Head Case by Cole Cohen Page B

objects.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd I have problems with mobile objects.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œSo, I’m not sure how a cane would help me.”
    â€œThat’s true. That’s a good point.”
    We are both momentarily silent.
    â€œWell, a cane would notify drivers of your disability. Drivers would see the cane and slow down. You should really look into a cane. Well, anyway, they wouldn’t be able to give you a cane unless you went through training. You meet with a person about how to get around town more easily. But that would be the Oregon Commission for the Blind. Here, let me give you their number.”
    â€œBut … I’m not blind.”
    â€œYes, I understand. But in order to get a cane you need to go through training, and the training might be helpful for you. It’s meeting with a person who shows you how to navigate about town.”
    If I want help, I need to fit under a code so that people and companies and governments can receive funds in exchange for helping me. There is no template for how to help me, but there is a template for aiding the blind. If I can slide into someone else’s code, it may be my only bet for receiving any services. So I take the number and thank this woman and hang up, in part because I lack the energy to explain to her that first, I would have to teach my teacher how I get around town based on visual landmarks. I am going to the blind to learn how to see. I think Simon and Garfunkel wrote a song about this once.
    I wish that if people couldn’t help me, they would just say, “I’m terribly sorry, I can’t help you.” Sometimes it’s really hard for both the other party and me to tell where this line is. It’s a line that no one wants to cross unless they are certain.
    I call Chris Smith’s office.
    â€œHi, I’ve run into a road bump. I called the number you gave me, and I spoke to a woman in intake. She offered me a cane, which is … not exactly what I’m in the market for.”
    â€œRight. Because you’re talking about spatial motility issues. A cane wouldn’t help you.”
    â€œRight.”
    Waves of relief run off me that are so strong I swear I can see them—little black squiggly lines of steam.
    â€œWell, I’ll call them back and explain. We may have to get Dr. Volt involved, and he may have to call them as well. But we’ll get this all sorted out, don’t worry.”
    â€œOh, thank you so much! Can I just ask you one question?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œWhat is your position at Dr. Volt’s office?”
    â€œI’m a licensed clinical social worker. I usually teach new doctors how to work with social services, but Dr. Volt asked me to look into your file.”
    â€œ A social worker! That’s, that’s so great! Thank you!”
    â€œNo problem.”
    And then he says it again : “Don’t worry, Dr. Volt and I are here to advocate for your disability.”
    I don’t call the Oregon Commission for the Blind. A week later, I am writing in a coffee shop when I get a call from Chris Smith; I walk outside to take it.
    â€œWell, it seems that Dr. Volt and I have run into a few stumbling blocks as well.”
    â€œOh, really?”
    â€œIt seems that in order to get you the training to get around, you’d have to be legally blind.”
    This being the Oregon Commission for the Blind we’re talking about, I can’t say I’m shocked.
    â€œDr. Volt is going to write a note explaining your situation. You must be really frustrated.”
    The conversation with the guide-dog lady exhausted me.
    I hear him say, “You must feel al—” Then he changes his tactic: “Do you feel all alone in this process?”
    I am deeply thankful to be able to participate at all in the medical system. It is, however, a system first. I am an anomaly, which is a pretty valid reason for feeling alone