by Janet Di Nola Parmerter
Springtime! Everyone is anxious to enjoy outdoor activities, like hiking or bike riding, but at my stage of life, hiking is no longer enjoyable. When I was a child with better vision, every spring my brother Johnny and I hiked through the Naugatuck Woods behind my grandparents’ home to catch tadpoles in a lake. We hammered 16 penny nails through the bottom of grandpa’s metal bucket and the lid of a glass jug. We hiked for hours carrying our gear through the Connecticut woods to a huge mountain lake.
After tying a rope on the bucket handle, we threw it into the water as far as we could, then slowly pulled it back, lifted it out, watched the water spray from the holes, gathered up the shocked little tadpoles at the bottom of the bucket, and placed the tiny tadpoles and jelly egg pods into the water jar. The holes in the lid were useful because they supplied air to our new trophies, but Grandpa was not happy with the holes in his now useless bucket.
Back home in Fairview, N.J., our classmates were thrilled when the teachers brought in fish tanks to keep the newly caught classroom pets. A learning experience for city children to watch tadpoles gradually grow front and back legs, lose their tails, and become frogs. Each spring, bringing these aquatic amphibians back to the city made us celebrities, and we enjoyed the fame. We all watched the amazing transformation of tadpoles into frogs, as I watched my transformation into vision loss, and my parents wondered how that happened.
Whenever medical situations occur, like passing on a genetic disease, sometimes it’s worse for a parent than for the child, because they may feel responsible for their child’s difficulties. One parent felt so troubled she blamed herself, whereas her child easily adapted to life without sight, not realizing others saw things differently. Yet, when a teenager with vision loss comes to the year their friends get a driver’s license, it can be traumatic as they are hit with the reality of their limitations. Without verbalizing it, their self-esteem may plummet. When my classmates bragged about getting their license, outwardly, I feigned enthusiastic excitement while inwardly I was heartsick. How devastating it is to come to the realization that my waning eyesight would prevent me from ever driving any type of motorized vehicle. Obviously, I was doomed to walk, take public transportation, or bum rides from faithful friends.
So, to feel a bit more independent, I bought a ten-speed bicycle. Therefore, I did not feel quite dissatisfied when riding around my local neighborhood with those two wheels. Granted, they were no comparison to four Goodyear tires. Juvenile macular degeneration left me with a large blind spot in the center of both eyes. So when riding my bicycle, I used a scanning method. In order to see what was around and directly in front of me, I continuously moved both eyes right and left in a scanning motion. To get around the problem of knowing what was directly in front, the quick fix was to use my peripheral vision.
Pedaling those two small bicycle wheels gave me a huge sense of freedom. Three days a week, I pedaled my way to Woman’s World, and convinced myself the six-block ride to the gym was my pre-exercise warm up. However, an unsettling event happened at the gym. During the exercise routine, a trainer interrupted my weightlifting and said, “You have a phone call you can take in the unoccupied consultation office.” The lights in the room were off, so I clearly saw the bright flashing light showing me which phone line to push, and picked up the receiver. Instantly, I heard something which sent a chill up my spine. Bugs Bunny was yelling, “Wake up, you sleepy head, wake up, you sleepy head, wake up, you sleepy head!” Terrified, I began shaking and slammed the phone down so hard it almost cracked the phone cradle. Why did that silly cartoon voice terrify me?
About two months prior to that incident, I received strange phone calls without anyone speaking. There was only that same uncomfortable message, the voice of Bugs Bunny yelling over and over, “Wake up, you sleepy head, wake up, you sleepy head, wake up, you sleepy head!” The first time it happened, I laughed and thought it was a childish phone prank. However, after a few months, this phone message became annoying, then disconcerting, when the phone calls rang as soon as I opened my front door. Now, the realization hit me like a punch in my gut. This was not a child; this prankster knew exactly where I was and what I was doing. This convinced me I was being watched, or perhaps being stalked.
After that nerve-racking phone call, I ran to change clothes, bolted out the door, hopped on my bicycle and raced toward home. Regretfully, I did not stop and calm down to concentrate on my vision and the vital task at hand, safely pedaling home. It was impossible to stop thinking about that awful phone call. Sadly, with my distracted brain worrying about being stalked, my eyes froze straight ahead on the road like a deer in the headlights. Bad move for me!
One block from the gym, an older woman pulled her car out of her driveway. She waited for traffic to clear, then nosed her car onto busy Gorge Road, where I proceeded to ride straight into the side of her car. She later described the accident as follows: “Before pulling into the street, I looked right and left, saw you coming and thought you would go around the front of my car. Becoming concerned, I thought, ‘She was coming awful close, when is she going around the car?’ The next second you rode straight into my door with your legs in the air and flew across my windshield, hit the street, and slid on your face to a sickening stop.”
Yes, that summed it up. The accident happened because I was so preoccupied with the phone call that I neglected to move my eyes side to side. The car was smack dab in the middle of my blind spot, and nothing was visible in my central vision, so I rode straight into her car door.
After breaking the fall with a face plant on the asphalt, I slid to a halting stop. Not only did I not get up and run away, but I did not get up at all. When I came to, I was baffled because I never saw the car, however, I remembered hearing a loud noise and the screams of a shocked, screaming woman! Apparently, when she saw me fly across her windshield and violently hit the pavement, she became horrified, flipped out and began screaming, “I didn’t hit you; I didn’t hit you!” Next to my mangled bike, she left me dazed and bleeding on the street as she jumped out of her car. Since it was heavy rush hour traffic, I was grateful cars drove around me rather than over me. As I laid motionless on the street, her blaring voice made a painful situation worse. How could I silence her relentless screams of innocence?
Fortunately, as she shouted to find a witness, her cries caught the attention of a few quick-thinking construction workers who jumped off their scaffolding and pulled me to safety. As this happened, the crazed woman began questioning them while yelling, “Did you see I wasn’t moving? DID YOU SEE I DIDN’T HIT HER? Did you see her hit me? Did you see that, did you? I did NOT hit her! I wasn’t even moving!”
Her frantic, earsplitting screams were so intense I thought, “Someone should calm this woman down before she has a stroke!” Finally, I begged her, “Please stop yelling, I KNOW you did not hit me, I hit YOU! OK? So please, just stop screaming!”
Still lying on the sidewalk in pain, I looked up at the construction workers and moaned, “How is my bicycle?” Bewildered, one of them looked at the other guy and said, “Did you hear that? Her bike? She’s worried about the bike! Forget the bike, how are YOU?” Then another worker yelled, “Someone call an ambulance!” Immediately I pleaded, “NO, please no. Can’t anyone just take me a few blocks home?” (This was in the days before cell phones, so fortunately no one could instantly call an ambulance.)
Fortunately, one worker had a truck, and he gingerly helped me into the cab, threw my bike in the back and with a crushed spirit and broken bike, drove me home.
As soon as we arrived, Anna, my Italian neighbor caught sight of me and cried, “Ooo, mamma mia” and carefully helped me into her house. Quickly thinking Anna did the best thing possible. First, she calmed my frazzled nerves with a few shots of amaretto, then worked on saving my face. After having me lie across her couch, for hours she continued to put fresh ice on my forehead, around my eyes, nose, lips, and chin. As ice packs melted, she said the ice would not only minimize the swelling and bruising, but it might also prevent scars. Thanks to Anna’s immediate ice remedy, she saved my face. Though the skin on my forehead, nose, lips, and chin scraped off, I didn’t receive any permanent facial scars, and never rode that bike again. At that point, my shining dreams of bicycle independence quickly switched to despair. Nevertheless, in future years, that too would change, because, thanks to a tandem and someone’s broken marriage, I did not stop bike riding.
A divorced couple sold a slightly used tandem at Vincent’s bike shop, so we bought it. It was wonderful to know we could now safely ride together. Keith could do the seeing, and I could share the pedaling. It seemed to be the perfect solution. Right? Well, not exactly! That previous bike accident left me with terrible post-traumatic stress. On Palisades Avenue, whenever a car came anywhere near us, I screamed in terror and clawed, pounded, and hid my face into poor Keith’s back. Riding the seven blocks to Hudson County Park, my terror resulted in me unbalancing the bicycle the whole way to the park. Once we finally exited the main street and rode past the stone columns into the entrance, it was serene, and I felt wonderful. Pedaling around the wide-open streets and the lake was lovely, but I had instant panic before we made our way home. Once past the stone columns, we faced the buses, trucks, cars and pedestrians on the narrow, terrifying two-lane street.
When we would arrive home, those so-called leisurely bike rides always ended with poor Keith taking a few aspirin for his headache and sore back. Could you say Keith was another victim of my bike crash? Absolutely! So again, I say, poor Keith! He dearly loved bike riding, but also loved his back. Unfortunately, our car was too small for a tandem bike rack, so we could comfortably drive to the park. So we sold the bike. Keith’s back, his ears, and my nerves could not take any more of those pleasurable rides to the park.
As far as the crazed phone calls, I made a police report, and the local police tapped my phone. Though they never discovered who was behind those calls, as things progressed, I began to suspect one person, and planned a little test. In conversation with another friend, who was standing next to the one I suspected, I told the phone story and made sure to stress the point about the police department tapping my line. Miraculously, those calls instantly stopped.
As for my bicycle riding days? I thought it was best to stick to snow skiing, give up pedaling a bicycle, and allow Keith to have some alone time to peacefully pedal his bike.
Through the years, losing more of my sight, I found more inner sight and learned that modesty means recognizing one’s limitations. Sometimes, being modest and protecting our life is worth more than being embarrassed about one’s lack of vision, or what one can no longer safely do. Post-traumatic stress and fear can be the aftershock of a horrible incident, but can we learn from a tough situation? Yes, we can, and I did. I learned to be content with things I can do, and not be concerned with what I cannot do, because in a second, life can drastically change — and it can take a long time to heal. Now that we live in the south, with less traffic, we bought another tandem with a Harpo Marx horn for my handlebars. So, as we pedal around our sub-division, the children all know us. We are the two old people riding a bicycle together. Passing the bewildered, laughing children, I honk and wave as they take pictures of us with their expensive smartphones. We have pedaled our way from misfortune to fame!
Therefore, I conclude by saying to low-vision bike riders, rather than taking the chance of never enjoying future bike rides, think of options. Is there a new hobby you might like? If you can still ride a bike, be extremely careful where and how you ride. Better yet, buy a helmet and a tandem, find a good trustworthy friend, and enjoy the wind across your face as you safely honk a horn on the handlebars.