by Rebecca Shields
In 1986 my stress as a university student was high. Choosing to go back for my bachelor's degree was a major decision. One of the infamous stresses for a blind student is the necessity of finding a reader. Not long after my academic year began, my rehab counselor phoned saying he had an individual in mind. Boy, was I relieved. My own resources had proven to be either unreliable or not interested in such a commitment. My counselor went on to explain that this gentleman was also a rehab client. The tone of his voice changed a little as he cleared his throat. "Now, it's my hope that this idea I have will help both you and this man." I listened intently, wondering what was different about this situation. There was something obviously unusual in this particular case. Mr. Stone continued: "Anthony is an excellent reader. His knowledge of researching in libraries and how to read textbooks is outstanding." Even though he was a college graduate, his life had been rough. A difficult childhood had left emotional scars. He was withdrawn and shy. His ability to hold a full-time job was limited. Income for everyday living was imperative. He needed an environment that would offer work, as well as understanding and acceptance. The importance for him to have a non-judgmental employer was critical.
My counselor reassured me that this man would be safe and honest. All references cleared him to be of good character everywhere he went. After a discussion at length, I agreed to accept him for the position as my reader. It wasn't long before my husband and I became well acquainted with Anthony. He came to our home to read quite often. Our blindness was just another way of life to him. He'd never known anyone with visual challenges, but he saw us as common everyday folks. Our family thought of him as a very important part of our lives.
After three years of textbooks and finally graduation, I was weary of the academic road. But the constant need for having printed material read is never over, no matter how weary one becomes. I approached Anthony with the idea of continuing his services as my reader. For more than one reason, he accepted. Our home filled an emptiness in his life and offered an environment that was warm, calm, and non-threatening. Since he didn't have anyone to call family, we seemed to fit that role. He spoke of distant relatives in another state. Their lives were busy and he felt like a stranger. His father had passed on from serious illness. Unfortunately, his mother had abandoned him at a preschool age. He never forgot the pain of being left behind.
Our children sparked a quiet joy in him when they would share their music, silly dances, and trays of imaginary cookies and tea. He would chuckle as he described their kindergarten drawings and read their ideas of how to cook a favorite recipe. Anthony enjoyed using his eyes to assist in other ways besides reading. He would draw the lines on the sidewalk for hopscotch as my daughter (with low vision) would encourage him to make them bigger and darker for her. He would name the trees and admire their different colors according to the season as he walked with the children around the neighborhood. Sometimes over hot coffee, before starting our pile of printed material, from the window he would describe the birds as they went from their nest to the grass in search of something. Many times he would pick the roses from my yard. I could hear the smile in his voice as he filled a vase with water, saying, "Here's a sample of nature for you, right at your fingertips."
He became such a part of our lives. Whenever I would ask him what we could pay him for all he did, his reply was, "You have already paid me." Money was no longer the only cause for him to be part of our lives. And printed material was no longer our reason to have him in our family. Living his simple life all alone. Having only the bare necessities. Never looking for more to do. Only associating with a very few. This seemed to be all he wanted. Each time he came, most likely it was for the day. As the end of the day approached, he would join us for the evening meal. There were times I was sure another healthy meal wouldn't be served until he returned again. Always, grateful, we would thank him for coming that day.
As time passed, all of our friends and family knew who he was and how much he meant to us. Because he disliked crowds, our invitations for holiday dinners were turned down. However, we were sure to send him home with holiday food and special packages the next time he came. His birthday was always on our calendar. Timid as he was, who could turn away one's favorite meal and a specially made cake? For 14 years, once a week or sometimes more, the privacy of our worlds waited to be opened by Anthony. Through time he saw everything in our lives: college applications, medical reports, legal documents, banking, and both tearful and joyful personal letters. His eyes explored many corners of our family life. Taking each day as it came, and worrying about tomorrow must have begun to weigh heavier than ever on him. However, when visiting our home, Anthony seemed never to let on. Whenever I would remind him how deeply we appreciated him, his comments were vague. Keeping in mind how it feels to give up one's privacy, I never pressed him for information.
One day in October of 2000, life was moving at a fast pace. There was always something else to be accomplished; keeping up with our five children, the demands of our jobs, the commitments of our involvement in the community. Between it all, my husband and I only saw each other coming and going. I remember it was a cold, damp day. I found myself rushing around at home preparing to be off to yet another meeting, thinking I should stop by the bank on my way across town. Just then, I heard the squeaking brakes of a bus passing by. A strange thought crossed my mind. "What if Anthony came by and forgot I had to leave today?" He never came unless we discussed it ahead of time, always being flexible according to my crazy schedule. My thoughts were running in circles. What if I didn't have his help? Could I deal with all the demanding paperwork? Suddenly from deep within me, a feeling of emptiness swept over me. I shivered at my thoughts. I listened and discovered the bus hadn't stopped to let anyone off. My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of my ride and I was on my way.
About 20 minutes later, my cell phone rang. As I answered it, I heard the frantic voice of my son. "Mom, we have a crisis. You need to come." "What is it, dear?" I said. "I'm on my way to a meeting." His voice trembled as he found the words. "It's Anthony, he's ... taken his life." Suddenly I felt dizzy. My mouth was too dry to speak. For a second I wasn't sure I could hold the phone. I felt frozen. Then the voice on the other end was that of a policeman, giving information I wasn't sure I could comprehend. His questions seemed complex and unreal. "Yes, I could come," I said. "Could I identify the body?" "Was I the next of kin?" I had questions also, but who could answer them? When? Where? How? And yes, Why?!!
Upon my arrival, the authorities were waiting. The property manager was kind and extended her sympathy. Since my son lived in the same complex, I had recommended that Anthony apply for his apartment some time back. The officer allowed me entry to where he lived. I felt dazed. My thoughts were twisted. The atmosphere was cold. My legs carried me as if I were dreaming. Because I had been able to give the police the information they needed, they believed me to be an appropriate contact. However, the city official insisted I must try to find some information about relatives. I wasn't sure where to begin looking. My emotional status was losing its energy. I wanted to run and hide at home. My husband was frantically leaving his job to meet up with me. All he knew when I called him was that we had lost our dear friend.
The area was closed off where the incident happened. The property manager and I had properly identified his body and confirmed his age and date of birth. Until proven that we were his closest contact, I couldn't remove anything. I was only allowed to look. His glasses were lying next to his pen on the end table. They were so familiar to me. When he wasn't reading to me, they were in the middle of my dining room table. Some mail was scattered about on the floor, as if, perhaps, he had been looking through it. In the kitchen, a small plate with a table knife with the remains of toast crumbs and melted butter sat on the counter top. I swallowed hard. Not even the bread of life could keep him going. I pulled open the small drawer behind the counter. I felt around inside. Finding a sticky note, I handed it to the officer. He began reading aloud: "In case of emergency, please call ..." My stomach felt sick and I could hear my heart beating. Suddenly I realized it was my name, my phone number, and my address. The buzz in my ears was loud and before I realized it, I was saying, "That's me!" Even though the officer had stopped talking, the buzz in my ears continued.
Perhaps this was enough evidence for "the powers that be" to prove that Anthony really didn't have anyone else but us. After a short time, I asked if I could excuse myself. The policemen felt comfortable that I had tried to find other information. I felt like I didn't have any other information or resources to contribute. I just wanted to lock the door and return when my mind was clear. At our next contact with the city official, we realized he considered this just another case of a citizen being a dysfunctional member of the community. His message to my husband and me was that there were county funds available to pay for burial in potter's field for "people like this." Also, Goodwill was available to collect his belongings. He felt that we shouldn't have to be burdened with this. Since we were not blood relatives, he informed us that we didn't have to feel committed.
After returning home and doing some calling, which the police had suggested, I discovered that my husband and I were going to have to take a stand with the city official. Without a doubt, we would do that. We both knew that the sight our friend had given to us with his eyes could not be matched. However, we were determined to take our turn to see for him. His dignity would not be taken. We would put closure to life and lay him to rest. The bill for services rendered was ours. He deserved whatever we could do to protect his rights.
For our family, the children were informed at their respective levels. I was careful about how this information was explained to them. Together, they sat listening to a lesson in truth. Taking a small dried part of a plant, and comparing it to a thriving one, I explained: "Sometimes our bodies are like plants. When they are sick or can't go on they die, like this leaf. When life is gone, then we can't keep the plant, or for us, a person, with us anymore. That's what happened today to Anthony. His heart couldn't go on living. And now, all together, we have to give him up."
A service was planned. Each member of the family participated. With brave expressions, my small children told of how they enjoyed him. My preschooler thanked God for taking him to heaven where he wouldn't hurt anymore. I asked my first grader, who is non-verbal, if she understood what had happened to him. Reaching for the sky with both hands, and bringing them to a folded prayer position, she nodded yes. Like a river flowing, the words were strong as my older son sang, "Friends are friends forever, if the Lord's the Lord of them, and a friend will not say never, 'cause the welcome will not end." Our friends and family attended the service. The respect they showed was comforting.
In the aftermath, I packed up items in boxes. A feeling of grief caused my throat to ache. Tucked inside a small shoebox were many small tokens that Anthony must have treasured. I gathered mail and placed it into a box. Suddenly it hit me. Through whose eyes would this be read? There were so many unanswered questions. So far, I had only clues to help piece this puzzle together. Tears stung my eyes as I suddenly remembered a conversation that Anthony and I had only two weeks prior where I reminded him how much we appreciated him. His words were haunting as they echoed in my mind. "Everyone can be replaced. I have seen the battles you've fought. And with each one, you've stepped up to its challenge." Then it occurred to me that this situation had me facing many challenges. Surrounded by left-behind belongings, unfinished business, and family yet to find, never wanting to let my friends down, hoping they could always believe in me.
For these and many other reasons, I had to find the strength to cope and face this new challenge. A friend that Anthony had known since middle school reached out to assist us. He seemed to feel the grief like we did. Also, with us, he shared the same questions of what we could have done to prevent this. Our connection with him was comforting. Since their friendship had been very close for many years, his heart ached for his best friend. Together we sorted through belongings and decided what should go where. Looking through his personal papers forced reality on us. The receipt for the weapon was among them. The copy of the background report had been completed. When it asked for occupation, clearly written was "Reader for the Blind." When old family and school photos were found, the pain was deep. We were seeing a part of his life we had not known. We found a small card which had an address for an aunt and uncle. I had heard of them. They had every right to know. It was difficult to break the news to them. Unlike us, they hadn't known his world for a long time. Their memories of him were from when he was a child. They expressed feeling helpless. They offered to assist us in any way they could.
Soon, our lives needed to get back into their routines. The necessity, once again, for a reader was back. Lost in the midst of everything that had happened, I was without a clue on where to look. The mail piled up. The monthly checks had to be written. Our fears of trust and abandonment set in. But, no matter what our emotions were saying, we knew our family affairs must be taken care of. A friend recommended someone. A total change for us. Her ways were completely opposite. We felt small, like we had nothing to offer her; just another appointment in her book. It worked for about 18 months.
Today, we have reader number 3. We have learned several lessons from this leg of our journey. Trying to bond and trust each one doesn't get easier. Most of all, for our family, his memory lives on. When people ask about his picture, which hangs in the den above the bookshelf next to the case holding the flag for his military service, we tell about his dedication as our reader. For his birthday, we placed roses from our yard on his grave. Through his eyes, we still want to see and appreciate the simple touches of nature.