stay in your apartment until I call you back. If you don’t hear my
voice at your door, don’t open it.”
“Okay, Noel. Thanks.”
I hung up and flipped off my covers. I put on a clean bra, panties, and the rest
of my clothes faster than you could name the steps it took to do it. Once again
the .38 was in my hip pocket, with my shirt tail over it. I took the cordless
phone with me to the bath room and locked myself in. Carefully, I sat on the
floor with my back to the wall and my knees in front of me. The gun was pointed
at the door. If it opened, I’d shoot.
Remember how I described
getting dressed? I didn’t mention my watch because I forgot to grab it. I had
no idea of the passage of time, just my rapid heartbeats. My chin quivered and I
tried not to sob.
I don’t know how much
time went past before the phone rang. The sound made me jump and I almost fired.
“Hello?”
“Miss Smith, it’s
Noel, the night guard. The building is secure.” That last was one of the code
phrases that told me all was well.
“Did they get him?”
A pause, as if bad news is coming and waiting for it will
somehow make it better. “Miss Smith, they shot the man who was trying to break
in, but not until after one officer was shot. It was your friend, Bill Kirkwood.
He’ll be all right, but he wants to talk to you before the ambulance takes him
away.”
Bill should be home by
now. Had he decided to do an all night stake out without telling me? “I’ll
be right there!”
“No! No, ma’am. Wait
for me and don’t open the door until I give you the code phrase. I’ll take
you back down. I’m on my way now.”
He hung up before I could
say okay. I stood up and rubbed my neck where it had cramped and wiggled my toes
and fingers to get rid of the tingling. The board that blinded me had also
damaged a couple of vertebrae. Aside from a little neuropathy from time to time,
I’d always know when the weather was about to change.
I grabbed my purse, and my
watch, then went to the door and waited. It wasn’t long before there was a
knock on the door. “Are we locked?” I asked.
“Miss Smith, it’s
Noel, the night guard. All doors secure.”
It was the right response
to my challenge. I opened the door, and took one step into the hallway before I
took a fist to the face and my cane was knocked away.
I reacted even before I
registered the pain. Block, parry, kick… he bounced off the wall and fell at
my feet. I snap kicked, hoping to connect with something important. I think it
was his head. I found my cane and then I stepped backward. I heard him move, so
I turned and ran to the end of the hall way, and into the stairwell.
Up or down? He’ll expect
down me to go down, but if I go up, he’ll have me trapped in the building.
Could I get someone to open their door to me this time of night? Doubtful. I can
get to the roof, but that would only give someone an easier way to kill me. Down
it is. I went down faster than I should have, but amazingly, I didn’t fall. I
came to the first floor door, but found it locked or jammed. That left the
basement laundry room and the emergency exit to the parking lot. A door which
Noel had claimed was where the intruder had been found.
Dammit, what do I do?
No choice, really. I go
down and I try to get out. Barring that, I hide. No sooner had I taken three
steps downward than I heard a door open and slam shut above me.
“Bobby! She’s in the
stairwell!” It was Noel’s voice. That explained pretty much everything.
Well, almost everything.
Where was Lockhart? Above me or below me?
Logically, he had no
reason to be above. That meant he was between me and the basement exit. I had no
choice with Noel coming down the stairs. I headed downward. The basement door
was unlocked and I traveled the length of it as fast as I could. Where was Bobby
Lockhart?
“Over hee-ee-eere!” A
taunting voice. It was Lockhart.
I screamed and ran in the
opposite direction. That wasn’t far because I almost bounced off of a door. I
got it open and closed it behind me, fumbling with the lock and then finding a
bolt and throwing it. A humming sound told me I was in the maintenance area.
I heard the knob rattle
and a key inserted into the lock. Then a banging sound as they realized that the
bolt had been thrown. A shot was fired and I felt something ricochet near me.
I screamed again and
dodged. That was when my cane went flying. With no time to find it, I groped
along between big metal mechanical boxes until I reached a back wall. I followed
the wall, hoping it would lead me to another room or a door before they managed
to pry the other door open, which they were doing, judging from the sound. What
I found was the electrical system. I found it by running into the circuit
breaker boxes.
Lights! If I turned off
all the power, someone would complain. Maybe Noel’s absence would be noticed.
Would the manager come down here by her self? All these thoughts ran through my
head as my fingers fumbled for latches, opened panels and tripped switches.
Little by little the humming subsided. Another panel, more switches.
That was when I heard the door pop open.
Time’s up, Deanna. No
more stalling. Time to move.
I didn’t move far. I was
in a corner. Trapped like a proverbial rat. Once again, I sank to the floor with
my knees in front of me. I pulled the .38 from my pocket, then braced my arms on
my knees.
And I waited.
Bumping sounds. A grunt
and a slapping sound told me that one of them had tripped.
“Where the hell is
she?”
“In here somewhere.
There’s no other way out.”
Thanks, I really needed to
hear that.
“I can’t see shit.
Don’t you have emergency lights?”
“They didn’t go on.
Half of ‘em don’t work, the manager’s too cheap to fix ‘em.”
I’d turned the lights
off!!! They couldn’t see!
“I hear her breathing.
She’s in the corner.” That was true. I was hyperventilating again.
“The breakers are that
way. I’ll turn ‘em back on.”
“Can you find ‘em?”
“She did.”
I heard his steps. Closer,
closer, then I heard a click as the first circuit breakers closed and the hum
began to resume. Bearing… range… I fired twice and was rewarded with a
scream and the sound of a falling body.
Were the lights on? Could
they see me?
“Noel?”
I waited. There were four
shots left. Would I need them? Would I get a chance to use them?
“Noel, was that you?”
If he had to ask, the
lights were still off. Oh, building manager, where are you? Where’s the other
night guard? Had anyone heard my shots?
Inches away, Noel thrashed
and moaned.
“Noel, where are you?”
He was close…. and he
was coming my way. I tried to judge from his sounds how far he was and where,
adjusting my aim. He was coming toward me – right toward me and moving a
little too fast for someone walking in the dark.
That meant the lights were
back on! He could see me! I fired twice, heard a grunt, adjusted and fired once
more. I heard a thud and a groan. One shot left.
I slowly sidled to my
left, trying to move away. Could I get past them? I came to a box and changed
direction, keeping my gun aimed where I thought Lockhart was. I sidled, hoping
to escape.
A hand grabbed my ankle. I
screamed and fired. We both screamed because one pellet hit my foot. I guess the
rest hit his hand. Whoever it had been, he let go of my ankle. I dropped the now
empty gun and ran to where I thought the door was, bouncing off things along the
way. My foot hurt like it had been stung, but there was no time for that. I
tripped over something. It was my cane. No time to use it, just grab it and run.
I found the door, turned right and headed for the far end of the hallway.
I opened the emergency
exit and ran two steps before falling on the stairs. I was outside.
Find my cane… stand
up…orient… step, climb, step, climb… I made it to the top. Where was I?
Think!
South end of the building.
Orient and turn right. Find the pool area. There’s supposed to be an emergency
phone there. How many steps? Doesn’t matter. I probed with my cane and my
hand. By now my foot began to squish in my shoe from the blood. It hurt and I
tried hard not to limp because that throws my navigation off. To make matters
worse, the ground was uneven with tree roots that made me trip over and over.
I was scared and I was in
pain and I cried. I wanted to curl up into a ball and scream for someone to help
me. Did I dare scream? Was Lockhart anywhere near me?
Wait! Tree roots... the
pool was tree lined. I was heading the right way. Stand up, orient... probe,
step, probe step – the fence! I found it!
Left or right? I tossed a
mental coin and followed the fence until I found a gate and entered the pool
area. Now where was the phone? I’d never been near the pool area except to go
past it. Think! It has to be mounted somewhere. That means the fence or a wall.
I traced the fence and
came to the wall. I followed that until I came to a box. Grope, grope, find the
latch, open it, handset, keypad, 9-1-1.
“Emergency services. How
can I help you?”
I’d have been glad to
answer except a cord or something went around my throat and a knee went in my
back, lifting my feet off the ground. I couldn’t breathe. Without deciding to
do so, my feet walked up the wall and I flipped over my attacker’s head. The
cord came free.
I gasped for breath and
bounced off the ground, coming up in a defensive stance. I had time for one
breath before I was tackled and fell backwards into the pool. Once again, I was
dependent upon the one breath of air in my lungs as we sank. I kicked and
squirmed, trying to get back up. I was tangled with my attacker.
By some miracle, I managed
to get an arm around a throat. The old training came back. I got the man’s
Adam’s apple in the crook of my arm between my forearm and bicep, then I
pressed my free hand against the back of his head. It’s called the police
choke hold. It blocks the blood flow to the brain.
He thrashed and I kicked
upward. I popped above the surface, took a long overdue breath, and continued to
squeeze. The police choke hold should never be used more than four seconds.
Beyond that point, brain damage begins, leading to death if the hold is used
long enough.
Did he have another
weapon? Could he continue to fight if I released him? I didn’t know, so I
didn’t let go. He stopped thrashing, but I continued to squeeze. I had no
choice. I squeezed and squeezed until l heard a voice say, “D! Let him go!”
A moment later there was a
splash and someone tried to pry my hands off of him.
“D, let him go! It’s
me, Arnie Feller. D, c’mon, let him go!”
My hands were pried away
and he was taken from me. I sank from exhaustion and had to be dragged from the
pool. Someone led me to a chair and from somewhere a blanket was wrapped around
me. I began to shake from post-stress syndrome. I let go and began to cry.
By the time they got me to
the hospital I was in shock. No one had noticed the blood coming from my foot or
else they had ascribed it to my victim, whom I had succeeded in shooting twice.
I floated in my special
little safe place. I didn’t answer questions or respond to touch, except to
flinch. They medicated me and everything went away.
* * * *
I found out later that it
had been Noel who had broken in to my apartment earlier that day. It turned out
that he was Bobby Lockhart’s cousin. He had helped set the whole thing up. It
was he who had grabbed my ankle. Having fired at point blank range, his right
hand was all but destroyed. In addition to the permanent pock mark on his face
and the chunk of ear he was missing from my first and second shot, I had managed
to count coup on him rather well, according to Bill. My third and fourth shots
fire that night had hit Bobby Lockhart in the abdomen and upper legs. Once
he’d assured himself that his genitalia were intact, he’d come after me.
He should have run away
because now he was dead.
The district attorney
ruled that, given my state of mind at the time, my decision to kill him had not
actually crossed over the line to murder. That’s what he told the grand jury,
anyway.
I was in the hospital for
week, mostly due to the infection in my foot. Someone from the psychiatric
department came a couple times a day. I found out that there are stages to grief
and I had stalled in denial.
I argued that the fact
that I was blind was pretty hard to deny. She said that denial isn’t always a
"this isn’t happening, this isn’t real" kind of thing. Sometimes it’s that first scream of “No! I don’t want this!”. Apparently, I’d never gotten beyond
that. By focusing only on my loss, I had lost sight of what I still had. It made
some sense. Being blind will never go away, no matter how much I want it to, but
there are other aspects of my life that blindness can’t take away. With her
help, I began working the stages.
I’m still scared a lot.
Most blind people are scared a lot, but they work past it.
Just like I used to do.
Just like I do now.
Well, my break is over. I
have to get back to my class. The instructor is asking for someone to
demonstrate a backspin kick.
“I’ll do it.”, I say
as I stand up and step onto the mat. I orient myself to where the instructor is
standing. When he says go, I spin and kick, connecting with his hand before
recovering and hopping back into a defensive stance.
“Perfect!” I’m told.
Deanna do.
Part 2