A year ago today a blind man escorted me across town. Across two bus interchanges, and onto two buses. At a busy shopping centre he navigated the walk to bus Bay 10, pointing out the landscaping as we walked past (do I tell him the plants are neglected?), which obstacles to watch for, what the presence of a crowd might mean. And after an hour of travelling together, he told me when to ring the bell for my home bus stop.
As the bus slowed, we shook hands goodbye and I told him “My name is Jo.”
His name was Paul. He told me not to hurry too quickly off the bus because the driver will wait: he has given me a disability ticket…
At home, after sitting for a long while, I looked at the ticket in my hand. One dollar all day disability travel. Validated by two bus drivers.
And so the questions formed:
- How can bus drivers look at an able-bodied woman in her 50s, and conclude disability with no pension card?
- How did Paul know that the driver had given us both disability tickets?
- How on earth did Paul make it all the way from the Royal Darwin Hospital, to Casuarina Shopping Centre, to town on buses when he was too blind to even see a bus?
- How does a highly intelligent man like Paul (he talked history and philosophy on our journey) cope with gradually losing his sight from early adulthood?
That was a year ago.
The day that I had been assessed by an occupational therapist following a head injury a month earlier. The day that I had been shocked to hear that my drivers’ license would need to be suspended. The day that it was confirmed I would need to see a rehab specialist for brain injury.
The day I realised that strangers saw me differently.
The day I realised that I did not really recognise myself and that I was lost.
Today, a year later, I drove the same route home. Sure, it was in a car marked Disabled Driver. I had L plates and an instructor beside me, but I have come a long, long way.
And I have learnt a lot from the new people that I have been destined to meet.
Intra-lude 