After waiting at our seats in the arena for the crowd to thin out after a concert, my husband and I finally made our way up the steps to the concourse. I like whoever I am with to walk in front of me, I watch their feet as best as I can so that I know what is about to be under my own.
Using my cane to determine if a step or a landing was my next step, I was careful, but going up is much easier for me than going down.
Mister Rain was about 10 rows ahead, when he stopped and turned to me. “How are you doing,?” he asked.
“Other than being blind, I am good,” I replied. I heard soft chuckles coming from the end of the climb. As I got closer to where the laughter had come from, I realized there were a handful of ushers, apparently taking this all in.
“You’re doing great!,” one of the gentlemen encouraged me.
“Thank you,” I said.
In these moments when I am out in public, I don’t worry about what people think or how I may look. I have no energy to spend on feeling embarrassed; I am too busy trying to be safe and not get hurt.
But as we drove back to our hotel that evening, I did wonder what those ushers might have been thinking. In these rare instances when I stop to consider it, my hope is always that though they see my struggle, they remember my determination. And maybe, the next time something is difficult for them, those many steps and my white cane come to mind.
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