A Thinking Extract

s.b.f —

When I was an undergraduate I tutored a blind student in statistics; once a week he would make his way, with his guide dog, to my small office in the basement of the psychology building. I was very affected by working with him, seeing how difficult it was for him to do the things I so much took for granted and by watching the extraordinary close relationship he had with his collie, who having accompanied him to the office would immediately curl up and fall asleep at his feet. As the term went on I felt increasingly comfortable in asking him about what it was like to be blind; what it was be blind, young and an undergraduate at the University of California; and what it was like to have to be so dependent upon others to learn and survive. After several months I had deluded myself that I had at least some notion, however small, of what life was like for him. Then one day he asked me if I would mind meeting him for his tutorial session in the blind reading room of the undergraduate library, rather than my office.

I tracked down the reading room with some difficulty and started to go in. I stopped suddenly when I realized with horror that the room was almost totally dark. It was dead silent, no lights were on, and yet there were half a dozen students bending over their books or listening intently to audiotapes of the professors' lectures that they had recorded. A total chill went down my spine at the eeriness of the scene. My student heard me come in, got up, walked over to the light switch, and turned on the lights for me. It was one of those still, clear moments when you realize that you haven't understood anything at all, that you have had no real comprehension of the other person's world.

An Unquiet Mind, Kay Redfield Jamison.

Tags
Books
life
to be blind
extract

13 comments

s.b.f Wed, 3 Jun 2009 - 15:56

The fact that manic- depressive illness is a genetic disease brings with it, not surprisingly, very complicated and often difficult emotions. At one extreme is the terrible shame and guilt one can be made to feel. Many years ago, when I was living in Los Angeles, I went to a physician recommended to me by a colleague. After examining me, and after finding out that I had been on lithium for many years, he asked me an extended series of questions about my psychiatric history. He also asked me whether or not I planned to have children. Having generally been treated with intelligence and compassion by my various doctors up to that point, I had no reason to be anything but direct about my extensive history of mania and depression, although I also made it clear that I was, in the vernacular, a "good lithium responder." I told him that I very much wanted to have children, which immediately led to his asking me what I planned to do about taking lithium during pregnancy.

I started to tell him that it seemed obvious to me that the dangers of my illness far outweighed any potential problems that lithium might cause a developing fetus, and that I therefore would choose to stay on lithium. Before I finished, however, he broke in to ask me if I knew that manic-depressive illness was a genetic disease. Stifling for the moment to urge to remind him that I spent my entire professional life studying manic- depressive illness and that , in any event, I wasn't entirely stupid, I said, "Yes, of course."

At that point, in an icy and imperious voice that I can hear to this day, he stated- as though it was God's truth, which he no doubt felt that it was- "You shouldn't have children. You have manic-depressive illness."

I felt sick, unbelievably and utterly sick, and deeply humiliated. Determined to resist being provoked into what would, without question, be interpreted as irrational behaviour, I asked him if his concern about my having children stemmed from the fact that, because of my illness, he thought I would be an inadequate mother or simply that he thought it was best to avoid bringing another manic-depressive into the world. Ignoring or missing my sarcasm, he replied, "Both."

Oddly enough, it had never occured to me not to have children simply because I had manic-depressive illness. Even in my blackest depressions, I never regretted having been born. It is true that I had wanted to die, but that is perculiarly different from regretting having been born.

Not having children of my own is the most intolerable regret of my life.

An Unquiet Mind, Kay Redfield Jamison

s.b.f Wed, 3 Jun 2009 - 16:17

Which sort of Doctors?

The type the author herself is ? or the one who told her she can't have children?

Sephy (not verified) Wed, 3 Jun 2009 - 16:41

s.b.fWhich sort of Doctors?

The type the author herself is ? or the one who told her she can't have children?

The later.

You Wed, 3 Jun 2009 - 16:43

Why would you find it offensive to be told that you cannot give birth? I would take that as a matter of fact.

(I think I should read the extract before replying...)

EDIT - I see, this is about a later excerpt than the one in the original blog post.

Manic depressive and children... I would have thought them to be more like a cure?

I never regretted having been born. It is true that I had wanted to die, but that is perculiarly different from regretting having been born.

Curious.

s.b.f Thu, 4 Jun 2009 - 00:44

You

Manic depressive and children... I would have thought them to be more like a cure?

They have a treatment but not cure.

You

I never regretted having been born. It is true that I had wanted to die, but that is perculiarly different from regretting having been born.

Curious.

Why curious?

s.b.f Thu, 4 Jun 2009 - 01:50

This reminded me of this article, but I haven't read it yet:

Love at no sight

In a looks-obsessed world, are blind people immune to appearances when they fall in love? As a new film looks at how sight-impaired people find romance, Damon Rose who is blind, says you don't have to be sighted to be shallow.

There are many questions that blind people find themselves fielding regularly. There's the one about whether you can see in your dreams, the one about how you know where your mouth is when eating ... but the other, and possibly most surprising of all, is the one that goes: "How do you fancy someone if you can't see them?"

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/magazine/8069993.stm

s.b.f Fri, 5 Jun 2009 - 15:18

wednesday

Need a car and a wayto deal with the expenses.

😂 Good point, I always forget about the important stuff like that.

s.b.f Sun, 28 Jun 2009 - 02:03

One thing of great importance can affect a small number of people. Equally so, a thing of little importance can affect a multitude. Either way, a happening - big or small- can affect an entire string of people. Occurrences can join us all together. You see, we're all made up of the same stuff. When something happens, it triggers something inside us that connects us to a situation, connects us to other people, lighting us up and linking us like little lights on a Christmas tree, twisted and turned but still connected on a wire. Some go out, others flicker, others burn strong and bright, yet we're all on the same line.

The Gift, Cecelia Ahern

s.b.f Wed, 16 Dec 2009 - 00:44

What can I say? "I've thought of that," I tell her. I take her hands to stop her from rubbing them. "But Henry is good. He doesn't feel like a demon."

Grandma smiles. "You talk as though you've met a pack of them."
"Don't you think a real demon would be sort of - demonic?"
"I think he would be nice as a pie if he wanted to be."
I choose my words carefully. "Henry told me once that his doctor thinks he's a new kind of human. You know, sort of the next step in evolution."

Grandma shakes her head. " That is just as bad as being a demon. Goodness, Clare, why in the world would you want to marry such a person? THink of the children you would have! Popping in next week and back before breakfast!"

I laugh. "But it will be exciting! Like mary Poppins, or Peter Pan."

She squeezes my hands just a little. "Think for aminute, darling: in fairy tales its always the children who have the fine adventures. The mothers have to stay at home and wait for the children to fly in the window."

The Time Traveler's Wife, Audrey Niffenegger

TPOS Wed, 16 Dec 2009 - 19:30

s.b.f

One thing of great importance can affect a small number of people. Equally so, a thing of little importance can affect a multitude. Either way, a happening - big or small- can affect an entire string of people. Occurrences can join us all together. You see, we're all made up of the same stuff. When something happens, it triggers something inside us that connects us to a situation, connects us to other people, lighting us up and linking us like little lights on a Christmas tree, twisted and turned but still connected on a wire. Some go out, others flicker, others burn strong and bright, yet we're all on the same line.

The Gift, Cecelia Ahern

i like that 🙂

and the film the time travellers wife is sooooooooooooo rubbish

Comments are closed on this post.